Chapter 10: Bide: Chapter 8

I’m exhausted.

My legs feel like lead as I scale the stairs to my apartment, my fingers numb as they fish for keys. It’s been a long ass day, packed with classes and the longest work shift known to man, and I want nothing more than to curl up on the sofa with a preferably cold and necessarily alcoholic beverage. And food. Lots of food; a day survived on only a couple of sneaked granola bars and a measly apple is not a day worth living.

So, when I shove open the front door and find Kate splayed on the sofa cradling a mug, another one and a bottle of wine set on the coffee beside her propped-up feet, I almost weep. I can’t find the energy to shed my coat or shoes, or even greet my roommate. I just kick the door shut and collapse beside her, my head propped on her lap.

Kate doesn’t spare me a glance. She just leans forward and fills up the spare mug before transferring it to my greedy hands. “Want some dinner?”

I groan through a mouthful of rosé. “

.”

My head hits the sofa cushion with a thump as Kate stands, pausing to yank my shoes off on her way to the kitchen. Shuffling upright, I wriggle out of my coat, replacing it with a fluffy blanket just in time for Kate to return and place a plate piled high with steaming leftover Chinese takeout on my lap. My thanks is muffled by a forkful of mapo tofu, the spicy, salty flavor coaxing another groan out of me. After a solid ten minutes of stuff, chew, swallow, repeat, my hanger recedes enough for me to notice someone missing. “Where’s Mils?”

Kate’s grimaces answer my question before her mouth does. “She has that thing with Dylan.”

Way to ruin my appetite. “The gala?”

Kate nods, and I grunt. I don’t know how I forgot about the fucking gala. Amelia’s been dreading it all week, therefore I’ve been dreading it all week. Or, more accurately, loathing it. I’m not a fan of anything that riddles my best friend with anxiety, even less so when it involves that dickhead.

I know Kate shares the same sentiment; she sure as shit isn’t obsessively checking the time on her phone for the fun of it. “She should be home soon.”

“Alone, hopefully.”

“Amen.”

Not long passes before it’s proven that, for once, something upstairs listened to our prayers. But the relief I feel at the sight of Amelia creeping into our apartment alone, heels in her hand while her small body shivers—I shouldn’t be surprised Dylan didn’t offer up his jacket—dies as quick as it’s born. The moment she fails to acknowledge our joint greeting, shoulders tense and head down with her hair falling like a shield, I know something’s wrong, and a loud sniffle proves me right.

“Mils?” I thwart her attempt to rush past us. “You okay?”

It’s like the two words break her. Shivering morphs into trembling, sniffling into strangled sobs. In a split second, Kate and I are by her side, simultaneously gasping when I brush red curls aside and reveal what our friend tried to hide.

She’s terrifyingly pale, her expression alarmingly blank despite the tears seeping from her eyes, but that’s not what worries me. Not what causes red-hot rage to boil my blood.

No, that would be the blood seeping from the cut on her lip. The matching one on her temple, too, and the nasty looking bruises staining her skin.

“Amelia,” Kate darts, the question I know she’s about to ask needless, “who did this?”

We both know the answer. Without a shadow of a doubt, we know, but we need verbal confirmation. And we get it. One word, one name, one whispered, broken sob that I don’t know what to do with. Or, more accurately, I don’t know what to do with.

I know Dylan is an asshole. I know he’s a misogynistic, entitled, handsy creep who doesn’t deserve to exist in the same space as Amelia. But this…

I’m going to kill him.

I am actually going to kill him.

Like she can hear my train of thought, Amelia grips my wrist, hazy, unfocused eyes scaring the shit out of me. “It was an accident,” she whispers quietly, emotionlessly, and I’m not sure who she’s trying to convince.

“No,” it’s hard, so damn hard, to keep my tone gentle and even when I want to fucking scream, “it wasn’t.”

Amelia blinks, so terrifyingly absent and heartbreakingly confused. She flinches when Kate rests a hand on her shoulder, again when she softly says, “Amelia, you need to go to the hospital.”

