I turn around, and there is Cross.
He looks confused, like someone has just flashed light into his eyes. His eyebrows come together, and I realize that he’s panting; his broad shoulders are heaving. My gaze flies over him, and I can’t help devouring him with my eyes. I eat up every inch, from the loose jeans hanging on his hips to the bulk of bandages I can see under his plain white undershirt. There’s a scrape on his throat. One of his dark eyelashes has fallen on his cheek. There’s new gauze wrapped around his left hand, where David shot him. His hair looks ruffled. There’s stubble on his cheeks. His lips… They’re even more perfect than I remembered.
“Merri—what the hell are you doing here?”
I look down at my borrowed sandals, because I’m not sure how to answer.
He sounds pissed. “Did Marchant bring you here?”
“Uh…yeah.” I meet his eyes and find them guarded.
“You and him know each other?”
“No. I saw him at the hospital.”
“He took you from the hospital.”
I nod. My eyes tear, because I feel so guilty for leaving him. My throat feels tight, so I can barely talk, but he’s looking at me expectantly. “I didn’t know that you were here,” I whisper.
He tilts his head to the side, reminding me for a second of a curious dog. Then he sucks back a tired-sounding breath. “I’m surprised to see you, too.”
I widen my watery eyes at him—a random thing I do sometimes when I’m not sure what to say—and he pushes his palm back through his hair. “Fuck.”
I flinch at the word. “If you want me to go…”
“No, please.” He nods at a bench under a willow tree out in front of us, and I start walking that way. He’s moving more slowly than I am, and I slow. I steal glances at him as we cross the short distance, noting little things, like the motion of his throat as he swallows. The way he holds his right arm close to his chest. His face seems unguarded; has he been drinking? Another stealthy glance at his face shows me that he looks upset. I can’t believe I haven’t seen him in days. I want to know every single thing that’s happened. All about the hospital. How he feels. I want to know who Evan really is. I want to know why Cross Carlson came and rescued me.
We reach the bench, and he lets me sit down first. He sits on the grass in front of me, sinking down clumsily.
“Are you okay?”
His eyes flick up to mine. “That’s what you’re gonna ask?” His voice is low. “You know my name, and that’s your first question?”
I nod. I want to touch him so much my hands are shaking.
“Are you okay?” His eyes caress my face.
All of a sudden, it feels wrong to be seated on the bench, so far away from him, so I get down on the grass.
His gaze is all over me. Hungry. I imagine that instead of looking at me everywhere, he’s licking me, and the thought makes me shiver.
“Are you?” he asks.again.
I nod. “I didn’t really get hurt,” I mumble.
His mouth twists, and I know he’s waiting for me to ask.
“Why did you do it?” My voice is barely audible. I’m not sure I really want to know.
“Merri.” He groans my name, and I smell vodka. His eyes are heavy—sad. “I came for you because I knew.”
“What do you mean?”
“I found out about you—about what happened to you—almost a year ago.” I watch his Adam’s apple bob as I try to process what he’s saying. “I could have told someone…but I didn’t.”
“That’s it? Are you serious?” I’m pretty sure my jaw is hanging open. Of all the things I expected him to say, this just isn’t one of them. I’m not sure how I feel. Relieved that it’s not something worse? Upset that he knew but didn’t tell anyonwe?
He looks down at the grass, like he can’t stand to look at me. I watch him roll his shoulder, but I’m not really seeing him. I’m holding my breath.
“I tried to forget about it. I…didn’t think that I could help.” He shuts his eyes. “My father told Priscilla Heat and Jim Gunn that I knew, and I started being followed. I was… It was easier to forget.” He swallows again, and when he speaks, his voice sounds hoarse. “I didn’t want to know the details of his philandering. He’s always done it. I just…hate it. I guess I didn’t want to think that he could do that—what he did to you. That he was such a bad person.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to process all this. When I open them, I’m looking into Cross Carlson’s face, and I can see Drake there—in the cheekbones; in the chin. “Was he a good father?” It’s a weird question, but suddenly it’s one I feel like I need answered.