Enamor (Hearts of Stone #3) (17 page)

I've crossed a line with her tonight. There was something in her expression I can't get over. It's the something that brings an edge to her eyes but frays away to her slightly downturned lips.

How did I not see it before?
 

I've been called an asshole more times than I care to count. But tonight, I feel like the biggest piece of shit in the world. All this time, this girl I've been messing with so carelessly has been nursing a shattered heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Julia

A
VA
STANDS
IN
FRONT
of me, dripping pool water onto the hardwood floors of the living room.

"What's wrong?" she asks me again. "Wait—did something happen? Did Giles say something? Did he do something?"

Ava half turns, glancing past the glass doors to the deck where Giles sits on the edge of a chair, staring right at us. At me. There's a silent question in his eyes, of whether he should approach me again or not.
 

"I will kick his fucking ass," Ava growls under her breath.

"No. It's not him. I'm just not feeling this anymore. I want to go home."

I don't need her making a bigger deal out of the whole situation. Humiliation is still drumming away at my skin, making my face warm and my stomach cold all at once.

Ava eyes me carefully, hoping I'm going to spill the truth. What would I say? That Giles turned me to mush under his touch and made me beg for him to screw me, just to gloat under the satisfaction of scoring on the board of a game I didn't realize we were playing? It sounds as pathetic as it feels. And I'm sick and disappointed with myself.

"Okay. But none of us can drive. Are you okay to drive?"

"I'm not sure." My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton balls, but I doubt half a drink is to blame.

"Never mind. Let's just call you a cab. But, Julia? We won't be home until Sunday night, you sure you want to spend the weekend alone?"

Two days to myself sounds like more than I can ask for considering the situation. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

Ava calls me a cab and when I come back from grabbing my backpack of clothes, I catch sight of her questioning Giles. He's rubbing his face again and shaking his head.
 

I'm sure he wants me to think he's sorry.

Around seven thirty in the evening, the cab drops me off at the house. I'm starving. I haven't eaten since lunch. Scavenging the fridge, I find half a burrito wrapped in foil. At first, I don't know if I'll eat it, though I'm sure it belongs to Giles and I feel no guilt eating his food. The asshole deserves worse. It can't be more than a day or two old. I don't remember seeing anything wrapped in foil the other day when I loaded my stuff into the fridge.
 

I heat up the burrito and take an immature pleasure in eating the asshole's food without his permission. Petty, as far as revenge is concerned, but I don't have the energy for anything else.

The next morning, I call in to the restaurant and ask if I can pick up a shift later in the day. I'd rather earn money than spend July Fourth alone in the house.

By five o'clock, I'm calling them back to tell them I'm not sure if I should come into work anymore, since I've spent the past three hours hunched over with awful cramps in my stomach. The manager sounds annoyed until he hears me vomiting into the toilet. I try to muffle the phone in my pants, but when I pull it back to my ear to apologize, he tells me I should absolutely not come in.

I'm shivering in my t-shirt and pajama shorts. My stomach is in my throat, heavy and disgusting. It's the most awful feeling I've experienced in a long time. My head is throbbing and I've camped out by the toilet by the time Ava calls to ask me if I'm sure I don't want to come back today. My response comes in the form of what probably sounds like a bucket full of water splashing into the toilet, if it weren't for the accompanying grunting.

"Jesus, are you sick?"

A groan seems like a sufficient response.

"Do you need to go to the hospital?"

My eyes are closed and I shake my head a few times before remembering she can't see me. "No. No, it's just a stomach bug. I can't…I can't talk right now."

"Wait, Julia, maybe you need—"

I'll never know what Ava thinks I need, because I hang up on her. Not trying to be rude or anything, but puking my brains out is taking precedence over social etiquette.

It's not until forty minutes later, when I've just finished a less aggressive bout of sickness, that I realize what Ava's done.

"Julia?" a low voice calls from somewhere in the house.

No.
No, no, no
.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Giles

I
KNOCK
ON
THE
bathroom door. No answer. I knock again.

"What do you want—" Julia's strained voice cuts off to the sound of a grunt and liquid hitting the toilet bowl.
 

I open the door a crack, then a sliver, until I see her, sitting on the floor, head back against the tiled wall. When the door creaks, her eyes flash open, lock with mine, and panic widens them.

