She shakes her head. “Yeah, everyone has issues, I know, but mine are worse, remember? No matter how strong you think I am, I’m still—“
“You’re still my Rory. And I fucking love you.” Doesn’t she get how earth-shattering that is? “If I’m so damn amazing then don’t I deserve to be with the girl I’m fucking in love with?” God, as if this happens every fucking day.
I calm myself, watching her carefully. I need to make her understand. I brush her still-damp hair behind her ear. “I know what I want, Ror. Maybe even more so because it’s not something I’ve ever wanted before – something I ever even thought I could want. But whatever you say, whatever you want, whatever you decide – it isn’t going to change how I feel.
“I’m not just going to move on and find someone else because you still think you don’t deserve this – that you’re not normal. Because what you don’t get is that you’re right, you’re not normal, but not because you have fucking anxiety. Because you’re better than normal, Ror, you’re fucking incredible. You’re beautiful and smart and strong and loyal. You’re fucking everything to me. If you don’t want this – me, then that’s one thing, but if you do… don’t let him win, baby. After everything… you deserve to be happy, Ror, we deserve it.”
She stares up at me and I hold my breath, praying that I’m getting through to her. Because she can decide what she wants, but it won’t change a damned thing for me.
Her eyes water and spill over, but I wipe her tears before they even make it to the bridge of her nose.
“I still think you deserve better,” she whispers, but she’s wavering, and I take a step forward until she’s right up against me. Better. It’s laughable.
“There’s no such thing, Ror,” I tell her and then my mouth is on hers.
She kisses me back with the love she’s already confessed, and there’s a new kind of connection between us – an honest one, one where neither of us holds anything back, where we prove our words with our lips.
I scoop her up and carry her into the bedroom, setting her gently on the bed. She's staying with me again tonight. She's staying with me every fucking night.
Until we go back home in a few days.
It's a bittersweet thought. Because although we won't have the freedom awarded by vacation and hotel rooms, she's coming back to Port Woodmere as my girlfriend, and the idea of it fills me with a new kind of exhilaration. Of contentment. And I have no memory of a time when I was happier than I am in this moment. Even as a child. Especially as a child.
It makes me feel guilty. After the night we’ve had, after the night Rory had, joy is the last thing I should feel, but as I shove off my jeans and climb into bed with her, it's impossible to deny my intense satisfaction.
Rory snuggles against me, as if she knows just as well as I do that it's exactly where she's meant to be, and sighs. I trace the delicate lines of her back with the tips of my fingers, and wait for her breathing to even out, for her to fall into sleep. But her fingers reach for the hem of my tee shirt – the one I changed into after I cleaned up all of her bastard ex's blood – and she peels it off of me. I let her. I've never slept in a tee shirt anyway.
But then she reaches for her tank top, and I stop her. Because I'm already battling a serious hard-on just lying in bed with her, and I'd rather mitigate my own torment tonight. Her eyebrows rise in question.
"Let's not test my self-restraint any more than we have to, yeah?" I say lightly. Because after what she endured tonight, she needs to be held and comforted, and her proximity incites a hell of a lot more than a desire to fucking hold her, and that's with her clothes between us.
"I didn't ask you to restrain anything," she replies, and her voice has grown breathy – a tone I recognize immediately, and it doesn't help my arousal. She pulls her shirt up more, and I tighten my grip on her wrist to stop her.
"Baby, you've been through hell tonight," I remind her. "You're hurt." My free hand reaches up and grazes the small bandage on her cheek, the darkening bruise beneath it. It makes my chest hurt.
Rory stares at me a moment. "I just… need to feel your skin against mine."
Well, fuck.
My hand releases her wrist without another thought and she has her tank top over her head and her shorts – my underwear – kicked off of her ankles in less than a second.
Only then does she return to her place in my arms.
She was right, of course. This does feel so much fucking better. The warmth of her skin against mine is life-affirming, reminding me that even through the awful events of tonight, Rory is a survivor, a fighter, and she is here -- she is okay.
