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"I'm going to let you live, but you are
not
fucking going to get away with this,
that
I promise you. And if you ever so much as step in the same state Rory is in, I swear to fucking God, I will do the world a fucking favor, and end you. And I'll enjoy every goddamned second of it, too."

He sucks in the wisps of air I allow. And I allow him enough to keep him conscious, but not much more. His eyes bulge with fear and desperation, both bloodshot, black and blue, and one swelling shut.

I lean in closer, practically snarling at him in revulsion and contempt. I thought I knew what hate was, spent so many years sure I hated my father, but my feelings for him are borderline apathetic compared to what I feel for this piece of garbage. My father is an asshole, but this creature… he is the worst fucking kind of evil, and I wish with every part of me that I could vanquish him for good here and now.

I nod toward Tucker but don't take my eyes off of that motherfucking bastard for a moment. "He's not going to intervene. If that's what you were hoping. Sure, he's scared that I'll take this too far, but he doesn't think I'd actually kill you. Not intentionally.

"But he doesn't know what you and I know. He doesn't know Rory, not really. He doesn't know just what she's worth risking. But
you
do. After all, you're here, ignoring a fucking restraining order, risking your freedom to get to her." I pause a moment, glaring at him, allowing him to really understand how dead fucking serious I am, and say my next words slowly and carefully.

"What do you think
I
would risk to keep her safe?" I raise my eyebrows. "You think I wouldn't risk
my
freedom to keep you from her?" I let that sink in a moment, before tightening my grip only half as much as I want to. "If you ever so much as think about coming after her again, I won't hesitate to do what I really want to do right now…What a large part of me feels like I
should
do—"

"
Cap
..." Tucker is more worried now. He probably doesn't even recognize me, in total control of my violence, and I've given him good reason to make him think I'm about to slip.

Although my words are not for my best friend, I know he's heard every word. A few months ago he might not have understood. Hell, a few months ago, neither would I. But I know Tucker, and I see the way he looks at Carl, and I doubt there's much he wouldn't do for her, whether he knows it yet or not.

I smirk down at the bastard. "He's getting it now. He understands. Even if he's not ready to admit it to himself. But all you need to understand is that he won't try and stop me." I tighten my grip even more, finally closing his airway and letting him panic for a couple of seconds while he pitifully attempts to try and resist.

You fucking bastard, this is only a fraction of what you did to Rory.

Finally I let go, and he gasps frantically, groaning in pain.

"Cap," Tucker's says again with renewed urgency. But I hear it too—the faint sound of distant sirens, slowly growing louder.

"Cap!" I hear Dave shout from the alley, and I stand up, leaving a somewhat conscious, bloody heap on the hard ground.

I bend down, lightly smacking at his cheeks again, telling him to wake up, that his ride is here. He'll be lucky if he can walk, but he came at Rory first, and then me—it was self defense, which I whisper to Tucker in detail while we stand guard waiting for the cops to come and arrest Rory's attacker. Once Tucker's got the story down, he takes two well aimed swings at me—one at my jaw, the second to my left cheek. I thank him.

The piece of shit on the ground is barely aware of himself, let alone what Tuck and I are up to. He groans and whimpers like a fucking bitch.

He can dish it out, to a fucking innocent girl, but he can't fucking take it.

I lean over and spit in his face.

It's only a couple of minutes later that the police are there, helping Rory's attacker stand up, and he staggers to the ambulance, held upright by two officers. Really, he should be on a stretcher, but he reeks of bourbon, and I think they probably think that's what's accounting for his half conscious state. Of course it helps that I hinted as much to the female detective.

By the time we emerge from the alley and that motherfucking bastard is read his rights and taken away in an ambulance, Rory is already talking to another detective and being examined by forensics and treated for her scratches and bruises. I look on, in no small amount of anguish, as an EMT uses tweezers to remove small bits of debris from the scrape on her left cheek. She barely winces at all, and when she almost does, she bites her lip and swallows her pain right back down.

She's the toughest girl I've ever known. She's only even being treated in an ambulance because she insisted she did not need a hospital. Adamantly.

Tuck gives his statement to the male detective first while I half listen to him, mostly watching Rory.

This whole night was my fault. I am such a fucking idiot. I saw him with his hands all over her. I saw her, standing there, but I convinced myself that she was letting it happen because she wanted it. Because she wanted someone other than me. Because I pushed her about her friend Cam and she was rethinking the
something more
. That her deer-in-headlights expression was for getting caught by me, not the utter terror I now know it was.

I don't understand myself. I fucking
know
Rory, and mad at me or not, I know there was no way she was just going to be in some random guy's arms, let some stranger drag his mouth all over her neck. I physically cringe at the memory. My stomach rolls and my heart is pressed with a painful pressure—a weight—and it's a sensation I've never felt before.

