It Ends With Us (29 page)

“Where did you get that magnet, Lily?”

What?

My heart feels like it begins beating in reverse.

Why does he keep asking me this?

His fingers are still moving inside of me, his eyes still look like they want me.
But his hand.
The hand that’s wrapped in my hair begins to tug harder and I wince.

“Ryle,” I whisper, keeping my voice calm, even though I’m beginning to shake. “That hurts.”

His fingers stop moving, but his gaze never leaves mine. He slowly pulls his fingers out of me and then brings his hand up around my throat, squeezing gently. His lips meet mine and his tongue
dives inside my mouth. I take it, because I have no idea what’s going through his head right now and I pray I’m overreacting.

I can feel him hard against his jeans as he presses into me. But then he pulls back. His hands leave me entirely as he flattens his back against the refrigerator, scraping his eyes over my body
like he wants to take me right here in the kitchen. My heart begins to calm down.
I’m overreacting.

He reaches beside him, next to the stove, and he picks up a newspaper. It’s the same newspaper he showed me earlier, with the awards article printed in it. He holds it up, then tosses it
toward me. “Did you get a chance to read that yet?”

I blow out a breath of relief. “Not yet,” I say, my eyes falling to the article.

“Read it out loud.”

I glance up at him. I smile, but my stomach is anxious. There’s something about him right now. The way he’s acting. I can’t put my finger on it.

“You want me to read the article?” I ask. “Right now?”

I feel odd, sitting on my kitchen counter half naked, holding a newspaper. He nods. “I’d like you to take off your shirt first.
Then
read it out loud.”

I stare at him, trying to gauge his behavior. Maybe the scotch has made him extra frisky. A lot of times when we make love, it’s as simple as making love. But occasionally, our sex is
wild. A little dangerous, like the look in his eyes right now.

I set the paper down, pull off my shirt, and then pick the paper back up. I start reading the article out loud, but he takes a step forward and says, “Not the whole thing.” He flips
the paper over where it starts in the middle of the article and he points to a sentence. “Read the last few paragraphs.”

I look down, even more confused this time. But whatever will get us past this and into the bed . . .

“The business with the highest number of votes should come as no surprise. The iconic Bib’s on Marketson opened in April of last year, quickly becoming one of the highest rated
restaurants in the city, according to TripAdvisor.”

I stop reading and look up at Ryle. He has poured himself more scotch and he’s swallowing a sip of it. “Keep reading,” he says, nudging his head at the paper in my hand.

I swallow heavily, the saliva in my mouth growing thicker by the second. I try to control the trembling of my hands as I continue reading. “The owner, Atlas Corrigan, is a two-time
award-winning chef and also a United States Marine. It’s no secret what the acronym for his highly successful restaurant, Bib’s, stands for:
Better In Boston
.”

I gasp.

Everything is better in Boston
.

I clench my stomach, trying to keep my emotions under control as I keep reading. “But when interviewed regarding his most recent award, the chef finally revealed the true history of the
meaning behind the name. ‘
It’s a long story
,’ Chef Corrigan stated. ‘
It was an homage to someone who had a huge impact on my life. Someone who meant a lot to me.
She still means a lot to me
.’ ”

I put the newspaper on the counter. “I don’t want to read anymore.” My voice cracks on its way up my throat.

Ryle takes two swift steps forward and grabs the newspaper. He picks up where I left off, his voice loud and angry now. “When asked if the girl was aware he named a restaurant after her,
Chef Corrigan smiled knowingly and said, ‘
Next question
.’ ”

The anger in Ryle’s voice makes me nauseous. “Ryle, stop it,” I say calmly. “You’ve had too much to drink.” I push past him and walk quickly out of the
kitchen toward the hallway that leads to our bedroom. There’s so much happening right now and I’m not sure I understand any of it.

The article never stated who Atlas was talking about. Atlas knows it was me and
I
know it was me, but how in the hell would Ryle put two and two together?

And the magnet. How would he know that came from Atlas just by reading that article?

