Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

BELLA

" I 'm so sorry," Emily murmurs, her hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea. She blows on it and then takes a slow sip. "I don't know why I always choose such terrible people. I don't mean to."

"It's not your fault," I say quickly, finding it difficult to focus.

I can't get that image of Matt out of my head, standing there in his dark leather jacket, his eyes wild, blood spattering his face and hands. His chest was rising and falling so fast and hard it was like I could see the leather of his jacket outlining the shape of his heaving muscles.

I've been called fat before and a bitch, but I never dreamed anybody would ever stand up for me. A guilty feeling hit me as I stared at him, even when I acknowledged the bloody and broken man on the floor.

Good. He deserves it. Matt did that for me .

"I'm just glad you're safe," I go on.

"Do you think your friend will get in trouble?" Emily asks.

"Do you think he should? You saw what he did to that guy."

"That douche ," Emily spits. "Bella, seriously, I think if you two didn't show up, I seriously think …" She lays her mug down, her hands trembling. "I think he would've pushed it all the way if you know what I'm saying. I think, right now, he'd be—" She cuts herself off with a shudder.

I rush to her side when she bursts into tears. She's suffered too much in her life. First, all the crap with her dad, and now this.

"Why do the psychos always pick me ?" she sobs, burying her face in my chest. "It's always been that way since I was a kid."

" None of that was your fault," I say passionately. "Don't say that. Don't even think it. You did nothing wrong. You never have. You're a good person, Emily. You deserve happiness."

She wraps her arms around me, crying for a long time. At some point, I sense a change in the way she sobs. It's as though she's venting all the agony of her past and childhood. I do my best to hold her and help her let go of whatever agony she can. Just like we always do—one piece at a time.

Rolling over, I readjust my blanket as though that will make sleep possible. It's one of those nights where I know I won't drift off, no matter how heavy my eyes get or how many times I toss and turn.

I grab my phone and check the time. It's just gone midnight.

Moving to mine and Matt's text threat, I bite my lip, that image of him flashing into my mind again. Tall and broad and looking fierce as a wild animal. Surely, there's something wrong with me if I enjoyed what happened even a bit. Yet I'm not sure I can deny it, either.

Screw it. I need to rip off this Band-Aid, or I'll never be able to sleep.

Is Sofia still interested in classes? I send, hoping this doesn't seem like my only concern is money. What else am I supposed to say? Hey, Mr. Crush, just so you know, when you beat that guy's ass, I actually liked it in a really messed-up way. But it scared the hell out of me, too.

Sitting up, I remind myself that there's a big chance I won't get a reply today. Then I see three dots on the screen, telling me he's writing a message. Far too much excitement thrums through me as I stare at the screen.

Do you still want her as a student? he replies.

Of course! She's making fantastic progress.

That's not what I'm asking, he replies. What I need to know is if I turn up with her, will you be able to stomach being in the same room with me after what you saw?

So he's going to bring it out into the open. Then that leaves me with no choice but to reply. I take a moment, considering how best to phrase it. I still need to be cautious. Just because he's asking this—and just because he defended me—it doesn't mean I should read too much into it.

Everybody loses their temper.

No, he replies, and somehow, I can hear his tone turning fierce. Don't give me the easy way out. Don't dance around it. We both know what happened. I went savage. We both know how shocked you were. I saw it in your face. If money is an issue, I'll pay you ten thousand dollars for your honest opinion.

I EARN money! I type fast, outrage bubbling in me. I don't want or need handouts, ever. This isn't about money. I won't lie. I need cash, but I won't compromise who I am for it.

I add the last part, so he knows I'm being honest and not playing him for a fool. It feels crucial to me for some reason—not lying to him, ever.

Forget that part, then , he replies. Just tell me the truth …

Truthfully, I was shocked. I didn't know how to react. Honestly, part of me enjoyed somebody standing up for me for once. People have called me stuff like that so many times. I guess I resigned myself to it, but when you made that asshole bleed, it was like a relief .

I pause, rereading my words, wondering if he's going to think there's something wrong with me. Maybe I don't have to worry about that anymore. Maybe there's something wrong with us both. I click send .

That's the last thing I expected you to say, his reply reads, making me wonder if I've revealed too much of my real feelings. From how you looked at me, I thought you would say you were disgusted. These days, people are sickened by violence. We live so distantly from it. Most people are disconnected entirely from even the idea of it. To act violently, to them, in any context, is unacceptable.

Well, maybe I'm just cynical , I type, knowing sleep will be a long way off now. There's no chance of it. Adrenaline pumps through my body as I replay what happened.

You're too young to be cynical.

I'm not THAT young. His labeling me this way pisses me off for some reason. Twenty isn't young, not when you've spent your whole life living on the edge, not when you've had to rise to the occasion and do what's right by your own parent.

I shift in the blankets, feeling them cloy at me. The idea that he sees me as some na?ve, younger, oh-so-innocent woman is just unacceptable.

Still, it's a rare perspective for somebody your age.

You've seen my neighborhood. You've seen the graffiti and heard the music blasting. You've probably even seen people dealing drugs. Or you will if you keep coming. Sometimes, a local wannabe hero will challenge one of the local tough guys. When these local tough guys beat the hell out of them, what happens? Nothing. Red tape. Police interviews that go nowhere. Or, if they are arrested, they get a slap on the wrist. THAT'S why I can't be sad about what you did.

But you looked disgusted , he presses.

It's almost like you want me to be disgusted , I reply.