I'm overcome with a tidal wave of guilt for my role in her suffering tonight, her fear… If there was anything I could do to undo it, to take it back, I would. I need to apologize to her. For being a dick earlier about her friend, for not helping her right away with that motherfucking bastard. For my blame in her getting hurt… violated.

Fuck, when I think of what could have happened if I hadn't heard her scream my name. If I hadn't found them…

I try to suck in air, but my lungs won't work. I'm almost sure my heart has stopped beating.

I stare at Rory in wonder, overcome with that soft whispering of a truth that first struck me last night and has been growing louder all day. One I'm pretty fucking sure quite a few other people have noticed too. It's that truth that slid between our mouths when she kissed me last night, that charged between us when we talked this morning. The one that knocked me on my ass this afternoon. That drove me to check out her past on social media like a fucking obsessed chick would do.

The one that rocked me with an unfamiliar combination of deep sadness and dread at the thought that I could have fucked things up for good. Fucked up being something more than friends. The one that allowed me to blind myself with jealousy when I should have realized what was fucking happening right in front of my face.

The one that makes me watch her now, consumed with regret, guilt, and longing, and has me at a loss for what to do next. She's been through enough, and the last thing she needs is for me to add to her emotional stress. But tonight could have been avoided if I hadn't been so damn distracted by my own jealousy. And, I realize, I just can't do this with her. Not like this. I've never felt this way about a girl before, and I can't pretend it's just a casual hookup. I won't pressure her for something she doesn't want, but if she does want me, then I need to know it's just us. That I won't be seeing her in any other guy's arms, even though it seems ridiculous, considering her distrust of men, and people in general.

And suddenly that truth is no longer a soft whispering. It's a larger than life, all-consuming thing, taking a permanent hold of my heart, digging its roots up around my throat, down through my gut, and every other part of me. It no longer whispers, instead, it's screaming so loudly I wonder if others can hear its desperation to be heard.

But I need to fucking think. I need to figure out what the right thing to do is. What to say to her, how to say it. I need to clear my head. But I can't fucking leave here, it's a goddamned crime scene.

I'll need to give my statement and then go walk for a while, and think things through. And though I now know the truth with a certainly that overwhelms me, I don't know if telling Rory I'm fucking in love with her is the best thing to do right now. Especially tonight.

For now I should just apologize, for all of it, and pray that she can forgive me. I pray that she doesn't shut me out, that she lets me take care of her. I'll tell her that simple, life-changing truth when it's the right time. After we talk about where we stand. Not tonight. Definitely not tonight.

****

I
laugh at myself. As it turned out, I couldn't keep my own word. I told her barely an hour later, for all the good it ended up doing me. I never could have guessed that only a few weeks later, we wouldn't even be speaking.

Balto stands there proudly atop his mount, mocking me. He hasn't changed a stitch, but here I am, utterly different, and hopelessly lost. I wonder if he's seen my parents together. If the stupid statue knew my parents were fucking seeing each other before I did. There's a good chance they would have come here; they liked this spot too.

I walk west through the park before I look for a spot to have a drink. I need to get Rory out of my head. My goddamned parents too. I accomplished what I'd set out to do today, and now that I know my father is going to help me with Rory, I can breathe a little bit more deeply. But not by much. Because the small amount of stress that was relieved, was replenished and then some by all of the new information I'm having to process right now.

Everyone else seems to be moving forward in their lives, but I'm just stuck in some past I'm not even sure was ever real. But it's time I move on. And tonight is as good a time as any to start. So I tell myself, tonight, I will start trying to accept things as they are. I'll get drunk, and hook up with some random girl. Remind myself what life was like before Rory ever panicked her way into it.

Chapter Eleven

T
he
stupid music in the stupid bar is thumping and bumping, the excitable underage patrons all in an exceptionally celebratory mood. One more week of school and they will all be free for the summer. And then free in earnest as everyone starts at their respective colleges—the beginning of their new, adult lives.

But none of it feels even remotely freeing to me.

It's only been two weeks but it feels like a lifetime. He doesn't talk to me. He doesn't even look at me. He isn't unkind, he just no longer seems to care about me either way. I know it's the right thing—that it's the only way we can move on and hopefully find our way back to our friendship… eventually. But that knowledge doesn't make it sting any less.

I feel the weight of my invisible chains in every aching cell of my body. Whoever said that
time heals all wounds
must have been on something. Because I know about wounds, and healed or not, some wounds scar. Some wounds kill.

One miserable day rolls into the next and instead of gradually dulling, the hopelessness just snowballs. Carl and Tina have been attentive, thoughtful friends, but still, I couldn't feel more alone. It's not that I don't appreciate them—I do.

