I got off the motorcycle slowly, carefully, in a deliberate attempt to not make my ribs and muscles any angrier than they already were — and failed successfully. A wince tore from my lips before I could swallow it back down.
Oh, tonight is going to be great. I thought to myself.
Nate was silent. Good for me. The lesser the questions, the sooner I could go inside, dig out whatever painkiller I might have buried somewhere in my room, and try to drown all the memories beneath the mercy of sleep. I turned and started walking, my eyes fixed on the gravelled path beneath my feet, each small stone coming into sharp focus as I willed myself forward.
I seriously cannot afford another fall of any kind.
"I have to ask," Nate's voice came from behind me.
So close. I thought to myself. I was just mere steps away from the front door, from the sanctuary of my own home. If he could just hold that thought for one more minute —
I pulled my bearings together and turned towards him. He kicked his side stand down and in two long strides he closed the distance between us, stopping right in front of my face. Close enough that I could see the tight set of his jaw, the hard line between his brows.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
"That, gee, how nice it would be to go inside, pop a painkiller and black out for the night?"
I said it in a questioning tone. I knew exactly what he meant. But it was something I would absolutely love to not talk about. Not tonight. Not ever, if I had a say in it.
Nate did not react. He kept his eyes pinned on me — steady, unblinking, patient in a way that felt almost unfair. And for some reason, that singular gesture was making me feel smaller and smaller with every second that crawled past. Like I was slowly shrinking under the weight of his gaze.
"For the small time that I have known you, I do not peg you to be one of those people who would have gone through with something like that just because. And I know you can say it is none of my business," he stepped closer, the gravel crunching softly beneath his boot. "But so help me god, I saw you bent out of shape lying on the floor tonight. Anything could have happened there. It. was. not. normal. I need to know that if it was not just because, then why. I need to know."
Nate did not raise his voice at me, but with every word, his voice kept getting darker and darker — and somehow, impossibly, more comforting. Like a warm, fuzzy blanket being drawn slowly around my shoulders. He was radiating with anger, I could feel it rolling off him in quiet, restrained waves, but in a twisted turn of events it made me feel safe. Protected. I was in a cocoon. The Nate cocoon. He had captured me with those eyes and that voice, and there was really no better way to explain why I felt so warm standing out here in the chill of the night.
"He is a stalker."
The words left my mouth before I could even fully comprehend that I had opened it. Nate didn't move. Didn't breathe, it seemed.
"He has been stalking Grace for a very long time. He keeps sending her messages — messages that describe, in a very pornographic way, the things he wants, the things he wants to do to her. He even sent a blood letter once. He runs with a gang, and Grace did not want to file a complaint against him because she could not bear the thought of telling her parents any of it. They are............. a little conservative."
My eyes were fixed somewhere on Nate's chest as the words kept spilling out of me, one after another, like water finally breaking through a cracked dam.
"He was there today. Right behind her. Clicking pictures under her skirt and laughing — like there was something genuinely funny about all of this. He is the reason that girl lives every single second in fear, always having to look over her shoulder, always waiting for the next blow. She is trying to cope with all of it the best she can, holding herself together with whatever she has left — and meanwhile he was just standing there, laughing like it was all some silly little game. I couldn't just stand there and take it. He would have used those pictures to torment her further. I just couldn't... let that happen."
A tear rolled down my cheek.
When did I start crying?
I would have lifted my hand to wipe it away, but the pain made even that small gesture impossible. So I just let it roll — let it trace its slow, quiet path down my face.
Nate did not say anything.
A moment passed, and we just kept standing there, rooted in the same spot on the gravelled path. My eyes stayed fixed on his chest, watching it rise and fall in a slow, steady rhythm. I had no idea what was moving through his mind. I was just quietly content standing here beside him, in the dark and the cold and the strange calm of it all.
His hands came down lightly against mine.
He uncurled my fingers — gently, like he was afraid of breaking something — and lifted the phone from my palm.
I did not protest.
He tucked it safely into his back pocket before his arms came around me, folding me in without a word.
