Soulmate (Cameron Dallas/ Nash Grier/ Matthew Espinosa/ Hayes Grier)

Chapter 85

I'm sorry.
.
.
.

It's late afternoon now. The sun is slowly setting through the window panes of my living room, orange shadows shifting throughout the walls. We're all sat on the couch, a random movie on the screen; only I'm too busy watching Nash across the room, his eyes concentrated on the scene. His blue orbs are gleaming, filled with curiosity. I want to ask him what he thinks is going to happen, or anything in general. I want to sit next to him, lay my head on his chest, and listen to his heartbeat accelerate when the plot thickens. And I want him to hold me, for I fear that he's the only one who knows how.

After my panic attack today in the bathroom of the bowling alley, I left without telling anyone. They found me half an hour later at a nearby park, another chain tied into a hopeless knot. Only Nash knew what it meant but, to be honest, I didn't even know what it meant. It was like my hands had a mind of their own, reassuring me that this was the only way. I didn't try to fit into it though, I just watched it swing back and forth, creaking slightly in the wind. I admired the way the light gleamed off of the rusty metal, luring me in. I wasn't ready then, and I'm glad, for I would've never seen his beautiful face so concentrated on something he would forget the next morning.

When the movie is finished, Cameron tells me he made an appointment with my therapist tomorrow. I don't react. I hold my stomach as I stand up, Hayes holding out a hand to steady me. I look at him, but he's not smiling like he usually is. I wonder if I took that away from him too. Suddenly, I pull him into a tight hug. He immediately hugs me back, his hand stroking my hair gently as he tells me that it's going to be okay. I don't believe him.

Nash walks me upstairs, and I follow him into his room. He sits on the bed, and I reciprocate his actions. I know he wants to say something by the way his mouth is slightly open, and he stares at me as if all of his thoughts are tangled together.

"Were you trying to kill yourself today?" he asks softly.

"No," I answer.

"Are you lying?" he asks me.

"No," I reply.

He stares at me a little longer, as if my gaze will give up all of my secrets. It won't.

"Have you thought about it?" he asks me.

"No." That's the first lie.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." That's the second.

"And you'll tell me if you ever do?"

"Of course." There's the third.

He pulls me into his arms, and there's something about the feeling of his warmth latching onto you, refusing to let you feel cold and alone. And there's something about the way his arms snake around your waist, gently yet with a strong hold, as if he's afraid of hurting you and letting you go. His head nuzzles into the crook of my neck, and I lean my head against his.

"I'm worried about you," he whispers.

"You always are," I whisper back.

"I'm more worried these days," he says.

"You mean since I was tortured by my own father? That will do the trick."

"How can you joke about this?"

"Because if I don't joke about it, then it becomes real. Then it happened."

"But it did happen. And now it's over," he says.

I look at him.

"Is it?"

And as he slowly drifts off to sleep, I watch the worry leave his face; his forehead de-creasing. But I know I'll never be able to join him in this worry-free sleep, so I lie on my back and stare at my ceiling. I find shapes of rope and pills hidden away in the shadows tonight, so I close my eyes to rid the images from my brain. It doesn't work. I look at Nash next to me once more before taking his hand in mine, intertwining our fingers ever so gently. Instantly, I feel safe. I feel as if his touch alone can fend off all of the monsters running around in my head.