I swallow hard and follow Dakota with my gaze as she walks to the sofa and picks up things. Shards of glass. A bottle of whiskey, empty. A sweater.
“Why is everything broken? I…” Tyler moves toward the couch, and I have no choice but to stumble along. “What happened?”
“You happened,” Tyler says.
“The hell you say. I did this?”
“Damn right.”
I prod my memories and come up blank. I can’t remember much after the funeral. I remember driving… I remember calling Dakota and not getting through… I remember the message that broke me.
“Easy now,” Tyler mutters, dropping me on the sofa and sinking down next to me with a sigh. He rolls his shoulders and winces. “You’re one heavy motherfucker.”
“You’re just out of shape,” I counter and lean back, doing my damn best to hide how dizzy I am. Sh
it. Dizziness sucks ass.
Tyler chuckles but has no chance to reply as the rest of the crew burst into the apartment, talking and laughing. They make themselves at home, which is good. I’m not in the shape to play host. I’m so damn tired I’m already drifting off.
Someone slides next to me, wrapping slender arms around me. Dakota, my sleepy brain informs me, her scent hitting my subconscious before I even hear her voice.
“Rest,” she whispers and kisses my cheek, a whisper of a touch. “I’m here.”
Peace settles over me. She really is here, here to stay, and the knowledge is like a warm blanket spreading over me, pulling me into restful sleep.
***
Erin made my favorite dish, seafood spaghetti. Well, what used to be my favorite dish. Dakota’s curry is to die for. But I can’t tell Erin that, especially when I can’t even finish even one plate, and she cooked it just for me. I’m just not hungry.
The guys have been amazing, hanging out here, fixing the apartment, making sure there’s food and that I have my painkillers and whatever the hell else the doctors prescribed.
Can’t shake the feeling they’ve decided to watch over me, making sure I won’t pull any more crazy stunts.
They shouldn’t have worried. I have Dakota and she lights up all the dark spaces inside of me. I’ll be fine. Nothing’s the matter with me other than the fact I’m tired and mourning Emma.
I stare at the new door and the window. I need to pay the guys back. Need to thank them for helping me, standing by me, putting up with me. Hell, for literally saving my life.
As for the window… I frown, trying to recall how the hell I managed to break it. I must have been so fucking wasted. Jesus.
I drop on the armchair and try to catch some rest, but Ash plants himself on the sofa, and I have to endure a long lecture on how I always tell others to open up and talk to each other, while I keep everything inside.
He’s right. And yet…
“I thought I could do it,” I tell him. “Everyone has problems. I can’t go around whining all the time.”
“Whining?” He throws a sofa cushion at me, looking disgusted. It misses me and falls to the floor. “What’s wrong with you, man? Telling your friends your problems, asking for help, isn’t fucking whining. Asshole.”
I let that slide because he’s obviously upset and because I’m too damn exhausted to get up and punch him in the face. “People depend on me,” I say.
Ash groans. “Cut yourself a little slack. Dammit, Zane, you’re just eighteen, like me.”
“Ah, fucker,” I say, “I’m a lot older than that. Inside.”
I wait for his flippant come-back, but Ash just looks… sad. Dammit.
“You know,” he mutters, “I’ve known you for all these years, and you never really told me much about your childhood.”
I shudder at the thought of telling him about it. “Good.”