Chapter 25 (1/2)

“He’s an ass,” Kimberly insults Hardin, as if I didn’t already know he’s an asshole. “You know he will come back; he always does,” she says against my hair. I look at her, and I can see the anger and the protective-friend threat in her eyes.

I gently pull myself out of her arms and shake my head. “I’m okay. I’m fine. I’m okay,” I chant, more so to myself than to Kim.

“You aren’t,” she corrects me, tucking a wild strand of my hair behind my ear.

I get a glimpse of Hardin’s hands doing that exact gesture, and I pull away. “I need a shower,” I say to my friend, just before I lose it.

NO, NOT BROKEN. I’m not broken; I’m defeated. What I feel right now is purely defeat. I’ve spent months and months fighting against the inevitable, pushing against a current that was much too big to brave alone, and now I’ve been swallowed into it with no lifeboats in sight.

“Tessa? Tessa, are you okay?” Kimberly yells from the other side of the bathroom door.

“I’m fine,” I manage, the words sounding as weak as I feel. If I don’t feel an ounce of strength, I can attempt to hide some of the weakness.

The water is cold now, it’s been cold for minutes . . . maybe even an hour. I haven’t the slightest idea of how much time I’ve been in here, crouched down on the floor of the shower, my knees folded against my chest, the cold water spraying down on me. It was borderline painful a while ago, but my body went numb a few Kimberly checkups ago.

“You have to get out of that shower. Don’t think I won’t break the door down.”

I don’t doubt for a second that she would do just that. I’ve ignored that threat a few times already, but this time I reach up and turn the shower off. Still, I make no move to leave my spot on the floor.

Seemingly satisfied that the water’s gone off, I don’t hear from Kimberly for another little while. But the next time she pounds, I call back to her, “I’m getting out.”

By the time I stand up, my legs are wobbly and my hair is almost dry. I dig into my bag and go through the mechanics of pulling on my jeans, one leg, then the next, lift arms above head, pull shirt down over stomach. I feel like a robot, and when I wipe my hand across the mirror, I see that I look like one, too.

How many times will he do this? I silently ask my reflection.

No, how many times will I let him do this? That’s the real question.

“No more,” I say out loud to the stranger looking back at me. I will find him, this last time, and only for the sake of his family. I will drag his ass out of London and do what I should have done a long time ago.