Meanwhile, something is nagging at my memory. What was the other thing Ross said, about Adam having a different name?
Was that for real?
That’s… nonsense. Why am I thinking of this? Ross is an idiot, probably heard one thing and understood quite another.
But there’s something more… something Adam told me that’s flickering in my memory, right out of grasp. Something about his sister.
What? And why is it important?
“Hey, have you ever seen Adam when I’m not around?” I climb into my bed and stretch out, groaning softly as muscles clenched ever since the attack slowly begin to relax. “He told me he lives down the street, but does he?”
And why am I doubting him again? He said he does, didn’t he?
Gigi makes me feel even worse, because she looks up from her book, lifts a brow at me, and says, “Why, just because you’re into older guys now, that means all the young ones are scumbags?”
“No. of course not.” But I’m still chewing on those small things, and a shiver goes through me, a chill that feels familiar somehow.
I pull the covers up to my chin and stare up at the ceiling. God, I wish Matt were here. I’d feel safe in his arms. I wouldn’t worry about him and the kids if I were with him.
I wouldn’t miss him so much.
He only left half an hour ago. Less.
It feels like years.
Why am I so drawn to him? Why do I feel so comfortable with him when I barely know him, why does my heart hurt for him so much? Why does my body go taut and hot whenever he’s near?
Love, Gigi said.
Love is what this is. Love and lust rolled into one, and I have no chance of winning against such an opponent.
So maybe I should stop fighting and just surrender.
Surrendering to Matt would feel so good…
Chapter Thirty-Five
Matt
Dark dreams roll me under during the night. I wake up on Sunday morning with a howl caught in my throat, the covers tangled in my legs, drenched in cold sweat.
People dying, my family dying, the house sinking in quicksand.
Nothing new.
Nothing good.
The kids are uneasy. Maybe they’ve picked up on my mood, or they got used to having Octavia around.
They’re not the only ones.
Fuck it. I put them in the car and drive out of town, to the nearest mall. We eat in the food court, and I watch as they play in the indoors playground with tons of other kids and stressed-out parents.
I rub my hands over my face, bury them in my hair, tug. I had painkillers for breakfast, but this fucking headache won’t let up. I keep seeing Octavia’s pale face, the fear in her eyes. Was that from last night at her house, or from my dreams?
Impossible to tell. Reality is again getting mixed with the nightmares, and I’m too tired to tease the threads apart.
After Mary falls from the plastic slide and starts wailing in the way that indicates an urgent need for a nap, I grab them both and drive back home.
Home. It feels like that sometimes.
When Octavia is here, my mind helpfully suggests. Then it feels like a home.
Fuck off, mind. Not in the mood today.
And when are you in the mood?
Shit.
The kids get into a fight when Mary doesn’t let Cole change the TV show they’re watching—something with squishy green blobs Cole likes for a Japanese anime she wants. I always thought those kids with the huge eyes look like fucking aliens rather than cute, but whatever.
Cole minds, though, and starts wailing like a banshee.
I manage to calm them down, and we watch another show together for a while. Couldn’t tell you what it’s about. Talking fruit loops, maybe? The kids seem entranced.
Until Cole climbs over Mary to reach me and she bursts into a sobfest, complete with snot and endless tears.
Christ. If I didn’t love these kids more than my life…
But I do, so I get some quick dinner into them and tuck them into bed.
How many times have I picked up my phone to call Octavia today? Every time one of the kids said something funny, every time they had a fight, every time I sank into anger and sorrow.
Every time I turned and she wasn’t there beside me.
But I told her to rest, and what kind of a boss would I be if I didn’t stop bothering her during her day off?
Being her boss sucks ass. I want to call her as a man who cares for her, to ask how she’s doing, as a guy who likes spending time with her.
In the end, I settle for a text message. “How are you holding up?”
I get no reply.
And another night stretches in front of me. I don’t fucking wanna face it, not alone, and since I can’t have Octavia, I cuddle with my whiskey bottle on the sofa, letting the TV play whatever the hell is on.
I finish the bottle, then cave in and take my sleeping pills. I manage to fall asleep in the early hours, only to wake up time and again with that familiar sick dread in my stomach that has nothing to do with the booze I consumed and everything to do with Emma.
And Octavia.
Because every time I close my eyes now, it’s not Emma’s dead face I see, not her body lowered into the ground.
Not mine, either.
It’s Octavia’s, and that scares the motherfucking shit out of me. It scares me more than anything else has, because this time it really is up to me to save her.
When Monday morning rolls in, I call John, desperate for news.
He has some.
“Alina Solokov,” John says. “Assuming it’s the same woman you dated at school, she has passed away.” He pauses. “Declared suicide.”
Fuck. “She’s dead.”
I can’t fucking believe it. My memories from that time are frozen in time like photographs, perfect stills of a carefree time, a time without any emotions I can remember.
No great love.
No bright hope.
No crushing fear.
And no dark despair.
An unreal time, shallow and fun, a bit too bright, as if the picture was overexposed, the film burned.
Another woman I dated dead. It’s like I’m cursed, passing death to the women who come near me.
Christ. I am cursed. Fucking haunted and shit out of luck. As if I didn’t already know. Though when Octavia’s face flashes through my mind I wanna smile, and my luck doesn’t seem all bad.
“Hansen.” John clears his throat. “Matt. My apologies, I know this must be painful for you.”
“It’s not painful,” I snarl, then try to regain control of myself. “It was a shock, but I haven’t seen her in many years. We weren’t that close.”
“I see. Yes, you’ve said that before.”
I clench the phone in my hand until it creaks, close to breaking. “And? What else? Spit it out.”
It wasn’t Ross. I accused him, and punched him, and it wasn’t him.
He deserved it, though, for bullying Octavia all the years. He fucking did.
“You were right about the other matter,” John says. “Probably what led to her decision to end her life.”
“When was that?”
“In the year after you both graduated from school.”
Shit. The time frame fits. I don’t want this to be true. I don’t fucking want to be right about this.
But I am.