He’s overreacting.

I can hear him following me as I walk toward the bedroom. I swing open the door and come to a sudden halt.

The bed is littered with things. An empty moving box with the words, “Lily’s stuff,” written on the side of it. And then all the contents that were inside that box.
Letters . . . journals . . . empty shoeboxes. I close my eyes and breathe in slowly.

He read the journal.

No.

He. Read. The. Journal.

His arm comes around my waist from behind. He slides a hand up my stomach and takes a firm hold of one of my breasts. His other hand feathers my shoulder as he moves the hair away from my
neck.

I squeeze my eyes shut, just as his fingers begin to trace across my skin, up to my shoulder. He slowly runs his finger over the heart and a shudder runs over my whole body. His lips meet my
skin, right over the tattoo, and then he sinks his teeth into me so hard, I scream.

I try to pull away from him, but he has such a tight grip on me he doesn’t even budge. The pain from his teeth piercing my collarbone rips through my shoulder and down my arm. I
immediately start crying.
Sobbing.

“Ryle, let me go,” I say, my voice pleading. “Please. Walk away.” His arms are cutting into mine as he holds me tightly from behind.

He spins me, but my eyes are still closed. I’m too scared to look at him. His hands are digging into my shoulders as he pushes me toward the bed. I start trying to fight him off of me, but
it’s useless. He’s too strong for me. He’s angry. He’s hurt.
And he’s not Ryle.

My back meets the bed and I frantically scoot back toward the headboard, trying to get away from him. “Why is he still here, Lily?” His voice isn’t as composed as it was in the
kitchen. He’s really angry now. “He’s in
everything
. The magnet on the fridge. The journal in the box I found in our closet. The fucking
tattoo
on your body that
used to be my favorite goddamn
part of you!”

He’s on the bed now.

“Ryle,” I beg. “I can explain.” Tears streak down my temples and into my hair. “You’re angry. Please don’t hurt me,
please
. Walk away, and when
you come back, I’ll explain.”

His hand grips my ankle and he yanks me until I’m beneath him. “I’m not angry, Lily,” he says, his voice disturbingly calm now. “I just think I haven’t proved
to you how much I love you.” His body comes down against mine and he takes my wrists with one hand above my head, pressing them against the mattress.

“Ryle, please.” I’m sobbing, trying to push him off of me with any part of my body. “Get off me.
Please
.”

No, no, no, no.

“I love you, Lily,” he says, his words crashing against my cheek. “More than he
ever
did. Why can’t you
see
that?”

My fear folds in on itself, and I become diluted with rage. All I can see when I squeeze my eyes shut is my mother crying on our old living room couch; my father forcing himself on top of her.
Hatred rips through me and I start screaming.

Ryle tries to muffle my screams with his mouth.

I bite down on his tongue.

His forehead comes crashing down against mine.

In an instant, all the pain fades as a blanket of darkness rolls over my eyes and consumes me.

• • •

I can feel his breath against my ear as he mutters something inaudible. My heart is racing, my whole body is still shaking, my tears are still somehow falling and I’m
gasping for air. His words are crashing against my ear, but the pain is throbbing in my head too hard for me to decipher his words.

I try to open my eyes, but it stings. I can feel something trickling into my right eye and I instantly know it’s blood.

My
blood.

His words begin to come into focus.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m . . .”

His hand is still pressing mine into the mattress and he’s still on top of me. He’s no longer trying to force himself on me.

“Lily, I love you, I’m so sorry.”

His words are full of panic. He’s kissing me, his lips gentle against my cheek and mouth.

He knows what he’s done. He’s Ryle again, and he knows what he’s just done to me. To us. To our future.

I utilize his panic to my advantage. I shake my head and I whisper, “It’s okay, Ryle. It’s okay. You were angry, it’s okay.”

His lips meet mine in a frenzy and the taste of scotch makes me want to puke now. He’s still whispering apologies when the room begins to fade out again.