But these past two weeks have been miserable.

It is pitiful and it is pathetic. I am
that girl.
The one who is just utterly lost without the guy she loves. It's shameful, but I can't find it in myself to care.

But Sam is getting on with his life. He's been completely avoiding me in the process, but this is me not being selfish. This is me protecting someone I love. And as much as it hurts, I can't regret that.

Robin's lawyer has made a motion to dismiss the charges and the whole trial could be over before it ever begins as a result. My mother has been working closely with the prosecutor down in Miami, but I fear we will all soon discover just how far small town politics can reach.

I already know what to expect.

It's not that I think they'll dismiss all of the charges outright. There's too much evidence for that to happen. But this is the beginning of the negotiation. They will be at least partially successful, and it's likely that it will be the lesser charges that will stick. Surprisingly enough, it's the violation of my restraining order that's most damning, so I can only hope that he doesn't weasel his way out of that one. But whatever the outcome, the Forbeses will use it to leverage a plea deal, and they'll come to some kind of agreement. And it won't be anything near what he deserves, or anything the legal resources at his disposal won't resolve with some community service or probation.

I'm pretty sure Sam, as a witness, and probably Tucker too, would have been contacted and informed. But if either of them have, they haven't shown any signs of it. The truth is, even now, even after he's made it clear where we stand, I'm surprised Sam doesn't care. I get that he's angry with me and that he's moving on and whatever. And as much as the thought of it stings, I still believed that he at least cared about me as a friend.

And as such, I'd have thought that maybe he'd have some feelings on the matter. And maybe say something. Or do something. But he hasn't. In fact, he wasn't even in school today. According to Tuck, Sam came into the city early to look at the apartment he and his cousin, Thea, will be sharing come August.

And it's good that he's looking forward to the future. I want that for him. And I wanted him carefree and happy, removed from this bullshit with Robin and my father. He's already gotten into it with each of them. So I guess it's good that he's over it. Over me. I wince at the pain slicing through my chest at the thought, but it's a sensation I've become accustomed to. It's what I signed up for, after all.

I follow Lily to the bar where we order two vodka-sodas. I start sipping mine in big gulps, wondering if, if I drink enough of it, it might dull some of this perpetual ache gripping my chest.

And then I sense Sam. It always happens. Like I've had a built-in radar for him from our very first meeting. My gaze inexorably slides his way and zeroes in on where he sits no more than ten feet away, in a corner booth, with Dave, Marshall, Andrew, and two hot girls.

And they really are hot. Not
pretty
really. Certainly not beautiful. But they're sexy. Curvier than I could ever be in every place guys like their women curvy, and dressed to show off those particular features, they're easily keeping the attention of Dave, Marshall, and Sam. It seems like he's engaged in conversation, though I can only see the back of his head. And I'm grateful for that. Because I'm not sure I could bear the sight of those midnight blues looking at either of those sexy girls with any level of interest.

A swell of grief washes over me. I hate feeling like this. Hate the idea of self-pity. It seems so dramatic and all
woe is me.
But I
do
feel bad for myself. I feel bad
period
.

I slurp up the last of my drink and order another. I glance back at the boys' table. Andy sits on the aisle, his back to the group, making eyes at Tina, who stands around with Carl, Lily and me.

They are being considerate. Because if everything was normal, we would all be sitting together in the same booth, but because of me, my girl friends aren't sitting with their boyfriends out of solidarity.

Sam and I have complicated everything.

But honestly, it doesn't even help. The bar is small enough that I can still see him, can hear the louder parts of his conversation with those girls. And I can hear in the slurry lilt of Sam's voice that he seems to have resorted to the same crutch as I have in my vodka sodas.

One of the hot girls giggles uncontrollably at something Sam said that I couldn't make out. It sends a swarm of red fire ants through my bloodstream. The alcohol is making its way through me, but instead of dulling the edge, it's doing the opposite.

"Oh yeah?" Sam's low, slow, inebriated timbre reaches my searching ears. I detect his flirtatious tone and it boils my blood, agitating the fire ants even more.

He knows I'm
right here.
He can't go find some girl to pick up after I leave?

I'm surprised at his gall and my breathing becomes fast and shallow in my growing anger. I am not panicking and I am not afraid, but I'm not exactly in control of myself either.

That slurping sound returns and I realize my glass is once again empty. The bartender is already serving me another before I can even ask for it. He shoots me an amused smile and I blink at him for a moment. Is my seething that obvious?

"You might wanna slow down," bartender says, "whoever pissed you off, you're not gonna get revenge by drinking yourself sick."