For someone so tall, with arms that could have felt like walls closing in, his hug felt like being immersed in the soft, golden rays of a sunrise — warm and slow and quietly soothing, the kind of warmth that seeped into your bones before you even realised it was there. My eyes fell shut on their own accord and my head swayed forward, coming to rest against his chest. It was hard but warm beneath my cheek. His heartbeat was strong and unhurried — I could feel it thumping in a steady, monotonous rhythm right under my ear, like something I could anchor myself to.
I don't know how long we stayed that way. It could have been one minute or ten. We stood there in the silence, just breathing, listening to each other's heartbeats. Finally, Nate squeezed my arm and said in a low, quiet voice, "Let's get you inside. It is getting chilly out here."
I nodded and took a small step back.
The house was dark, as usual. I walked the short distance to the front door in complete silence, the gravel soft beneath my feet. A peek over my shoulder confirmed that Nate was still there, standing in the same spot where I had left him, hands tucked into his pockets. Our eyes met across the dark, and a weird, warm feeling bloomed in the centre of my chest — quiet and unexpected, like a candle being lit in a room that had been closed off for too long. A soft smile made its way to my lips before I turned and went inside.
After the way this night had unravelled, my thoughts should have been tangled up in consequence — in what repercussions were going to follow, and when, and how I was going to salvage them if they did. Things like this never happened quietly in Blackridge. You could not voluntarily stick your head into something and reasonably hope to pull it back out unscathed.
But for some reason, that wasn't even a remote thought drifting around my head. All I could think about was how Nate had felt around me. How his fingers had been soft but sure against my hands. How his breath had fanned out in small, warm puffs over the top of my head. How he had lingered, long after he needed to, until I was safely inside.
Instead of being dragged down by the weight of how this night had folded, my heart was unexpectedly, embarrassingly giddy. Probably tomorrow the reality of all of it would come crashing in.
But right now.
Right now I was happy.
I would deal with everything else tomorrow.
I searched through the nightstand and found a painkiller, I chugged it down with one gulp of water before I retired myself to bed. I know the hell that will follow tomorrow. I am not new to this game.
**********
A groan tore from my lips as I tried to turn in bed. My eyes were burning and sealed shut like someone had poured hot glue over my lids while I was out cold. Somewhere down below, I could hear the faint rhythm of my mom's footsteps moving across the floor. I could feel a restless, prickling buzz across every fragment of my skin; my throat was sandpaper dry; and somewhere deep in my nose was a strange, persistent burning sensation that I didn't need a thermometer to decode.
I was running a high fever.
I know I should get up. The thought moved sluggishly through my head. I have a lot to do. I need to see how my mom is doing today. I need to check on the diner. I need to go to school.
But even if God himself had sent his angels down to my room with a standing invitation, not even they would have been able to drag me out of this bed.
I kept my eyes shut and quietly wished for my mom to assume I had already left for school, to walk past my door without stopping. Because if she came in, there would be questions. And I did not have a single answer to offer her. Not one that would make any sense.
Somewhere between wincing and softly cursing under my breath, I slipped under again.
***********
The second time I surfaced, I managed to crack my eyes open — barely. The thin gap was enough. The pale light pouring through the windows drove straight into my skull like a spike, detonating a full, blinding migraine behind my eyes that wrenched a groan out of me before I could stop it.
You have got to be kidding me.
I hauled the other pillow over my face and pressed it down, blocking out the light and the world and everything attached to it. If I had to guess, it was somewhere around three or four in the afternoon. I had not left this bed once. I had not had the courage, nor the physical capability. I could already sense my stomach preparing its formal protest — loudly, and without apology. But that would have to wait. Not until the pain, the kind that stole the words right out of my throat, settled back down to something I could live with. I didn't even want to imagine what my face must look like right now.
Thinking vaguely about the horrendous state of my own reflection, I drifted off again.
************
I could smell it first.
Something warm and familiar — my mom was cooking. A train left its station inside my hollow, protesting stomach, loud and urgent. I peeled the pillow from my face and slowly, cautiously, tried opening my eyes. It was dark now, the room soaked in the blue of night. The pain had receded — not gone, but quieter, pulled back to a dull, manageable ache. My fever felt less violent. I tried moving my fingers. They felt like dead weight, heavy and reluctant, but they moved.
Progress.
I tried turning over —
And that is when I saw it.
A black silhouette of a man, leaning against my window.
Holy —