The Healing (The Things We Can't Change Book 3) (25 page)

“Evie?” Zeke’s voice sounds far away, but I can hear the concerned note in it as I finally pull myself upward once again, sitting up a little straighter. “Evie, are you okay?”

“Fine,” I say, and cringe when I hear the gasping, strained note in my voice. I sound anything but fine, and as we turn onto Riverside Drive, all I want is for Zeke to leave me alone, to go home and let me deal with this on my own, in the only ways I know will actually help. I can’t do that if he’s around.

I need to get the polish off my toes, and I need to feel clean again, stop feeling the whiteness creep on the edges of my vision. There’s only one way to accomplish that, and it must be done in secret, with no one around to witness it.

“You don’t look fine,” Zeke says bluntly, and keeps looking over at me in concern, until we’ve finally pulled into the driveway and are parked once more in the garage.

“I’m
fine
,” I snap, because more than anything I need to be left alone right now. I need to go inside, strip this nail polish off and find a way to make myself breath normally again. And I can’t do that with Zeke around.

I push out of the car and slam the door behind me. “I’ll see you later,” I say over my shoulder, and push into the house, closing the door behind me on Zeke’s confused face.

Inside, I rest my back against the door for just a moment, and then all I can think about is getting the polish off, scrubbing my nails clean, if I can’t do the same with the rest of my body. I take off running for the bathroom, slipping on the rug as I enter and falling hard, my knees cracking against the hard tile. I don’t even wince, because the pain feels good and it helps ground me, unintentional though it is. I fling open the doors of the cabinet under the sink and plow my hands inside, knocking over everything as I frantically search for the nail polish remover.

“Where is it?” I mutter to myself, scrabbling amid all the mess of bottles I’ve made, my haste making the job harder than it should be. “Where
is it
!”

Just as I finally see it, reach a hand out to snatch it up, something snatches
me
first and I’m yanked up off the floor with minimal effort. I scream in shock before I can stop myself, and then I meet forest green eyes that are glittering with anger.

“What are you doing?” Zeke demands.

“I have to take it off!” I scream back, furious at him for making me go through this. “I don’t want it on me!”

“It’s fucking nail polish, Evie!” he shouts back, clearly frustrated. I know he’d like to shake me and is barely suppressing the urge, and his hand on me is trembling. “Will you calm down already?”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” My throat hurts at how loud I’m screaming, and I hope that Clarissa is still in too much of a drunken stupor to pay attention to us. “This is your fault! I told you I couldn’t do this! I’m not ready for this!”

Zeke’s lips thin and before I know it he’s yanking me out of the bathroom and toward the kitchen. I strain against him, trying feverishly to grab the bottle of remover on the way out, and failing, which makes me scream in frustration and claw at Zeke anew to release me. I’m shouting at him but I don’t even know what I’m saying. I’m only trying my hardest to get away and he refuses to let me go until he’s pushed me into the kitchen.

I’m so surprised he’s let go that I stumble and fall into one of the stools by the kitchen bar, scrabbling against it and the counter as I try and catch my balance once again. My hair has fallen out of its bun and I push it out of my face and glare up at Zeke, who standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he asks, looking pissed. “Can you settle down for a second so we can talk about this?”

I don’t even bother to answer. I just stay halfway draped across the stool, my chest heaving as I desperately try to catch my breath. But I can’t. The dirty feeling is crawling all over my skin, seeping down into my pores, making me feel crazy and icky and I can’t get enough air to my brain and I feel myself begin to float away. It’s all more than I can handle, compounded together and overwhelming and blocking out everything else as I look down and see those damned pink toes again. Air. Oxygen. I need something in my lungs, I need to breath, I need to
not float away again.

In another instant I’ve straightened and whirled around again, dashing around the island toward the sink where I can see the promise of something that will free me; a knife, glinting in the late afternoon sun.

