Any Other Girl (19 page)

“I did. I did think of it. You know how worried I was about hurting Harper. I just . . .” My voice broke and I looked away, hastily swiping a finger under my eyes. “I thought there was a chance she'd be okay with it.”

“And it's our fault she's not? We have to be punished for it? Maybe you should stop worrying so much about protecting Harper and think about yourself for once.”

“
All
I've been thinking about is myself,” I shot back. I wiggled the rest of the way out of the sleeping bag and stood up, straightening my wrinkled dress. My eyes were dry once again.

Emmett watched as I shoved my feet into my sandals and gathered my purse. “I don't get you, Kat,” he said, yanking his shirt back on roughly. “The reason you told her was so that we could be together without having to sneak around behind her back.”

No,
I thought.
The reason I told her was because I felt guilty. The rest was just wishful thinking
. “I have to go,” I said, fighting back a second rush of tears.

Emmett climbed out of the sleeping bag, tossed a few handfuls of dirt on the fire, and grabbed his flashlight. Then, wordlessly, we headed for the woods together.

“You don't have to walk me home,” I told him as we zigzagged through the trees.

“I'm not an asshole,” he replied.

No, he wasn't. The only asshole in this situation was me, and I was on a roll. First Harper and then Emmett, both in the span of an hour. How many more relationships could I destroy before midnight?

It felt like hours before we reached my cottage. Emmett walked me right up to the door and then turned to me, his expression grave. “Like I told you before . . . I can't be just friends with you, Kat. It's this or nothing.”

“Then I guess I choose nothing.” I escaped inside before I had time to change my mind.

chapter 25

W
hen I stepped into the living room, I discovered Pop sitting on the couch, eating leftover strawberry almond cheesecake squares right out of the pan. He only indulged in large quantities of junk food when he was rewarding himself for something, so I knew what that meant.

“You finished Book Six?” I asked, trying to muster up the appropriate amount of enthusiasm.

“That I did.” He deposited the pan on the coffee table. “Wrote the last sentence an hour ago. Now it's time to let it marinate for a few days.” He looked at me for the first time. “How was dinner with Harper?”

I shrugged, then burst into tears. Pop jumped up to hug me. He smelled like strawberries and sugar and for a moment I felt like a little kid again, being comforted over some silly little hurt.

“You told her about you and Emmett?”

I sniffled against his shoulder. “There is no me and Emmett anymore.”

“Oh, Noodle,” Pop said, patting my hair.

After a minute, I pulled away and wiped my eyes. He regarded me with a sort of panicked concern, like he wasn't quite sure how to fix me. Dad had always been better at handling my emotional outbursts and finding practical solutions to whatever it was that plagued me. Unfortunately, he was already back at our condo, prepping for his forthcoming week at the office.

“I'll be okay. I just want to take a bath and go to bed.”

Pop kissed my forehead. “Go ahead. I think I'll head to bed myself. I'm beat. Wake me if you need anything, all right?”

I assured him I would, even though it would be pointless. Even with both dads on my side, there was no fixing this one.

 

Forty-five minutes later, I was running a brush through my wet hair in front of the bathroom mirror when I heard a loud banging on the front door. My hand jerked, sending the brush flying into the sink. It was after eleven o'clock. Who in the hell could be paying us a visit at this hour?

Harper
, I thought, throwing a bathrobe over my pajamas as I left the bathroom.
She's come to talk.

I unlocked the door and swung it open, a small glimmer of hope igniting in my stomach. But it was quickly extinguished when I saw Emmett standing there, his face completely drained of color. He was panting like he'd just sprinted all the way over and there was a bloody scratch down the side of his face.

“What's wrong?” I demanded.

When he looked at me, his eyes were terrified. “My mom,” he said between gasps. “I went inside and she was—there was blood and . . .”

My heart stuttered. “Emmett,” I said, grabbing hold of his shoulder and shaking him firmly, trying to get him to focus. “What happened?”

He rested his palm against the door frame and tried to slow down his breathing. A few agonizing seconds passed before he answered. “My father. He hit her.”

“Oh my God.” I pulled him inside and shut the door behind us.

Emmett gave me a vacant look, as if he wasn't even aware he'd moved. “He hit her and I wasn't there.”

I could see in his face that his shock was rapidly spiraling into rage.

“How bad is she hurt?”