Lily, the only one not too engrossed in their own conversation or distant flirting with their boyfriend to have even noticed the bartender's observation, starts laughing. I glance at her and recognize the distinct signs of her flirtatious interest. She bats her eyelashes then flips her hair. I look back at the bartender.

He's good looking. I hadn't even noticed that he's good looking. I was too caught up in Sam and what he's doing.

"I can handle it," I reply with far more confidence than I actually feel. I hope I'm right. But I haven't taken a pill, so even if I get a little more drunk than I should, I doubt I'll get sick.

The bartender flashes me a wide, white smile. "I'm sure you can," he replies, but I can tell he's just humoring me, "but maybe let's throw in a glass of water before your next, huh? It's on the house," he jokes.

I force a halfhearted smile and grumble a cursory "thanks". Somewhere in my fuming, fuzzy mind I know he's just being responsible and kind, but I can't help but feel like he's mocking me. Like I'm just a stupid little girl who can't handle her liquor, who doesn't belong.

The shrill, tinny voice of the girl who obviously has her slutty, hot-girl sights on Sam could probably be heard by dogs blocks away. "I bet I know how to cheer you up," she says, her words crawling with suggestion. She doesn't even bother being coy. She just serves herself up to him. Not that I can really blame her.

At least I know that Sam is better than all of this. A guy like him doesn't have to settle for some easy girl coming onto him like a skanky predator. He could have any girl in the bar, in any bar really.

And then Sam's voice rings out again over the din. "I don't know, honey, it'd be a lot of work, I don't know if you're up for it." But there's a challenge in his words. He isn't discouraging her—he's doing the exact opposite.

And it's more than I can take.

What kind of insensitive asshole is he?! He knows I'm right here! He knows how I feel about him!

Surely
Cap
has no trouble getting laid, so why the fuck can't he wait until the girl who is utterly heartbroken over him isn't standing within fucking earshot?!

I'm vaguely aware of Carl and Tina exchanging a nervous glance and it reminds me that I'm not exactly being coy either, what with my deep scowl and the steam that is probably shooting out of my freaking ears.

"Oh I'm up for it, and I'm pretty sure I can get you, um,
up
for it," the shrill, slutty, voice replies.

I cringe.

But Sam chuckles. Fucking
chuckles
! And it's
my
chuckle--the one he used to give
me
when I said something he found cute or funny.

I actually, literally, growl.

I've covered the space between the bar and their table without ever having made a conscious decision to confront him. I'm only vaguely aware that all six pairs of eyes are on me as my own eyes shoot daggers at the source of my pain.

Sam.

"If  you're gonna go fuck her, then just go fuck her already!" My voice is a bitter screech that I barely even recognize. The shocked expression on Sam's face quickly morphs to consternation, but I can't stop my words. "Does the whole fucking bar have to listen to you spittin' your stupid fucking game?!" I accuse.

"What the fuck do you care?" Sam replies, visibly working to keep his cool. But he was already pissed at me, he has been for weeks, so his tone doesn't surprise me. His words, however, make no sense at all. Because he didn't tell me to mind my own business or to get lost. He asked what I care about it, and that makes zero fucking sense, because he knows very well why I care, so I can't understand his choice of words. But instead of asking about them, or actually answering his question, I opt for the least mature route possible.

"No one wants to listen to you flirtin' your ass off with some stupid slut! Get a fuckin' room!" My accent is just out of fucking control, but I am drunk, and my words flood out before I can muster the focus to control them, or the accent flowing through them.

The hot-girl slut huffs indignantly, and out of the corner of my Sam-tunnel-vision I can tell she's glaring at him, willing him to defend her, and vaguely I wonder if he will. The thought terrifies me. Because as hard as it is to hear his flirting, I don't think I could physically handle him actually defending another girl to me. My heart couldn't take that.

Sam's eyes are glazed, half hooded in their boozy haze, and I've never seen him drunk like this before. He can barely hold his head up straight. Or maybe it's my own intoxicated vision that makes him appear so wobbly. It's probably a combination of both. And one thing is certain—it's a bad combination.

"If we want to get a room, we'll get a fucking room," Sam's voice is laced with hostility, but it's like his words have nothing to do with the girl included in the
we
. Like she's not even there. He's glaring at me. Glaring
into
me. As if he can see that his words have sliced open my chest and laid bare my broken, bloody heart for all to see.

My mouth opens to spew some biting retort, but whatever my words were meant to be, they don't come. I choke on them instead, and finally register Carl's grip around my wrist, her other hand gentling my shoulder, urging me to retreat.

"Rory…" Carl's tone says it all. That I am embarrassing myself. That at some point, when the alcohol wears off, and the cold light of day shines it's unforgiving light on tonight's confrontation, I will regret this dearly.