But still, it doesn't help the now rock-hard situation in my boxer briefs. I know I'll never fall asleep in this state, but I'll suffer all night if only to give her even an extra ounce of comfort.
"God you're beautiful," I whisper. Everything about her is fucking perfect.
She cuddles into me even more, and presses her face against my neck, whispering her lips softly back and forth against my overheated skin. I shudder beneath her.
"You trying to torture me?" She must be. Because everything she does just turns me on more.
She shakes her head against my neck and I laugh. I kiss her hair, and inhale deeply, savoring the clean scent of her. I should just let her fall asleep. But one thing keeps bothering me.
I glance down at my boxer briefs. Well, maybe two things.
But it was what I overheard in the alley that I can't make sense of.
"What were you talking about with him? What did he ask you that you said yes to – you know, that set him off like that?" I ask tentatively. The last thing I want is to remind her of being attacked only a few hours ago, but I need to know what went down.
Rory hesitates, arousing my suspicion. Whatever it was, it isn't going to make me happy.
"He, uh… he found my scar," she breathes. "He was so damn happy that it did scar – that I had his mark to remind me that I'd always be his no matter what I do…"
I tense beneath her. That fucking bastard. I want to tell her that it isn't his scar, it's hers. It isn't his mark of possession, it's her mark of survival, of courage, but I'm too busy containing my rage.
"He heard me scream for you, you know, when you ran past the alley… he's been following us, Sam, for I don't know how long. Maybe he saw us leave the bar last night… maybe he was even around the hotel." Her breathing grows faster and shallower as she speaks, as if she's only now realizing the implications of the fact that he's been fucking stalking her.
It shoots a ribbon of terror deep into my gut.
While I was thinking about taking a car up to her hometown to find him, he was here, stalking her. My stomach drops at the thought of what would have happened tonight if I hadn't been here. I'm so stupid. The thought that I would consider prioritizing my own need for vengeance over Rory's safety completely sucker punches me.
"He's been fucking following you?" I grit out.
"Us," she corrects. She's right. Seeing us together could have been what set him off – what made him attack her rather than just watch her. It could very well be my fault she had to go through this at all.
"What did he ask you?" I ask again. Because as I ran into that alley, he went from looming and threatening, to slamming her into the wall and strangling her in a millisecond, and it was that one answer, yes, that set it off, I know it.
Rory takes a deep breath, as if she knows I'm not going to like what she has to say. "He asked if anyone else has seen his mark. If you had... if I fucked you even though I belong to him."
"And you told him the truth?" What kind of survival instinct is that?!
"I couldn't bear to deny it, Sam – to give him the satisfaction. Of thinkin' I'd still only been with him, that I still belong to him. I— I couldn't."
I'm transported back to the girl’s bathroom after her fight with Chelsea, when she told me her ex would say she still belonged to him. How I reminded her she said she didn't belong to anyone
. But the hesitance in her voice… she still worries that maybe he might be right.
Well, fuck that.
I haul her to my chest, pressing my lips fiercely to her hair. How can I blame her for wanting to prove otherwise? For wanting him to know that she'll never be his again.
"You're not his, Ror," I promise her. "And nothing he can say or do can ever change that. I'm never going to let him fucking get near you again, I swear to fucking God." I would die first.
Rory kisses me, and it rounds up all of the emotion swirling within me, and I deepen the kiss. Rory reciprocates, climbing on top of me fully. She straddles my erection, and I wonder if she knows what she's doing or if she's clueless as to how much restraint it's taking for me not to roll her over and remind her that she'll never be his again.
Pleasure spikes, and I groan, pulling my mouth from hers. "You're killing me, baby," I tell her, but instead of backing off, she presses her hand to my raging arousal. Motherfucker.
She gasps, and it sends my mind retreating, wanting desperately to give in to the desires of my body instead. "Fuck, Ror..."