“I don't know. She wouldn't wake up and her face was all bloody and I just—” He swallowed hard. “I didn't know what to do. There was no connection on my cell and I couldn't use the cottage phone, so I ran over here.”

“Where's your father?”

“I don't know,” he repeated. “He was gone when I got there.”

I tilted his face to the side so I could examine his scratch. It didn't look deep. “Why couldn't you use your cottage phone?”

“He ripped it out of the wall.”

I dropped my hand and stared at him for a few moments. It was then that I realized he needed more help than I alone could give. “Don't move,” I told him before leaving the room.

Pop slept like the dead, so it took several shakes to rouse him. Luckily, he was always fully alert when he did wake. He took one look at my face and shot straight up in bed. “I'm up,” he exclaimed.

“Pop, Emmett's here.” I explained the situation.

Before I'd even finished, Pop was out of bed and throwing on the clothes he'd been wearing earlier. “I'm going to check on Holly. Emmett should probably stay here. He needs to steer clear of his cottage in case his father comes back.”

I thought of Emmett's words from a few weeks ago.
My dad knows if he ever hit her again, I'd kill him
. Pop was right. He couldn't be there.

When we emerged from the bedroom, I was relieved to see that Emmett had obeyed my directive to stay put. He still looked half in shock. I went over to him while Pop called 911 to report the incident—something I probably should've done right away—then grabbed his car keys off the table.

“I'll take good care of her,” he promised Emmett as he walked past him to the door and outside.

When Emmett made a move to follow him, I seized his hand and held him back. “You can't be in your cottage right now,” I said gently. “You know why.”

He wrenched his hand out of my grasp. “Then I'm going to go find him.”

“No,” I said, maneuvering myself between him and the door. “You can't do that either. Let the cops find him.”

He glared at me, fists clenched at his sides. The shock had all but worn off, and anger rolled off him in waves. “Let me go, Kat.”

“No,” I repeated. I looked up at him, unblinking, until he realized the only way he was getting past me was if he physically removed me. And he'd never do that.

He backed away from me, his fury thawing into exasperation. He pushed his fingers through his hair and let out a frustrated sigh. “I can't just sit here and do nothing.”

“You won't be doing nothing. You'll be waiting here with me.”

His shoulders relaxed somewhat, and I could tell he was beginning to surrender. What had happened between us earlier seemed irrelevant. He needed someone, and I was there.

“Distract me, then,” he said gruffly. He paced between the living room and kitchen a few times, fingers linked together at the back of his neck. “So I won't do something I might regret later.”

Lucky for him, I had distraction down to an art form. I pulled out a kitchen chair and said, “Sit.”

He stopped pacing and sat while I reached into the cupboard under the sink for the first aid kit Pop insisted we keep handy. I popped it open and extracted some sterile alcohol wipes and a tube of antibiotic cream. Then I went to work on Emmett's face.

“Jesus,” he hissed when the alcohol wipe came in contact with his scrape. “That stings.”

I eased up on the pressure, lightly dabbing the blood from the edges. “How did you get this?”

“Tree branch, I think. I barely felt it.”

“Well,” I said, opening a fresh wipe. “I bet you're feeling it now.”

Once Emmett's cut was clean and disinfected, we tried to watch TV for a while. Each minute that passed felt like an hour, and I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep him occupied. Just as I was about to suggest a round of Crazy Eights, my dad walked in. Emmett bolted off the couch, his eyes glued to Pop's face.

“She's okay,” Pop said before Emmett could ask. “I mean, she's regained consciousness, at least. The son of a bitch—” Pop stopped and cleared his throat, remembering who he was talking to. “Your father banged her up pretty badly. Loosened a few of her teeth and blackened both eyes. Her face is completely swollen so it was hard for me to determine the extent of her injuries.”

Emmett winced, experiencing her pain secondhand. “Where is she?”

“The paramedics came and took her to the hospital.” Pop motioned toward the door. “Come on. I'll take you to her.”

Emmett nodded and then looked back at me, unsure.

The two of us had developed quite a knack for nonverbal communication over the past few weeks, so I caught on immediately. “Just let me get dressed.”

 

Like most other establishments in Erwin, the hospital was small and dingy. When we got there, a woman directed us to a waiting room and told us to sit. “The doctor is in with her now. We'll let you know when she's done.”