• • •

My eyes are closed. We’re still on the bed, but he’s no longer fully on top of me. He’s on his side, his arm wrapped tightly over my waist. His head is pressed
against my chest. I remain stiff as I assess everything around me.

He isn’t moving, but I can feel his breaths, heavy with sleep. I don’t know if he passed out or if he fell asleep. The last thing I can remember is his mouth on mine, the taste of my
own tears.

I lie still for several more minutes. The pain in my head begins to worsen with every minute of consciousness. I close my eyes and try to think.

Where’s my purse?

Where are my keys?

Where is my phone?

It takes me a full five minutes to slide out from under him. I’m too scared to move too much at once, so I do it an inch at a time until I’m able to roll onto the floor. When I can
no longer feel his hands on me, an unexpected sob breaks from my chest. I slap my hand over my mouth as I pull myself to my feet and run out of the bedroom.

I find my purse and my phone, but I have no idea where he put my keys. I frantically search the living room and kitchen, but I can barely see anything. When he head-butted me, it must have left
a gash on my forehead, because there’s too much blood in my eyes and everything is blurry.

I slide to the floor near the door, growing dizzy. My fingers are shaking so hard, it takes three tries to get the password right on my phone.

When I have the screen up to dial a number, I pause. My first thought is to call Allysa and Marshall, but I can’t. I can’t do that to them right now. She just gave birth to a baby a
matter of hours ago. I can’t do this to them.

I could call the police, but my mind can’t even process what all that entails. I don’t want to give a statement. I don’t know that I want to press charges, knowing what this
could do to his career. I don’t want Allysa mad at me. I just don’t know. I don’t completely rule out eventually notifying the police. I just don’t have the energy to make
that decision right now.

I squeeze the phone and try to think.
My mother.

I start to dial her number, but when I think of what this would do to her I start to cry again. I can’t involve her in this mess. She’s been through too much. And Ryle will try to
find me. He’ll go to her first. Then Allysa and Marshall. Then to everyone else we know.

I wipe the tears from my eyes and then begin dialing Atlas’s number.

I hate myself more in this moment than I ever have in my entire life.

I hate myself, because the day Ryle found Atlas’s number in my phone, I lied and said I had forgotten it was there.

I hate myself, because the day Atlas placed his number there, I opened it and looked at it.

I hate myself, because deep down inside, I knew there was a chance that I might one day need it.
So I memorized it.

“Hello?”

His voice is cautious. Inquiring. He doesn’t recognize this number. I immediately start crying when he speaks. I cover my mouth and try to quiet myself.

“Lily?” His voice is much louder now. “Lily, where are you?”

I hate myself, because he knows the tears are mine.

“Atlas,” I whisper. “I need help.”

“Where are you?” he says again. I can hear panic in his voice. I can hear him walking, moving stuff around. I hear a door slam on his end of the phone.

“I’ll text you,” I whisper, too scared to keep speaking. I don’t want Ryle to wake up. I hang up the phone and somehow find the strength to still my hands while I text
him my address and the access code for entry. Then I send a second text that says
Text me when you get here. Please don’t
knock.

I crawl to the kitchen and find my pants, struggling back into them. I find my shirt on the counter. When I’m dressed, I go to the living room. I debate opening the door and meeting Atlas
downstairs, but I’m too scared I won’t be able to make it down to the lobby alone. My forehead is still bleeding and I feel too weak to even stand up and wait by the door. I slide to
the floor, clenching my phone in my shaky fist and staring at it, waiting for his text.

It’s an agonizing twenty-four minutes later when my phone lights up.

I scramble to my feet and swing open the door. Arms wrap around me and my face is pressed against something soft. I just start crying and crying and shaking and crying.

“Lily,” he whispers. I’ve never heard my name spoken so sadly. He urges me to look up at him. His blue eyes scroll over my face, and I see it happen. I watch the concern vanish
as he darts his head up to the apartment door. “Is he still in there?”

Rage.

I can feel the rage come off of him and he starts to step toward the apartment door. I grab his jacket in my fists. “No.
Please
, Atlas. I just want to leave.”