She cried hysterically the entire way to her house. Each sob had the same effect as a vise surrounding my heart. I didn’t bother to ask her what had happened. I just gripped her hand tight as it rested on her lap.
The car hadn’t even come to a complete stop in her driveway before she was out the door, up the porch steps, and in the house.
I followed.
“Did you know?” She was yelling at a wide-eyed Mary, sitting in the living room with Sammy. He had a paintbrush in his hand with an art smock on. His hand was frozen midstroke on the paper in front of him. He looked scared. Hell, I was scared. “Did you?” she yelled again.
Mary’s eyes narrowed, but they didn’t move away from her. “Sweetheart,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Clayton! Did you know that he was depressed again? Did you know he’d gone back to using?”
“What?” Mary asked, the shock clear on her face. “I didn’t.” She took a comforting step toward Chloe. “Honey, you have to tell me what happened.”
“He killed himself, okay?” she screamed, her face scarlet. “He fucking killed himself!”
Fuck.
Silence.
The only sounds in the room were heavy breaths and the ticking of the clock coming from the kitchen.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Then Sammy’s little voice. “What?” His face contorted. A cry escaped. “What’s that mean?”
I turned to Chloe, but she was gone, her feet thudding up the stairs so fast there was no sound separating her steps.
“Go with her.” Mary took the brush from Sammy’s hand and tried to hold back her tears. “Now, Blake.”
She had a small suitcase on her bed, already half-filled with clothes. I sat down next to it and watched her for a moment. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know what to say. What the hell do you say in this situation?
She wouldn’t stop crying. Her cries came out louder, more uncontrolled. She threw more and more into the suitcase. Once it was filled, she flipped the lid and began to zip it shut. Then my sense kicked in. Where is she going? I panicked and grasped her wrist, stopping her from sealing her bag. “Chloe, stop. What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving. Fuck graduation. Fuck this place. I don’t want to be here anymore. Not without him.”
My stomach dropped. She can’t leave. “You can’t leave.”
“Why?” The word echoed off the walls in her tiny room. “Give me one good reason, Blake!”
I had a reason, but I knew it wasn’t enough. Not even close. Still, I told her, “Because I’m not ready to lose you yet.”
Her eyes snapped shut. Her head fell forward, and all the fight she had in her disappeared. “He’s gone, Blake.”
“I know. I’m so sorry.”
Then she looked up. Her eyes locked with mine, holding so much pain, anger, and sadness that I felt it, too.
Her pain was my pain.
“He’s gone,” she said again.
I pulled on her wrist until she was between my legs, and my arms were around her waist, holding on to every single piece of her. “He’s gone,” she repeated. But it was different this time.
It was final.
“I know, baby, and I’m sorry.”
Her arms went over my shoulders, bringing me closer. Then she curled into a ball on my lap. “Will you just hold me, Blake?”
She cried until she fell asleep in my arms. I moved her so she was under the covers and her head rested on the pillow. And then I made my way downstairs.
Dean was home now. The kids were at the neighbor’s house while Mary and he took some time to gather their thoughts. I didn’t know much about Clayton, but I assumed they had fostered him, too.
“Hi, Blake.” Dean’s forced smile was overshadowed by the solemn tone in his voice.
“How is she?” Mary asked from next to him.
“She’s asleep.”
Dean nodded.
“Is it okay if I stay with her tonight?”
He nodded again.
“I thought you’d left.” She sat up, letting the covers bunch at her waist.
I stood just inside her doorway, awkwardly, not knowing where to go. “I wouldn’t leave without telling you.”
“What time is it?”
“Just past six.”
“Are you going now?”
I shook my head.
She moved the covers down on one side of the bed as an invitation. Then she waited until I’d shrugged out of my jeans and gotten in her bed before lying back down. “Blake Hunter, you’re always saving me.”
I stayed quiet.
She sighed loudly. “Thank you for my note.”
“You knew it was from me?”
She moved so her head was in the crook of my arm. “No one’s ever called me beautiful but you.” I wanted to tell her that it was a shame. That she deserved to be told a million times over, but she spoke before I could get it out. “Will you stay with me tonight?”
“Of course.” And all the nights after that.
She settled in, her arm and leg resting on top of me. It was quiet, but I knew she was awake. I knew she was thinking.
“Do you want to talk about him—Clayton? Maybe it might—”
“What do you want me to tell you?”
“Tell me anything and everything, whatever you want.”
Chloe
Clayton’s dad had physically and sexually abused him when he was a kid. He’d hid it from everyone until he was ten. That was when his teacher had begun to notice certain things about him: He was closed off and never tried to make friends with the kids. He’d jump at loud noises and shrink into the corner when there was too much going on. His clothes were too small, worn at best. They’d smell so bad that some days his teacher had found clothes in the lost and found for him to change into. One day, she’d asked him to change in front of her. He’d told me he’d kind of known why she had, but he’d been too young to really comprehend the events that would follow once she’d seen the bruises and cuts all over him. The cops had been called.
And then his dad had killed himself.
I guessed some assholes could live with being a pedophile and raping little boys, just as long as nobody knew about it. Apparently, the death of his father had been a guilt Clayton had carried with him well into his teenage years.
By the time he’d turned sixteen, he was using. Pot at first, then, too quickly, heavier stuff. He’d kept it from me—just like he’d kept the fact that he was depressed and those drugs were his form of an upper. Dean and Mary had known and gotten him help when he’d agreed to it. It was strange, that when he was with me, it’d never showed. But when I looked back on it—I could see signs. Like how he’d frown when watching the kids or go days without speaking to anyone but me. Or be gone all weekend and nobody knew where he was.
When he was eighteen, he’d moved out, and things had gone from bad to worse. We’d tried to help him, but he’d kept us all at arm’s length, not wanting us to get involved in his mess, and concealed his secrets. He’d been in and out of jail, hadn’t been able to hold down a job or make money unless he was dealing, had barely spoken to or seen the family, unless it had been me. He always had time for me. It hadn’t been until a year and a half ago, when he’d met his girlfriend, Lisa, that things had begun to look up.
Her parents happened to own a restaurant in town that they were about to shut down. They’d offered him the work for six months, to see if it was worth saving. To him—it had been like being offered a second chance—one that he’d taken seriously. He changed the hours of operation, opening only at night through to brunch. He’d had trouble sleeping at night, so it had been perfect for him. And perfect for them. Soon enough, his girlfriend’s parents had welcomed him into their family, just like Dean and Mary had. And he’d needed that. He’d needed to know that he’d still been loveable; at least that was what he’d told me. And Lisa—she was great. She’d seen through his bullshit and seen the same person that I had. She was one of the few people who knew about his past, and had loved him, regardless. When she’d gone off to college in Savannah, a good four-and-a-half-hour drive away, they’d known it would be tough, but they’d promised to make it work. It had meant a lot of phone calls and coming home to visit when she could. And it had meant Clayton spending a lot of time on his own, time that I should have been there.
I should have seen it. I should have noticed him struggling. He’d always been able to know how I felt before I even realized it myself, but I’d been unable to do the same for him. He’d kept his feelings hidden so that I would never have to feel his pain. He’d always put me first, put everyone else first. He’d found a way to care for Mary and Dean and all the kids, even when he’d had no idea what it felt like to be cared for.
His past, his depression, the drugs—none of that was really who he’d been. To me—he would always be Clayton—the quiet boy who’d so easily become my best friend. My hero.