Pop and I waited with Emmett, positioned on either side of him like a human force field. No one spoke, but I could feel the tension radiating from Emmett's body. I wanted to take his hand, touch him, but considering I'd basically dumped him a mere three hours before, I didn't think he'd be very receptive to the contact. I just sat there, shifting occasionally in the lumpy padded chair and being quietly supportive.

Twenty minutes passed, and Emmett's anxiety peaked. “I'm gonna go call my brother,” he said, and then stood up and left the room.

Pop and I looked at each other across the vacant seat.

“Should I go with him?” I asked.

Pop shook his head. “Just leave him be.”

I averted my gaze to the window. From there, I could just make out the white flash of Emmett's T-shirt as he paced back and forth outside near the main entrance, cell phone at his ear.

“What a mess,” Pop said softly. “Holly mentioned that she had some problems with her husband, but I never thought he'd
beat
her. He's twice her size, for Christ's sake. He could've killed her.”

“This is all our fault,” I told him.

He slid over into the empty seat beside me. “What makes you say that?”

“He beat her because of Dad. Because he thinks there's something going on between them. Emmett said they'd been fighting about it all weekend.”

Pop didn't seem shocked, so I assumed Mrs. Reese had mentioned something about it when she'd called to apologize for missing the barbecue.

“How is that
our
fault? We're not responsible for the man's misconceptions. Or his temper, for that matter.”

“It never would've happened if they hadn't met us.”

“You can't know that for sure.” He looked at me, his eyes bloodshot and tired. “You take on so much blame, Kat, even when it's not your burden to carry. You always have. When you were little and heard someone make a derogatory comment about your dad and me, you wouldn't get mad at
them
. You'd get mad at yourself for not being able to prevent it. As if you'd failed at your job.”

I shrugged. I still felt that way.

“The only person who should be held accountable for what happened to Emmett's mother is Emmett's father,” Pop went on. “It's not Emmett's fault, or Holly's, or yours. It's not your dad's fault either, even though it isn't the first time something like this has happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it's never gone to this extreme, but we've had issues with jealous boyfriends and husbands before. Women have always loved Mark.” He bumped me with his elbow. “Where do you think you got your charm?”

I smiled wryly. “Even when he's
not
flirting, he's flirting.”

“Exactly.”

Emmett returned then, sinking heavily into the seat next to mine. He looked utterly wrecked. Pop excused himself to go rustle up some caffeinated beverages, leaving us alone with the other waiting room occupants, which included a shady-looking man in a baseball cap and an old lady who kept coughing into a soggy tissue.

“How'd it go with your brother?” I asked.

He leaned forward, rubbing his hands over his face. “Not so good. I had to talk him out of booking a plane ticket and flying home to murder our father. Wherever the hell he is,” he added bitterly.

“The police are looking,” I reminded him.

Pop had updated us on the way to the hospital. Mr. Reese had taken his car when he'd left, but he couldn't have gotten very far.

“I know.” Emmett's bleary eyes met mine. “And don't worry, neither one of us would actually kill him. Just rough him up a little. Or maybe a lot.”

“You really hate him, don't you?”

“Yeah. I guess I do.” He leaned back in the chair and sighed. “I should've been there tonight instead of hiding in the woods like a coward. This has been building between them all summer. It was only a matter of time before he snapped.”

“You had no way of knowing this would happen.”

“Yeah, but maybe I would've seen the signs if I hadn't been so damn preoccupied with you.” His tone was brash, accusatory.

I felt like I'd been slapped.

“Sorry,” he said, seeing my expression. “That came out wrong. I'm not blaming you at all. It's just . . . maybe you're right. Maybe our being together is causing more trouble than it's worth.”

He was getting it, finally, but having him on the same page didn't make it hurt any less. And in spite of what Pop had said, I
was
partly to blame for everything that had happened this summer. It was
my
fault Harper hated me. It had been
my
choice to give in to my attraction to Emmett, even though I knew it was unfair not just to my cousin, but to him as well. It was also my fault—indirectly, anyway—that Emmett had been nestled in a sleeping bag with me tonight instead of in his cottage with his mother, shielding her from harm.

Maybe the reason I took on so much blame was because I knew, deep down, that I deserved at least some of it.

“Are you Emmett?” A tall, middle-aged nurse in navy blue scrubs stood in front of us, a kind expression on her face. When Emmett nodded, she said, “Your mom is going to be okay. She has a concussion and two broken ribs, so Dr. Mason wants to keep her here for a few days. You can go see her now. Room two-fourteen. She's been asking for you.”