It was just hard to know what the right choice was when you weren’t sure of which consequences were worse.
Was it worth my guilt? Was it worth losing Eric? Because from where I was currently sitting, it wasn’t.
Even more so when Eric came walking into the living room, balancing two cups of tea in his large hand and a container full of homemade brownies in the other.
He appeared so nonchalant at school, so lazily cool and unperturbed by much. The only expression change I’d ever seen from his relaxed features was a glare in my direction or he wouldn’t look at me at all. But here, in his house, he was relaxed in a harmonious way, shining his heart-stopping smile toward his mom, giving her a blanket, and laughing freely at something she said as he handed her the brownies. It all seemed so normal.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he whispered as he sat down in the seat beside me. There was a large fold-down cup holder in between us, blocking us from touching. Thank God.
I shrugged shyly, taking the cup of warm tea from him. “It’s just weird. Seeing you so… nice.”
He sat further back into the couch cushions but not before speaking low enough that his mom wouldn’t hear. “Nice people deserve nice treatment. Why do you think I’ve been mean to you for the last few years?”
I took a sip of my tea before I put it down and turned toward the TV. I was hoping Eric’s mom didn’t hear me when I said, “It’s okay to hate me, Eric. I hate me too.”
Especially now. Heather didn’t deserve what Eric’s father did to her. And Eric didn’t deserve what I did to him.
I had shut him out, and I was regretting it.
Chapter Twenty
Eric
Denial was a beautiful, beautiful thing. I loved how easily I could deny everything my brain was telling me.
Madeline needs you. No, she doesn’t.
You need her. Absolutely not.
You should help her. She could help herself.
As soon as my mom fell asleep on the couch, I turned the TV off and glanced at Madeline, trying to remember that she and I were nothing more than passing enemies.
I still felt the slight simmer of rage inside, knowing the man who made her into this weak, breakable girl was just a house over from me hours ago. If I would have known from the start why she was in my bedroom, I would have walked right over to her house and into her mother’s room—again—and punched the fucker—mid-thrust or not—over and over again until he admitted what he’d done. Then, I’d drive him right to the hospital so they could reconstruct his face, only for me to fuck it up again.
If I truly hated Madeline as much as I told her I did, I would have made her leave when we were sparring off in my bedroom. He was gone, no longer upstairs, fucking her mom, so it wasn’t necessarily unsafe for her to go back home. But the truth was, I felt better knowing she was with me, over here in the safety of my house.
Which only proved I was in way over my head with her.
I hated her. But I didn’t hate her.
Maybe I hated her because I couldn’t hate her.
I groaned, rubbing my hand over my face. What a fucked-up thing to say. It didn’t even make sense. None of this did.
Madeline shifted beside me, the blanket falling into her lap. Her slender arms were wrapped tightly around her stomach, and the shirt my mom lent her was pulled up just enough so I could see the soft skin gracing her hip bone. Her lips were shaped like a pretty little bow, her eyelashes fluttering like the wings of an angel.
She was the furthest thing from an angel.
“What?” she asked, groggily sitting up. “Why are you looking at me like that?” She suddenly went stiff. “Was I dreaming again? Did I say something in my sleep?” Her shiny blonde hair wisped in between us as she searched the room for my mom. Her shoulders fell in relief when she saw that she was asleep.
“No, you weren’t dreaming.”
“Oh, good. Then why were you looking at me like that?” Her look was quizzical, if I had to describe it, but also a little hopeful.
If I allowed the truth to come out, I would have said, “I’m looking at you like that because I want to kiss you.” Because I did. I really fucking did. I was crazy attracted to her, my blood spiking when she was near. I had a hard time keeping my hands to myself, which was why every single time we were alone in a room together, I found myself crowding her space, wrapping my hands around her lithe waist. But I was exceptional at evading one truth with another. “I’m wondering why you haven’t told your mom.”
That was not precisely why I was looking at her, but the question was in the back of my head.