“Stop it!” he growled into my ear. “I know your goddamned name—probably better than I know my own.”
While I was wrapped in Till’s strong arms, six months’ worth of tears fell from my eyes. He carried me to my apartment and guided me back, through the window before following me inside. Then he stripped out of his blood-soaked shirt before dragging the blankets down and climbing into the bed behind me. I cried for a while in his arms, even turning to face him, only to cry against his chest. I had missed him so much.
I knew I’d loved Till years ago, but this was more. I needed him in order to function on a very basic level. Together, the world didn’t feel so big and overwhelming. He was my escape—the dream personified.
Till Page was comfortable.
His hands trailed up and down my back as he lulled me until the words fought their way out.
“I couldn’t stop going back,” I announced in a broken whisper. “I didn’t know where you had gone. And for the first time since I was thirteen, I was alone inside my own head. God. It was a scary place.” I tried to joke, but the tears streaming down my face told the truth.
“I’m sorry,” he responded on a sigh. “I couldn’t stay.”
“Why?” I whined, but I curled in closer against his chest, needing to feel him more than anything else.
“I don’t know, Doodle,” he lied.
God! It was such a fucking lie. He knew as well as I did. He just didn’t want to tell me.
“Where did you go?” I pressed further.
There was no way I ever could have expected his answer, but that wasn’t because it was a novel thought. No. His answer was surprising because it was the source of my anguish too.
“The real world.” He kissed my forehead.
“Right.” I abruptly sat up, drying my eyes. “That’s exactly why this hurts. We could have gone together. But you made that choice for both us. I would have given absolutely anything to be in the real world with you.”
“You don’t understand.” He began toying with his bottom lip. “Doodle, you’re not real to me.”
To date, it was the most hurtful thing anyone had ever said to me. The tears instantly dried, and an unlikely smile crossed my mouth.
Yeah. That stings like the real world.
“Get out,” I ordered. For the first time ever, I truly, and rationally, wanted him gone from my life. No one, including my parents, could have hurt me more than he had with those five words.
He squeezed me impossibly tight.
“No. Listen to me.”
“Get. Out,” I told his chest through gritted teeth, as I lay tense in his arms. I was no longer returning his embrace; I was no longer returning anything.
“You’ve never once asked me why I was crying that first day when we met,” he said randomly, and I tried to wiggle my way out of his arms. He threw a leg over my thighs to lock me in even tighter.
“Let me go!” I began to thrash against him.
He never did follow direction well. Instead, he told me a story.
“The school sent a note home asking my parents to have my hearing tested. Apparently, a few of the teachers had noticed that I didn’t always respond when they called my name. It took three weeks for my mom to get off her lazy ass and take me to see someone. I failed the hearing test with flying colors.” He laughed, and it enraged me. I didn’t want to walk down memory lane.
“Let me go,” I demanded once again.
“Nope.” He kissed the top of my head. “The doctor did a few tests before telling us that my hearing loss was sensorineural and would cause me to eventually go deaf.”
I stilled as my heart dipped in my chest from his matter-of-fact announcement.
“He said it just like that, too. It was quick and to the point, no fluff. I guess you get what you pay for, and unfortunately for me, we were at the free clinic.” He laughed again, but my stomach ached.
“Was he right?” I asked with a wince, not wanting to hear the answer.
“Yeah,” he confirmed, causing me to gasp. “When I was thirteen, I was hearing at around eighty percent, and they predicted it would go downhill pretty steadily.”
“But you’re not . . .” I trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought.
“It could take years. It all depends on my rate of degeneration. The clinic sent us to a specialist, but in true Mommy Dearest fashion, she asked what the point of seeing a specialist was if there wasn’t any way to prevent me from going deaf. I can still vividly remember her checking her watch as she spoke to the doctor. She must have had somewhere else to be that was more interesting than listening to the diagnosis that would forever change my life.”
“Fuck,” I whispered.
“As soon as we walked out of that doctor’s office, she told me she needed me to keep my brothers because she had plans that day. Plans. Fucking plans!” His voice rose for the very first time during his recount. “It would have hurt if I hadn’t already known what a self-centered bitch she was.”