And, out of everything, the thing that worries me the most?

Amelia doesn’t protest.

She doesn’t fight us as we hurry her to the car, carefully maneuvering her into the backseat. She’s silent the whole drive. She doesn’t acknowledge our arrival at the emergency room, nor the nurse who points us toward the waiting room and leads her away. She disappears without a word, and while Kate settles in an uncomfortable plastic chair, my body refuses to do the same.

Instead, I explode.

All the insults and threats I’ve been bottling up since the moment she stumbled home come out in one long barrage. Shouting and swearing. Threatening things I really shouldn’t be saying in public or in a hospital, things involving very vivid methods of emasculation, ignoring all the alarmed looks I receive because if they knew, they’d agree.

When I burn myself out, I throw myself on the seat beside Kate, crossing my arms to stop my fidgeting hands. “Kate-”

Her hands lands on my knee. “I know.”

“She said it was an .”

“I know.”

Since those words left her mouth, my mind has been racing trying to figure out why she would say that. Why she would make excuses, try to defend someone who left her bruised and bleeding. And I hate the only viable answer I find.

A sense of defeat washes over as I slump in my seat, head falling to Kate’s shoulder. “She’s gonna take him back.”

A beat of silence passes before fingers fold around mine, squeezing as a source and in search of comfort. “I know.”

It took me days but I’ve done it.

After hours of coaxing and pleading and promising sweet treats, I got Amelia out of the house.

Claggy, damp sand sinks beneath my feet as I plod towards the sea, Amelia’s clammy hand in mine. Salty sea air soothes my lungs as I suck in a deep breath. “See?” I glance at the girl beside me, offering an encouraging smile. “Isn’t this better?”

Amelia looks skeptical. “What’re we doing here?”

I don’t reply as I drop her hand, turning to scan the long expanse of beach behind us. It’s empty this close to nightfall with such overcast weather, most people in their right mind avoiding the choppy, gray ocean.

We, on the other hand, are doing the opposite.

One more breath to steel myself and I whip my t-shirt over my head, discarding it on the sand before I can second guess myself. Wariness overcomes Amelia’s expression as her gaze darts to my barely-lace-covered chest. “What are you doing?”

Choosing silence again, I grin as I wriggle out of my skirt, a flutter of nerves erupting in my belly. I’m not much of an exhibitionist but neither is Amelia and that is exactly the point.

In nothing but my underwear, I brace my hands on my hands and pin Amelia with a no-bullshit stare. “You know, the most adventurous thing you’ve done since I’ve known you is cut your hair.”

Amelia flushes, tucking a newly shorn lock behind her ear—no prizes for guessing who insisted she keep it long because he preferred it that way. “What does that have to do with you stripping on the beach?”

“You let other people dictate your life.” One person, specifically. “You worry too much and you don’t live enough.” Unclasping my bra, I let it drop to the ground, quickly crossing my arms to cover my bare boobs before the brisk wind can assault them. “So, let’s fucking live a little.”

I knew she would hesitate. I can almost see her brain cycling through all the reasons to say no. And even though the one she chooses is exactly what I expected, it still leaves me flushed with anger. “Dylan wouldn’t like it.”

Because that is still something that matters.

Because, like I knew she would, she took him back. It only took three days for the incessant phone calls and the chocolates she doesn’t even like and the shitty bouquets of roses to work. For Amelia to forgive him, welcome him back into a life and a relationship he will never deserve, and no amount of pleading on mine or Kate’s behalf could change her mind.

And the most awful part is that even though I don’t agree with her decision, I get it.

I understand what it’s like to be influenced by the fear of not being believed.

When she prods at her temple where the physical reminder of what could’ve been so much worse lives, one of Ma’s many mantras comes to mind. One that would arise whenever either of us had a particularly bad day and green tea just wasn’t cutting it, so we’d brave the nearest beach solely to spend a few hours soaking in the sea air, watching the surfers, occasionally daring the shallows.

