I let out a breath. “Why didn’t you call me? Or Seth?”
“I wasn’t...” He shakes his head. “Wasn’t thinking straight.”
My heart is twisting in my chest. “Tell you what. Let’s get out of the shower, get dry and warm.”
I tug my hand away to reach for the towel hanging by the stall, and that seems to snap him out of whatever memory still haunts him. Unsteadily, holding onto the wall, he manages to get his feet under him. He’s shivering hard, too pale, his lips a nasty bluish hue under the dark crust of blood. I don’t like his color at all.
I wonder how many times he came to, lying in the shower or on the floor of his apartment, frightened. Aching. Alone.
It’s awful. I want to be there for him. I want to make it better.
Wrapping the towel around him, I help him cross the bathroom, then steer him toward his bedroom. Letting him sink down on the bed, I switch on the heater.
There’s a book lying facedown on the floor—an old, battered paperback. When I lift it, something flutters out. A scribbled note.
To my boy, it reads. May you break the chains of your thought, and find your perfect speed.
Mom.
The book is Jonathan Livingston Seagull.
My eyes feel hot as I put the note back inside the pages and close the book. I know his mom isn’t alive anymore, heard the story through Manon, how she died in an accident, how Seth stood by him through those dark times. Then came prison for a crime the boys didn’t commit, and it all went downhill from there, until they were recruited as apprentices at Damage Control.
Sounds so simple. So much left unsaid between the lines.
Placing it on his bedside table, I turn toward the closet. “I’ll get you some clothes.”
“Cass.”
I stop.
“Come here.” He’s tucking hair behind his ear as I turn, and no matter how scared I am for him, how sad, it makes me smile.
“Trying to distract me with your glorious naked body, Shane Tucker?”
He huffs, something relaxing in his posture. “Is it working?”
“Always. You’re too hot to resist.”
He reaches out a hand, and I walk over to take it and sit down beside him on the bed.
“Cass, can you—?”
“Can I—?”
We both stop.
He draws an uneven breath, his mouth turning down at the corners. “I’ve scared you.”
“No.” I shake my head and bite my lip. “You don’t scare me. I’m scared for you. That’s totally different. I’m not sure I’m helping you.” A sob catches in my throat.
“I’m better,” he says. “I’m getting better, Cass. Can’t you see it? Thanks to you.”
“This is better?” Oh God, this isn’t what I’m supposed to be saying. I clap a hand over my mouth.
He takes my hand down, rubs his thumb over my palm. “No, you’re right. It’s not.”
I chew on my lower lip, trying to hold back tears. “Why?”