Zeke realizes where I’m going a split second after I turn and I hear his loud, “Fuck!” just before I crash into the sink, too frantic to slow down and stop. I’m reaching into the drying rack for the knife, thinking of nothing but making the feeling go away, when pain explodes along my right side and Zeke literally tackles me to the ground. My head cracks against the hard floor, pain that grounds me, but is completely unexpected and starts a ringing in my ears.

I become aware of his suffocating weight on top of me and a furious tussle ensues between the two of us, both of us pissed off and cussing and grappling with each other. Zeke wins, of course, as I seem destined to engage in fights with people bigger and stronger than me who always win. He makes it to his knees and heaves me up along with him, one arm around my left bicep, the other holding my right arm down so I can’t slap him as I’ve already done twice.

His lip is bleeding, either from one of my flailing elbows or when he hit the floor, I’m not sure. I only know that seeing I’ve inflicted damage on someone else for a change gives me a sick, savage sort of glee that I know means I’m probably insane. But even as he hauls me up, I can tell that he’s being careful, holding me loosely, merely trapping my arms between our bodies, not binding them down to make me utterly powerless or feel dominated, even though he’s mad.

“You want to play like that,” he says breathlessly, maneuvering me toward the sliding glass door and once again shoving me through it. It seems the sum of my encounters with Zeke is him pushing me through doorways that I don’t want to pass through. “Then we’ll play.
Outside
of the house, and away from sharp objects. Holy hell, Evie, you’re scaring the shit out of me!”

Now that some sanity has returned, I feel ashamed and embarrassed about what I’ve done. I can’t believe that I tried to go that far. I can’t believe I was about to do it again. I want to be astounded at my own weakness, but somehow it seems like too much effort and I can’t really be surprised by anything I do anymore. All it does is tell me I’m weak and spineless, something I already know very well.

I stay quiet as Zeke guides me down the steps of the deck and out onto the grass of the lawn. The pool guys are gone for the day and the backyard is empty, thankfully, so there is no one to witness just how crazy we are. Zeke’s arm slips away from around me and he turns me a little bit so he can look into my eyes, pulling my hair out of my face for me.

“Are you okay now? Are you going to run back inside?”

I shake my head, meaning it, and he seems convinced since he finally steps away and leaves me to myself, and I finally catch my breath a little bit, breathe deeply of the clear summer air. My head feels calm, but when I look down at my toes, I’m still swamped with guilt over what Tony would think, and I still feel dirty. Still feel like the whore he would have accused me of being had he seen it. I clutch my arms around myself and will the feelings to go away, to disappear, but I know it takes more than a wish or they never would have appeared in the first place.

Zeke reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out his pack of cigarettes, which looks battered and very worn. He flips the top open and stares at the nearly-full pack, as though surprised there are that many left. Then he sighs, pulls one out and plants it between his lips, lighting up with a very long sigh.

“Ho-ly shit,” he finally mutters, exhaling a stream of smoke. He studies me, and then shakes his head. “You’re a real piece of work. Can we have another heart to heart here so I have an idea of why you just tried to slice your arm open again?”

I look at him for a long moment, and then down at my toes again, then back at Zeke. “I need it off,” I say in a strangled voice. “I really, really need it off, Zeke. I can’t do this. I can’t. It’s too soon. Please, just let me take it off and I’ll be fine.”

“Clearly not fine. What I saw in there was anything but fine. You tried to cut again,” he points out as he gestures with the cigarette. The acrid scent of smoke is filling our airspace, but I welcome the bitter sting of the scent in my nose. “It’s just nail polish, Evie, and it doesn’t matter that Tony wouldn’t like it. It’s not about what he wants anymore. It’s about what you want, and if you want to paint your nails pink or fucking cut off your toes for that matter and dye your hair orange, you’re allowed to. It’s your body, not Tony’s. It never belonged to Tony. He just made you think he had some kind of rights over it.”

