Page 24

twenty-two

Loved like a Threat

Noah

M y head is killing me.

Except it didn't kill me. Because I'm still alive. Light seeps through the only window in my apartment. Silas is in the kitchen with his back to me. Other than the distinct sound of a spoon scraping against the side of a ceramic coffee mug as it's stirred, the room is silent.

My throat burns. The apartment reeks of failure. I'm not sure what happened, but I guess I must have fucked up somehow. I didn't take enough. Maybe I've been taking too many pills, and my body is too used to it. Maybe I called him at some point.

"Hey, baby," Silas says when he turns around. "You're awake. Here."

He grabs a Gatorade from the fridge and brings it over, sitting at the edge of the bed and twisting off the cap before extending it to me.

And I just stare at it.

"Sit up, Noah. You need to drink this."

I open my mouth to speak, but my throat is far too dry, and no sound comes out. I push myself into a seated position, leaning back against the headboard. Silas must have changed my clothes at some point, because I'm in a tank top and leggings now, the writing on my arms now just dark ink smears on my skin. Around me, the room turns onto its side. I retch, covering my mouth with my hand.

"To your left," Silas says. "There's a trash can."

I pick up the small bathroom trash can from the floor beside me, hold it between my legs, and dry heave until bile comes up my throat. From the looks of it, this isn't the first time.

Placing it back on the ground, I take the drink from him, closing my eyes as I drain at least half of it before setting it aside.

"I didn't want this to happen," I tell him. "You being here, I mean. I just wanted to die."

"Noah—"

"This wasn't some kind of trick…or Tate-esque manipulation. I didn't want you to save me and force you to take care of me. You can leave."

"I'm not leaving you, Noah," Silas says. "Ever again."

"That's not what I want. I don't want your pity."

"I don't pity you. I love you."

I check the clock on the wall. It's already four in the afternoon. I've been out for around eighteen hours. That's eighteen additional hours that the police have had to piece together the trail of the missing hiker Tate left for them, leading directly to me.

"They're going to come for me, Silas. You're going to get caught."

He sighs. "If that happens, I'll deal with it."

But I see the worry in his eyes. And I know what Silas means when he says that he'll deal with it. He'll either kill them or they'll kill him. And even if it's the former, he won't get very far leaving a trail of police officers in his wake.

"You look scared."

"I am scared, Noah. Last night was the most terrifying night of my life. I didn't sleep at all. I stayed up all night just to make sure your heart was beating and your lungs were working and taking care of you when you threw up."

"I didn't want you to. I was supposed to die."

A light knock on the door causes me to jump.

"It's Tate," he says. He kisses me on the forehead before moving toward the door.

"Silas, no," I say, my eyes filling with tears. "Please don't."

"He came over here after you last night. He stuck his fingers down your throat until you threw everything up, and he's been checking on you every hour all day and night, Noah."

"I don't care. I hate him."

He sighs, shrugging. "Well, he doesn't hate you."

When he reaches for the doorknob anyway, I turn so my back faces the entryway and curl into myself, staring out that kitchen window.

"Hey…how's she doing?" Tate asks in a hushed tone.

"She's awake," Silas says. "Like really awake this time. We were talking."

"Noah?"

But just the sound of his voice hurts. I don't want to answer; I don't even want to look at him.

I don't want his fucking pity, either.

"She doesn't really want to talk to you. You should probably just go back to the motel. "

Tate lowers his voice again, as if I can't still fucking hear him. "Okay, but…we can't stay here. We need to move her. Every hour that we stay—"

"I know," Silas says. "But we need to wait until dark."

Tate groans in frustration.

"If you want to leave, then go ahead and leave," Silas says.

"I don't," Tate says. "I don't want to leave. Not without you and not without her, either."

"I can hear you, you know," I say.

"Well, good. I'm glad you can hear me."

"Do I get a say? Because I think you should both leave."

"You don't mean that," Tate says.

Footsteps move toward me. Tate kneels beside the bed and rests his hand on my hip. Suddenly, I'm eighteen again, and I'm lying in bed with Mia while Tate whispers in my ear and convinces me we're in love.

He was right. Not that we were in love, but that I'm forever eighteen. I stopped living a long time ago, and I can change my name, my hair, and try my best to become someone new, but I'll never be able to outrun that girl with the bloody lip and the broken heart.

The one who was too delusional to save herself. That's who I'm really running from. That's all I'll ever be.

"I'm going to pack your things, okay? Do you have a suitcase or anything?"

I roll away from him without a word.

It's a ridiculous question, anyway. I came here barefoot with only the clothes on my back. Most of what little clothing I have belonged to Jodie's daughter, or I bought it at the thrift shop over by the motel.

Of course I don't have a fucking suitcase.

"Tate, I doubt she has a suitcase," Silas says. He steps into the kitchen, opens the cabinet beneath the sink, and takes out a garbage bag. "Here."

Tate takes the bag from him and begins emptying the contents of my dresser.

"I'm not going with you," I say.

"Yes, you are," Silas says.

"He doesn't want me," I tell him. "And I…" I swallow a lump in my throat. "I don't want him anymore, either."

Tate turns toward me, and I accidentally let him meet my eyes before averting my gaze somewhere over his shoulder.

"You don't mean that," Tate says. "It's okay, Noah. I say things I don't mean all the time, too. I'm glad you're feeling better enough to insult me, though."

