Page 38

THIRTY-EIGHT

LENNON

Heavy rain patters noisily against my bedroom window as the storm outside rages on like it has for the entirety of the day. The sky has opened up, relentlessly dumping water over New Orleans in a torrential pour during the first hurricane of the season.

The storm’s been brewing in the gulf for days, now finally passing over us and flooding the streets like a river.

Wind howls and whips outside, bending the branches of the heavy oak trees until they groan and crack from the pressure.

Angry thunder rolls, causing the walls of my apartment to tremble.

Unlike a lot of people, I love hurricanes. I love the dark, thick clouds that roll in, the deep rumble of rolling thunder, lightning that electrifies the sky.

They always bring a sense of peace to wash over me.

Sighing, I turn and look over at the glowing numbers of the clock on my nightstand.

It’s late, and I should have gone to sleep hours ago, but I’ve been too restless, tossing and turning, kicking the covers off, reaching for my phone more times than I even want to admit.

I want to text him, but I also don’t want to seem clingy because I’m not.

It’s just… it feels like there’s been a fire ignited inside of me, and I’m impatient for the next stolen moment with the man I’m supposed to hate.

It’s funny how things happen. How life has a way of unfolding in the way that it’s supposed to and not the way you thought it would.

Just a couple of weeks ago, I couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him, and now I’m anxiously waiting for the next time that I am.

A sudden boom of thunder claps just outside the window, rattling the pane, followed by a bright flash of lightning that has my heart ratcheting in my chest.

Shit, that scared me.

I reach for my phone, but I stop short when there’s another loud rumble that sounds like thunder, except… not outside the window.

My brow pinches.

Then I hear it again, heavy pounding, and I realize it’s not thunder at all… it’s the front door.

Maisie’s at her parents’ for the weekend, and I have no idea who would be pounding on my door in the middle of the night during a hurricane.

I toss the duvet off and quickly walk to the front door, peering through the peephole. It’s hard to see anything at all with the rain blowing sideways under the dim light of the porch, but I can make out a silhouette.

I’m wrenching the door open in a single breath, my heart pounding wildly when I see Saint standing in front of me, staring down at the porch beneath his feet.

He’s drenched from the rain, his clothes completely soaked through, dark hair plastered to his face, droplets of rain tracing a path down his body.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He stands there, rooted in place, shoulders rising and falling as he breathes roughly.

In and out.

In and out.

In and out.

Until he lifts his head and looks up at me, his dark brown eyes full of so much pain and anguish that it makes my chest physically ache.

Oh my God.

My hand flies to my mouth to stop the noise that threatens to burst free, trapping it in the back of my throat.

He’s hurt .

His bottom lip is split open and still seeping red. The skin around his right eye is bruised, black and purple and blue, almost completely swollen shut. The cut on his cheekbone is raised and angry, like the skin was pried open, caked with dried blood.

My throat moves as a rough swallow courses down it, and because I can’t stop myself, I go to him, colliding against his hard, wet body, throwing my arms around his waist and holding him tightly against me.

He still hasn’t said a single word.

I bury my face into his chest, squeezing my eyes shut. I’m not sure what to say, and even if I did, I think… this says more than words would ever be able to.

So I just hold on as tightly as I can. Until my arms ache.

Until his arms finally slip around me, and he holds on to me like he’s drowning and I’m the life raft.

Until I can feel his big body trembling against me.

Whether from emotion or the chill of the rain, I’m not sure, but we can’t stay outside in this any longer.

“Saint, you’re freezing. We have to go in,” I say, pulling back to look up at him. When he flicks his gaze to me, his eyes are distant, hazy, and I hate it.

I hate that whatever’s happened… it’s left wounds that aren’t just the ones I can see.

They’re inside too, and I’ve never felt more helpless.

I reach for his hand, threading our fingers together and gently pulling him back into my apartment.

Neither of us speaks as I squeeze his hand, not letting go as I lead him to my bedroom and shut the door behind us. I turn on the lamp next to the bed, bathing the room in a soft, warm glow, and the sight of him steals every breath from my lungs.

It’s even worse than I thought. His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, and I know that whatever’s happened, he’s been crying.

God, my heart is aching.

He’s freezing and hurt, and he looks so completely broken that hot tears prick behind my lids.

I close the distance between us and slip my hands beneath the black T-shirt plastered to him, slowly pulling it up.

He tugs it over his head and hisses, face pulling tight, wincing like the movement hurt him.

That’s when I notice the large bruise that travels along his side and trails over his rib cage.

“Saint,” I whisper. “Do you need to go to the hospital? I’m… I’m worried.”

His head shakes.

I want to argue and tell him that he needs to be looked at, but I know that he’s not going to go.

Of all the places he could’ve gone, maybe that he should’ve gone… he came here.

To me .

Overwhelmed with emotion, I tenderly press my lips onto his battered and bruised skin, gently kissing every wound I can see, one at a time, each one causing my heart to ache more painfully than the last.

I wish that I could take it all away, but I know that I can’t, so for now… I’m going to do what I can.

And that’s being here for him.

My feet carry me over to the bed, and I drop down onto the edge of the mattress, leaving whatever happens next up to him.

I know him. I know how hard it is for him to show the fragile, vulnerable parts of himself, to show his hard-fought emotions.

And I also know he’s battling something right now that is breaking him, and it’s hard to witness.

Part of me expects him to stay rooted in place, unmoving, but he doesn’t.

He crosses the distance between us, his chest heaving as he steps between my legs, his eyes searching mine. He smells like fresh rain and spearmint. Of familiarity and comfort.

Slowly, he sinks down to his knees. His arms slip around my waist, his big body draping over my lap as he buries his face into my stomach.

I swallow hard as I bring my fingers to his nape and gently stroke his hair, tracing my finger along his jaw, hoping that my touch helps in some way.

“You don’t have to tell me. You don’t have to say anything at all if you don’t want to, but I’m here.

Okay? I’m here, Saint, and I’m not going anywhere. ”

His ragged breath dances along the sliver of bare skin of my stomach beneath my shirt, his arms tightening around my waist in a hold that feels like something is threatening to wrench him away and drag him under.

It makes emotion swell painfully beneath my chest.

This isn’t the same man that I met all those weeks ago. The one who pushes everyone away because it’s the only way to protect the delicate parts of him, who puts on a front to show the world that he’s emotionless, cold, detached.

The man who has shut the entire world out but is letting me in.

He’s trusting me to anchor him in whatever he’s battling, trusting me to hold on to these broken and bare, jagged pieces of him, no matter how fragile they may be.

It’s a declaration without words.

This is a version of Saint that I’m unfamiliar with, but it feels like somehow , I’ve known him all along.

I trail my finger along his jaw and gently lift his chin.

My chest starts to feel tight when I see the pain in his eyes, a raw, heartbreakingly vulnerable sea of dark that makes emotion snake up the inside of my throat. “Why did you come here, Saint?”

“I didn’t know where else to go.” It’s a whisper, his voice rough and uneven as he pauses, holding my gaze. “You’re the only thing in my life that feels right anymore.”