A gasp-like whimper escapes her. I’ve never seen her look at me like this before.

I close my eyes, dropping my forehead to hers. “And don’t ask me what that means, Corabelle, because I don’t have a goddamn clue. All I know is that I’d kill that son-of-a-bitch over and over again just to keep you safe—hell, I’d kill a hundred men if I thought that would chase away your nightmares and bring you peace. And I know how fucked that sounds, trust me, I know, but I can’t let you go another minute feeling guilty or responsible or weak. You’re a warrior.”

Jesus Christ, I’m spouting out these raw, unfiltered truths like I’m delirious, drugged—out of my mind drunk.

But I’ve never felt more sober or clear-headed.

Or terrified.

Cora is gaping at me, speechless.

“Ah, shit… say something, Cora.” Our foreheads are still melded together, our noses touching. I feel her peppermint breath against my mouth as I close my eyes, waiting for her to tell me that I’m the idiot.

Cora is silent for a long time. The woman who has always been quick to bite back, sling her insults at me, use her words as ammo, is uncharacteristically quiet. Her hands are on my chest, one right atop my heart, and they fist the material of my shirt as her leg entwines with mine. Our bodies are close, too close, our groins almost touching, and my hands are cupping her jaw like she is something to be cherished.

Why isn’t she talking?

Cora finally intakes a long, unsteady breath, then inches down the bed until her face is smooshed against the front of my chest. “Sing to me.”

For a moment, I’m brought back to that basement. I travel back to those dark November nights when I could hardly see her through the black hole between us. It killed me that I couldn’t touch her. I couldn’t reach out and grab her or hold her in my arms, bring her comfort, or whisper into her ear that it was going to be okay.

My voice was all she had.

I sing Hey Jude as I cradle the back of her head with one hand, feeling her tiny hairs tickle my chin with every breathy note. We fall asleep curled up together, clinging to one another, heartbeats aligned, but this time there are no sleeping pills. There is no alcohol. There are no vices or excuses or things to blame except ourselves and the confusing feelings that have burrowed inside our hearts.

And while there are still so many questions swimming around my brain, I finally feel like I have an answer to one of them.

I know what I have to do.

Chapter Twenty

F I F T E E N Y E A R S E A R L I E R

Mr. Adilman is such a douche-nozzle.

I flick the eraser side of my pencil up and down against the blank page of my notebook with a giant yawn, resting my head on my opposite hand. Mr. Adilman is prattling on about some book we were supposed to read as he simultaneously checks out Miss French when she stops in to give him a message about a new student. Gross.