"Sam… I need you. I ain't his. I'm yours. And I need you to remind of that, right now," she pleads, and I realize I was wrong about what she needs tonight. She doesn't need gentle comfort; she needs to know she has the power to choose who she gives herself to. And that will never be him.
But it is me, and I'm humbled and honored and so fucking turned on. I roll her onto her back and her legs wrap around my waist. She moans. Yes.
"You. Are. Mine," I promise her between kisses. "You hear me, baby girl? And I'm fucking yours. For as long as you'll have me." And I silently pray that it could be forever.
****
Still Your Best Friend
I twist my wrists against the cold metal of my handcuffs, trying to take deep breaths and calm my still-boiling rage. These past two days have had so many ups and downs I'm fucking dizzy, but one thing is undeniable – it's all my fucking fault.
I don't care that that motherfucking bastard accused me of assaulting him. I did assault him. Just not as he says. But I don't give a shit. Nothing's going to happen to me. I haven't spoken to my father in five years, but he wouldn't let me get into trouble.
But Rory was worried, and I hate having worried her. All I wanted was to distract her. To take her down to the beach, and kiss the life out of her while our friends were out shopping in South Beach.
But her bastard father had to show up and ruin everything.
Maybe I shouldn't have hit him. But he put a hand on Rory. He fucking deserved it.
I picture the horrified look on her face as I was dragged away in these too-tight handcuffs, and I wince. How the hell am I going to make this right?
Why am I always thinking of ways to make things right with her? What the fuck is wrong with me?
It isn't that long before Detective Karanek returns to lecture me on my temper, but I just wait for him to get to the part where he tells me if I'm going to be charged or released.
No charges, he says, and he unlocks the handcuffs.
He escorts me back to where Rory waits, now accompanied by Tucker and Carl. I greet Tuck and give Carl a nod. I stare at Rory, trying to get a read on her. She must be furious with me. She may very well be done with me. Her words from yesterday ricochet through my mind.
Violence is a choice. You made the right one.
Yeah, well, not this time.
She only stares back, giving nothing away, and it's fucking killing me. I want her to yell and scream, to slap me, to tell me I'm an idiot, so I can apologize and beg her forgiveness. Again. But she doesn't.
"You good, man?" Tucker asks.
I nod.
"Good, let's get the fuck outta here."
He doesn't have to tell me twice.
We all climb into a taxi, Tucker in the front and Rory sits between Carl and me. We all sit silently. Rory twists her fingers nervously in her lap, never looking up from them. I stare straight ahead, watching her out of the corner of my eye for any sign of what she's feeling.
Eventually I can't take it any more. I lean into her ear. "I'm sorry," I whisper. It's all I can think of to say.
But Rory shakes her head, rejecting it, and it terrifies me. But then she scoots toward me and cuddles against me, dropping her head onto my shoulder, and I feel all the tension leave my body.
She's not mad.
She's incredible.
I slip my arm around her shoulder and pull her even more to my side. I press my lips to her hair, and breathe in her spring break scent. Her eyes close, as if savoring our closeness.
I want to tell her I love her again. I want to hear her say it back. But I can't do that with our friends in the car.
When we arrive at the hotel, I lead Rory upstairs, needing to get her alone. Because even if she's not mad, I still owe her a serious apology.
Once back in our suite, I grab a bottle of water and take a big sip, quenching my dry throat.
"Sam…"
I put down my water, and turn to her. I'm a little put off by the way she shifts nervously from foot to foot. I don't understand her discomfort.
"We need to talk," she murmurs.
No, I need to talk. "I'm so fucking sorry, Ror. I don't know what came over me. Your dad… I just saw red—“
"Sam, I don't wanna talk about my father, okay?" she cuts me off, and it sends a wave of dread through me.
There's something ominous about her tone, and it terrifies me. But whatever it is, I will fix it. I will fix us. Because I fucking love her. And I will do anything for her.