“Saltwater cleanses.” Sweat, ocean, or tears, and the former or latter simply aren’t enough. “Now, hurry the fuck up before my nips freeze off.”

It’s almost in slow motion, the movement of Amelia’s hands towards the hem of her hoodie. They dither there for a long moment, face twisted in contemplation, before, too quick to second guess, she whips it over her head, revealing nothing underneath, her sweats quick to follow.

Before she can change her mind, I lock our hands together and take off running toward the ocean, only having to drag her a little. Our shrieks echo through the air as frigid water smacks against our shins but I keep going, even when my stomach contracts as the breath is knocked out of me. I don’t stop until each lulling wave laps at the napes of our neck, sending chills down our spines.

“What now?” Amelia yelps. Bobbing in the water, her skin is pale and her body shivers but her eyes, they’re bright. Excited. A far cry from the frail thing that’s been cowering in our apartment for the past week.

Finally, she looks alive.

Tilting my head back until it dips beneath the water, I let the cold and the silence take over. Amelia does the same, a ragged breath escaping us in unison. “Just breathe.”

I jolt awake to the sound of banging.

Blinking groggily, I sit up slowly, careful not to disturb the redhead curled up beside me, buried under a mountain of blankets. We stayed at the beach long after sunset, only leaving the water when Amelia became convinced that every shadow or stray current was a shark trying to snack on her legs. In sandy, soggy clothes, we shivered our way back to the apartment, freezing our asses off but smiling like fools.

Amelia fell asleep smiling, too. Wet-haired and stuffy-nosed and bone-chilled but smiling.

I plan to keep her that way as long as possible, even if it means going to jail for maiming the man attempting to break down our front door.

Even before I haul my ass out of bed and check the peephole to confirm the culprit, I have a warning prepped. “Get the fuck out of here Dylan.”

He does no such thing, instead pressing his ugly face closer to the door, insipid eyes glaring. “Let me see her.”

“No fucking way.“

Fists slam against the door viciously, so loud I’m forced to open it a crack—safety chain firmly in place—just to stop the brutal noise. The last thing I want is Amelia waking up and wandering out here.

“Luna,“ Dylan warns, shoulders square as he straightens to his full height in an attempt at intimidation, and maybe it would work if he didn’t only have three measly inches on me. If I didn’t already know he’s a coward who slams car doors in girls’ faces for fun. If I hadn’t long since put a lock and key on the part of my brain that allows fear over unworthy opponents.

“Dylan,“ I spit back. “Leave or I swear to God I’ll rip your fucking balls off.”

“You think you’re such tough shit.” He scoffs, baring his teeth like the dog he is, breath stinking of whiskey and cigarettes. “Let me see my girlfriend or you’ll regret it. That’s a promise.”

“Pretty sure the cops call that a threat.” When his mouth opens to retort, I cut him off by holding up my phone, showing 911 already dialed with my thumb hovering over the call button. “You have three seconds before I call them.”

I don’t wait to see if he makes the wrong decision; I slam the door, triple-check the locks, and pray to whatever high power exists. Jaw aching with how hard I clench my teeth, I glare through the peephole, palms braced as if that could possibly stop it from caving in if he decided he wanted it to. I don’t relax, not even a little bit, until the fist hovering mid-air falls achingly slowly. I wait until he’s completely disappeared from sight before moving to the window, hands shaking as they nudge the curtains aside so I can watch as he climbs in his car and drives away.

“Who was at the door?”

Swearing under my breath, I spin to find Amelia lurking in her bedroom doorway, heels of her palms rubbing at squinted eyes. “Pitbull,” I lie, our drug-dealing lookalike neighbor the first thing that comes to mind. “There’s a car boxing him in and he wanted to know if it was us.” With one last peek outside, I let the curtains full shut and shuffle toward Amelia, herding her back into her room with an arm around her shoulder. “Let’s go back to sleep.”