He continues filling the bag like nothing is wrong.

"I do mean it. I hate you, Tate Riley. Knowing you— and your sister—ruined my life."

I knew that would get him. Tate freezes, and I wait eagerly for him to lose his fucking shit.

"Noah, don't," Silas says. "Just…stop, okay? You don't have to like it, but you still have to go with us because I won't leave without you. If you want to stay here and go to prison, then I guess we're going to prison. I'll make sure they know you didn't really hurt anyone."

"I'll fix it," Tate says softly. "I'll do better. I'll make you happy—you know I can make you happy."

"I don't want your guilt or your pity. I just want you to keep being the same piece of shit asshole you've always been."

He sighs, still refusing to take the bait. "I'm going to go put this stuff in the car."

"I'll take it," Silas says. "I'm going to go get some cash, too, just in case we run into some trouble. I'll fill up the tank and change the oil, then we should get out of here. Did you bring the hair dye?"

"Yeah," Tate says. "It's in the bag."

"You're leaving me with him?" I ask Silas.

He sets a plate beside the bed. "I made you a bagel," he says. "You should try to eat, okay? It's only for an hour—less than that, even. I'll be right back."

"Yeah, fine." I sigh, crossing my arms in front of me and looking up at the ceiling. "I don't care what he does to me anymore, anyway. Maybe he'll finally stop talking shit about it and just fucking kill me so we can all be done with this."

"Go ahead and drag me if it makes you feel better, Noah," Tate says, setting the bag of clothing next to Silas.

Just another sign of how small and meaningless my existence here is—everything I own fits in a garbage bag. And for every person in this town, the world will keep turning when I'm gone. Maybe Winter Falls will even become a tourist spot for true crime aficionados. The Poplar Café will become the place where one of the Multnomah County Massacre killers worked for a year, still killing, quietly sating her thirst for blood, until she accidentally served one of her victim's fingers to a customer and had to fucking bail .

Silas places his hands on my cheeks and presses his forehead to mine. "I love you," he says before he presses his lips to mine. "I'll be back soon, okay?"

I nod, and then watch him grab the bag of clothes and leave, closing the door behind him, leaving me in my failure-seeped apartment with the last person in the world I want to stew in that failure with.

I shoot daggers into his back with my eyes while he pulls rubber gloves over his hands and begins mixing hair color on top of my emptied dresser.

"It's too quiet in here," he says.

"I like the quiet. You should try it sometime…although, I admit, I can see now why it's such a problem for you. Alone with your thoughts all the time? I wouldn't want that, either."

"No, you probably wouldn't. Most of my thoughts are of you."

I scoff.

"They're not always good; I didn't say that," he says. "But they are mostly of you. How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a truck while drunk and, unfortunately, didn't fucking die."

He sits beside me on the bed and reaches for my hair—slowly. So unnaturally slow, like he's waiting for me to recoil or fight him off, but I don't have the energy for that. He ties half of my hair in a top knot and starts painting the thick dark color onto my hair.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask.

"Did you look at the IDs Silas made for you?" Tate asks. "He changed your hair color to dark brown, so it needs to match. "

"I'm just going to do it again," I tell him. "As soon as I get a chance, and I won't fuck it up next time. I'll get it right."

"No, you won't."

"Yes, I will. And you know what? Knowing it might actually hurt you—or at least bother you a little bit—makes it that much better. You say you always know when I'm lying. Tell me I'm lying about this, Tate."

He sighs. "No. You're not lying. But I'm going to make sure you don't. I'm going to take care of you. I won't let you go. Ever."

"You know what? That sounds fucking terrifying. Everything that comes out of your mouth sounds like a threat."

"Yeah, well, who wouldn't want to be loved like a threat?"

I suck in a breath, holding it, grateful he can't see my face while I blink back tears.

"Do you want to know where we're going?" he asks.

"No."

"There's this—"

"I said, no!" I shout. "I don't want to know. I don't care because I will not live there, okay? So, just stop. I don't want to know anything about you or where you've been or what you've been doing. I don't care where you're going—not anymore."

He doesn't speak while he finishes painting on the hair dye, covering it with one of those plastic shower caps the box comes with when he's done.

"We'll wash it off in twenty minutes, and then Silas should be back. Do you want me to help you eat?"

"No. I want you to get the fuck off my bed."

"Okay," he says .

He leans over, kissing my bare shoulder. "I love you, Noah," he says.

"Stop! You do not get to say that to me."

"Okay." He climbs off the bed and moves to sit on a barstool. "But it's true. You know when I'm lying, too, remember?"

"No. I was wrong. I don't know you at all."

He shrugs. "Fine, Noah."

Tate takes an ear bud case from his pocket and pops them into his ears, too afraid to be alone with his thoughts, as usual. But I sit here with mine. They used to scare me, too. I took pills and alcohol to quiet them enough for me to sleep and so that if I did have nightmares, and most nights I did, I wouldn't remember them in the morning.

They don't bother me now.

I drink the rest of the Gatorade on the table, and then take a giant bite of the bagel.

"We need to rinse your hair now," Tate says later, breaking me from my haze. "Silas will be back soon. And it's dark."

"I can do it myself," I snap, stomping off toward the bathroom.

Tate gets his arm inside the door before I can close it and lock it. "Go ahead," he says. "But you're not closing the door."