Justine
Everything hurts and my stomach is staging a mutiny.
Someone, kill me.
I’m hanging over the toilet, gripping the porcelain rim as capable hands pull my hair into a ponytail at the base of my skull. Once it’s secure and I’m done heaving, a bottle presses against my lips.
“Drink, baby.”
Ryker.
Cool water hits my tongue as he tips the bottle, and I swish and spit before taking a little more. The bottle disappears, and a cold washcloth presses against my forehead before gently moving down to my mouth to sweep the nasty residue from my lips.
I release my death grip on the toilet to keep the cloth there. Silently groaning against the fabric, I bow my head.
“What did I do?” I assume my mumble is inaudible until Ryker replies.
“That’s a story for when you’re feeling better. You think you’re good for now? Want to go back to bed?”
The thought of moving an inch from where I’m slumped is more than I can handle. I shake my head.
“You want to sleep in the bathroom?”
I nod, carefully, so as not to wake my calming stomach.
“Okay, then come here.” He slides his hands under my arms and pulls me back into the cradle of his legs.
“Towel—”
“I gotcha.”
Ryker guides my face to his shoulder, and a soft towel cushions my cheek. Now at least I know I won’t drool on him. He must grab another towel, a bigger one, because something thick and fluffy covers us both.
“Try to sleep, baby. I got you.”
“No one has me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
When I wake again, I’m no longer in the bathroom but tucked into bed. My head pounds, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, and once it unsticks, the nastiness is enough to gag the strongest stomach.
I’ve had hangovers. Not a ton, but enough to know better.
What the hell did I do?
As I roll over, one arm flops like a dead fish . . . and lands on something solid and warm.
“How are you feeling?”
I blink twice because my memory is still a little faulty. How did I get here? I flip backward, attempting to grasp my last solid thought . . . and I come up with blackness. And pain. And regret. And sorrow.
My parents. Dead. Organ donation. The bar. Walking to the bus stop. Accepting a ride from some kids headed to campus. More booze. And then it all gets a little disjointed. Loud music, laughing, yelling. Running through every memory is a solid dose of self-loathing.
I managed to block out reality for a few hours . . . but it didn’t last. And somehow I ended up with a concerned-looking Ryker studying my face and wrapping his body protectively around mine.
I don’t deserve it.
“You hate me. You drove drunk into a guardrail because of me.”
His concerned expression hardens into something more serious. “I don’t hate you. Fuck, Justine, I’m in love with you. I could never hate you. And I drove drunk into a guardrail because I was a fucking idiot. That’s on me. Not you. Everything that’s fucked up is because of me—not you.”
His words wash over me like some kind of healing wave, but they can’t repair everything. I’m too broken for that easy of a fix.
“You can’t love me.”
“Fuck if I can’t.” His tone is unyielding. “And you’re not pushing me away. You can try, but I’ll push back every time. I’m finally starting to understand you, and the more I learn, the more sure I am that I’m not letting you go.”
“But what about the money, your dad, our deal—”
He lays a finger over my lips for a beat. “I don’t fucking care about any of that. I care about you.” His blue eyes darken as he lowers his hand to grasp mine. “Tell me what happened to your parents.”
Sharp knives of pain slice through me and I squeeze his fingers, seeking some kind of connection. “They’re dead. There was an accident with one of those fucking trains. They didn’t make it.”
Ryker sucks in a sharp breath. “Jesus, I’m so fucking sorry, Justine. I saw it on the news. I had no idea. How did you find out it was them? Emergency contact?” The sympathy he feels is almost tangible, and his thumb sweeps back and forth over the back of my hand.
I let the whole story spill out. What my mother said when I caught her breaking in. About fighting the insurance company, and the check I’ve never seen or heard about.
“We’ll figure it out, babe.” Ryker’s grip tightens on my hand.
We. He says it so easily, but there’s nothing easy about where we stand right now.
“Don’t we need to figure us out first?”
He hauls me closer, pulling me across his body before cupping the side of my face and wiping away my lingering tears with the pad of his thumb. “Look, we both fucked up, and unless you’re going to tell me that you don’t love me, then there’s nothing to figure out. We move on from here together.”
This is the moment. The moment I could follow all of my past habits and push him away for good, or I can grab the best thing in my life and hope to hell it lasts.
My decision is an easy one.
“I’d be lying if I told you that.”
“Then fucking tell me you love me. I want to hear it.”
I meet his stare. “I love you, Ryker. So freaking much.”
As soon as the words are out, I’m locked in the circle of his arms, my face pressing against his chest, his lips close to my ear.
“I fucking love you too. I’m not letting you go. Whatever happens, we’re going to get through it. We’re a hell of a team, Justine. There’s nothing we can’t do.”
“I love you.” I whisper the words again, getting more comfortable with the feel of them on my tongue. Getting more comfortable with the warmth that fills my chest when I say them. The self-loathing isn’t gone, but its sharp edges are blunted.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe we can do anything.