Page 46 of Ly to Me

“Damnit,” I whispered through another wave of pain in my chest, fighting back more tears. No, not pain. This time, it was—

I shot up and reached over, puking my brains and memories into the empty bin.

A gentle tug on my waist, holding me to the bed so I wouldn’t fall off, told me I’d woken that bear. “It’s okay. I got you.” The concern dripping from his gritty voice was enough to force the rest out.

I heaved whatever was left and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Then twisted from his hold and sat up. The room spun briefly, but my focus fought to stay on him.

My eyes narrowed. “Why?”

He rubbed an eye, his brows inching closer together. “Why, what?”

“All…” My arm flung to the basket, then to the bathroom door. “This.” I dropped my hands to my lap. “Why are you bein’ nice to me when…when I—”

“Hate me?” He propped himself up on his forearm, and my eyes glued to a spot of faded blue right near the crease of his elbow. He was slow to follow, but when he did, he shifted.

Didn’t matter. It was too late.

I pointed at the blue butterfly as my lips struggled to form shapes, much less allow coherent words through. “W-Why the…hell do you havethat?”

“It’s nothing.” His jaw flexed, his eyes landing on the desk, looking right past me.

“You have a butterfly—no, anatalabutterfly, tattooed on your skin,” I said through my parted fingers, trying to steady ragged breaths.

“Yeah.” He sighed and dipped his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. His eyes leveled with mine, showing no shame or remorse as he said, “I do.”

My eyes darted around the room, taking in everything from the small pile of soiled laundry—his shirts I’d rotated through the night before—to the Aspirin, and the water. The wastebin that had been spotless beside me before I’d thrown up nothing more than clear liquid.How many times had he refilled that glass of water?Cleaned that wastebasket?I ran my fingers through the ends of mydamphair that smelled likehim.

“Did you…did you put me in the shower?” I pressed my palm to my forehead, trying to still the room.

“Had to.” His own hand lifted and ran through his—

“You showeredwithme?!” I shrieked, then grabbed for the blankets.

He fucking chuckled. “Nothin’ I haven’t seen before, sweetheart. Many times.”

“You.” I raised a finger toward him, clutching the blanket to my chest as I scooted from the bed. “You don’t have any right to…to—”

“To care for you when you need it?” he finished. “You didn’t mind it last night. In fact, you begged for it, Ly.”

“Did not.”

“If that’s what you remember.”

I halted at the edge of the bed and glared back at him. “Tell me why, Carver.” I eyed the tattoo he uncovered when he sat up. “And that—I don’t even know what to say aboutthat.”

Silence thickened the air between us, creating a divide that shifted something inside me. Uncontrolled, another tear escaped, rolling down my cheek. His attention fixed to the spot, the movement of breath in his chest barely there.

I scoffed. “Figures. You couldn’t say anything back then, either.” I pulled my eyes from him and bolted for the bathroom. No more than a minute later, I heard him cursing and rummaging through his closet, then slamming the bedroom door.

The tightening in my chest had exploded into a fleet of migratory butterflies, seeking refuge in my throat, my legs, my arms—everywhere. More tears cascaded down, and I couldn’t get them to stop. Ever since that night—it hadn’t stopped. For ten years, I’d felt this raw anger that morphed into pain and, eventually, tears. Lots of them. I’d probably cried an entire lake’s worth by now.

All over a man who was possibly more twisted than I thought.

Who the fuck tattooed the memory of someone to themselves when they abhorred that person? Despised them enough to lure them in and flip a switch, turning into a beast of a man fixated on forcing regret to the surface?

Like I’d never meant a damn thing to him.

But if I meant nothing, why was he so affected by my words? Why take care of me?