I take a step inside as she lunges forward, closes the toilet lid, and flushes. Her sudden exaggerated movement seems to drain her because she remains slumped over the closed toilet lid.
 

"Go away," she groans, shutting her eyes again.

"Are you okay?"
 

She lets out an impatient breath. "I'm fabulous."

The bathroom is wide enough for me to remain by the door without getting too close. I sag against the opposite wall and rest my hands on my knees, watching her. Her typically olive skin tone is pale and tinged with a sickly hue. Her hair is pulled up into a lopsided bun and there are beads of sweat on her forehead.
 

"Go away," she says again, then buries her face in between her folded arms.

"I can't."

Her voice is muffled. "Why not?"
 

"I told Ava I'd keep an eye on you."

Julia's head snaps to my direction. "Why would she send you?"

"I was the only one not drinking."

She lays her face down again, but keeps her eyes on me. "You do realize I hate you…"

"I know."

"I'd strangle you if I had the energy."

"I don't doubt it."

"I'd throw the toilet brush at you if I could reach it."

"Please don't do that."

She closes her eyes. "Why did you come, Giles?"

"I came because I feel like shit."

She laughs, a fake laugh that lacks energy.

"I'm sorry," I say. She pulls her head up to look at me, but her face is drained of any humor. "I was the biggest asshole," I go on, "and I regret it more than you'll ever believe."

"Whatever," she says. "You got what you wanted, anyway."

I don't have a response to that. The anger in her eyes is aimed at me like a death beam. But I know it's not just me she's mad at. She's mad at herself. She's upset at the noises she let trail from her lips when I touched her. How could my apology make up for that?

"I didn't get what I want," I say. My forearms are resting on my knees and I'm staring at them like I can see scars there, the scars that belong on my mother's arms. "I thought I wanted to end the prank war, but last night, when I realized you were so mad at me you might never talk to me again, I hated the thought of you just disappearing. Moving out. I hated the thought of never seeing you again. The thought of not being able to talk to you every day, even if it's just to pick on you. Because this juvenile tug-o-war between us has been the best antidote I've had in a long time. I want things to go back to how they were before."

She's watching me through tired, beady eyes, the expression in them softening in a way that makes me think she feels the same. That we've both been seeking to numb our troubles, that we both find comfort in the strange way we interact.

Silence falls over us for several long seconds.
 

"I think it's over," she says, almost to herself, a hand pressed to her stomach like she can feel its fate. "I think I'm done now."

She tries to pull herself up on wobbly arms, but I'm on my feet and scooping her up by her underarms before she can rise on her own.

"Don't touch me," she snaps, yanking free from my hold and insisting she can walk on her own.
 

She goes over to the sink and brings a handful of water to her lips. I open one of the cabinets and hand her a bottle of mouthwash. She takes it and rinses out her mouth. When she finishes, she heads to the bathroom door. I follow beside her.

"Where do you think you're going?" she asks.
 

"I'm taking you to bed." When she stiffens at my side, I add, "No offense, but that's the last thing I want from you right now. I promise."

She must be too weak to argue because she just half drags her body away. Her trajectory down the hall is an uneven line. I hang back slightly and watch her shuffling her feet along the hardwood floor. I know I insinuated I don't find her attractive right now, but that must not apply to her backside. Because she doesn't look sick from behind, in those tiny shorts that ride up as she walks.
 

She reaches her bed and burrows under the covers like a worm, burying her face in her pillow. I leave her to go retrieve a water bottle from the refrigerator for her and a drink for myself.
 

Back in the room, I stand over the outline of her figure, curled up under the covers.
 

"Here," I say, opening the water for her.
 

She looks up at me, eyes narrowed in suspicion the way they always are. I've always liked her eyes on me, but the expression in them is guarded and tinged with suspicion. I want her to look at me like someone she trusts, someone she knows. I don't know why I want that. But in this moment, it's all I want.
 

"Thanks," she says in a low voice, sitting up.

The bun on her head is now ridiculously lopsided and amusing to look at. She must see me eyeing it because she tugs at the band until her hair falls over her shoulders.

God, she's beautiful. I'm the last person that should be here, trying to make her feel better. Not just because I hurt her feelings to begin with, but because she's heartbroken over someone else.