True words, nothing I haven’t thought of myself, but that doesn’t mean I can convince myself of it at the snap of his fingers. I bend over and put my hands on my knees, trying to take deep, calming breaths so I don’t threaten to float away again, but then all I can see are my toes, painted that stupid color, and I sit down hard on the ground with my knees drawn up in front of me.

“I know,” I say, my teeth chattering, though I clench them together and try hard to gain some semblance of normalcy. “I know all that.”

Zeke heaves another heavy sigh, because we’re covering familiar territory here. “I know you know,” he says wearily, and turns his back on me as he paces for a moment and braces his hands against his head.

I take advantage of the moment and grab my foot, cursing the good polish job that will be that much harder to take off. I can’t find any bubbles or chips, but I’m still determined to get it all off. I’m preparing to jab my thumbnail into the polish when my arm is grabbed and Zeke tosses it away from my foot.

“Stop!” he commands, looking more pissed than ever. “Evie, stop it! This is a good thing! You need to leave it on, dammit!”

“No!” I scream the word right into his face, jump to my feet because now I’m too anxious to stay still. “It’s wrong! It’s all wrong and I hate it! I want it off!”

“
Tony
wants it off,” Zeke repeats, his eyes wary as he keeps them trained on me. “There’s a difference, Evie. Be a little selfish for a change!” He pauses and shakes his head, muttering, “The shit you make come out of my mouth.”

“I hate it,” I moan, not caring that I sound like a lunatic. I glance over at Zeke and he’s looking at me with an exasperated expression, and it infuriates me. “Quit looking at me like I’m crazy!” I scream at him.

I see a betraying quirk of his lips as he laughs at me and my rage boils over. “Stop it!” I scream, and then shout it again because he’s still laughing at me and it’s driving me insane. “Quit laughing at me!”

“I can’t,” he says, and actually giggles. “You
are
acting crazy!”

“I’m not!” My throat burns as I scream and when I see his shoulders shaking with mirth, I can’t stop myself. I stomp over to him and snatch the cigarette from his mouth and snap it in two, flinging the pieces to the ground and shoving Zeke back.

He doesn’t move an inch, of course, and that just infuriates me further. I shove at him again and again, pushing at him with my shoulders and shoving with my arms as he stands solidly there, never budging. Finally, I’m out of breath from exertion, not emotion, and I sag against him, and he puts his arms around me and holds me up, patting me gingerly on the head.

“Tantrum really over this time?” he asks after a minute, and I can hear the laughter still in his voice but I’m too tired to get angry about it anymore.

“Yes,” I say on a sob, and I feel him stiffen. I realize that I should have just burst into tears from the start because that would have scared him more than any display of temper.

“Hey, listen to me, okay? Let’s have just one rational moment here.” Zeke looks up at the sky, which is dark as storm clouds have gathered during my rage, and then gives me a little prod. “Only let’s move this inside before we get rained on, all right?”

“All right,” I agree, wiping at my eyes and dutifully following him up the deck and into the house.

He pauses inside, and then leads the way to the basement, where my nest of blankets and pillows is still on the leather couch from where I’ve been sleeping for the past month. He settles me down on the couch and sits on the coffee table in front of me, regarding me seriously for a long moment before he speaks.

“Tony. Doesn’t. Matter. Any. More,” he says, slowly, clearly, and articulately. “Even if he were to wake up, he wouldn’t be able to dictate anything to you. He matters as much to your life as a fly does. It’s buzzing, and annoying, but with a wave of your hand, it’s gone. Boom.” He waves a hand to illustrate his point, and I wish it were that easy, just as I always do.

“I know he doesn’t matter,” I say, because it’s true. How well I know that, and yet I can’t seem to come to terms with it. “I know I should be doing things like this, and I’ve
tried
to do them. Sometimes I can even go through with it. But it always comes back to haunt me; the guilt, and the sense of
wrongness
I get when I realize what I’ve done. It’s just been ground into me that defying Tony is wrong and there will be punishment if I don’t fix or stop whatever I’ve done.”