"I can't do this," she chokes out.
"What do you mean?" I ask her carefully.
She takes a deep breath as if to steady her nerves. She waves between our bodies. "This. Us. I'm sorry, Sam. So sorry, but I— I just cant."
It hits me like a wrecking ball. She's breaking up with me.
"You're serious?" That's my response?! But what can I do? Bully her into staying with me?
"You said…" She trails off, and I hate the way she has to gather her courage. "You said if I couldn't handle it, I could just tell you, and we would go back to bein' friends," she reminds me, her voice tremulous.
"I… I did say that," I reluctantly agree.
"Did you mean it?"
I don't want to have meant it. I want to tell her no, we can't go back to being friends. How could we be friends when I'm fucking in love with her? When she's my entire fucking world.
"I..." Fuck, but I have no choice. "Yeah, of course I meant it, Ror." My voice cracks on her name, and I hate that, too. "But I think you're wrong, Ror. You can handle more than you think, I…” I trail off in defeat, shaking my head in self-reproach. Who am I to tell her what she can handle? Especially when my reason for doing so is entirely selfish.
"Look, I'm gonna go back to New York," she murmurs.
I want to argue. To tell her she shouldn't let a couple of assholes from her past ruin her spring break. But I can't even blame her. These past two days have been too much even for me.
"Okay," I concede. "I'll go with you.
She shakes her head. "No way, Sam—“
"Yes, baby girl. You're not going alone, and whether you want to be with me or not, I'm still your best friend, or is that over too?" I don't mean to sound so accusatory. In fact, I meant to remind her that I'll always be here for her, whatever she decides she can or can't handle. That nothing has changed for me. But instead I sound like the dick that I am.
"My mom can fly down," she whispers, but her lip slides between her teeth, and I wonder what she's hiding.
"That's really not necessary, Ror. If I stay here I'm just going to worry about you. We can fly out together tomorrow, it's only a day or so early anyway." As if I could stay here when she's a thousand miles away.
"Let's just figure it out tomorrow, okay? I just want to take a shower and go to bed." She worries her lip between her teeth again, and it makes me think she's bullshitting me just to get
away from me, and it stings more than anything.
"Okay," I say, because what else can I say?
But I approach her and pull her into a hug. I can't not.
She sags into my embrace, and I inhale her scent and try to memorize the feel of her in my arms, just in case.
"You're not going to sleep here, are you."
"I… I can't, Sam," she replies.
I look down at her. I don't want to release her. I don't want to release her ever. "But what about your dreams?"
God, she could at least allow me to keep her nightmares away, but I already know she won't.
"I have to get used to sleepin' alone again anyway."
"Ror…” I don't know what I'm going to say. I can't think of the words to fix this. To convince her that she can handle us. That she shouldn't leave me. That this is all wrong.
But she pulls out of my hold and mutters a goodbye before walking through the adjoining door to the hotel room she hasn't slept in once, and closing the door.
****
Epilogue
Sam,
My mom got on a plane as soon as I finally called her and told her what happened, so I'm flying back home with her now. I didn't want to wake you to say bye, especially since you didn't really sleep last night. I just wanted to say thank you for everything. For convincing me to come on this trip in the first place, for making sure I had a good time that first night out, for taking care of me when I got sick. Some of the best moments of my life were with you on this trip.
I hate that you think that you're even remotely to blame for what happened last night. The only thing you're responsible for is saving me. I won't ever be able to repay you, Sam. I just hope you know how grateful I am and how much you mean to me.
I'm sorry for how I handled things, or for the fact that I can't handle things. I'm sorry if I hurt you. You'll never know how much. You are still one of my best friends in the world, you've been such a good friend to me, and I love you for that. Please try not to worry about me, I will be fine, I always am, right? Just try to enjoy the rest of your trip. Go to the beach, to the bars, do all the things you should have been doing this whole time, and I'll just see you when you get back.
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