Fold

“Oh, darling, it’s true. Beautiful things have dents and scratches too.” ―Anonymous

A beam of sunlight blazes through the small window of my dorm room, forcing me to open my eyes with a groan.

Fuck you, sun. You over-inflated, pompous star.

Turning over in bed, I take a breath past the ache in my ribs and wince.

Yup...still feels like someone put my heart in a blender. Then smiled from ear to ear as they pressed liquefy.

Bile churns in my gut as Preston's face flashes through my mind and I reach for the small garbage can by the side of my bed.

Just the thought of him makes me sick. Literally.

When all that comes out is a mouthful of stomach acid, I'm reminded that I haven't eaten much while I've been holed up in here for the last six days.

Or is it seven now? Maybe four? I honestly have no idea.

I take a swig of water from the bottle on my nightstand and swish it around my mouth before I spit it into the trash.

Heartbreak—not only does it hurt like hell, but it gives you some impeccable freaking hygiene.

I reckon it's because simple, everyday things like cleanliness no longer seem necessary or important. Not when the vital instrument in your chest that's responsible for keeping you alive ceases to function as it should.

A sharp pang slices through me and I burrow under the covers, waiting for it to pass.

Tears threaten to spill when the intensity kicks up a notch—my body desperately seeking an outlet to all this anguish trapped inside me, but I sit up and dig the heels of my palms into my eyes, keeping them at bay.

I refuse to give them my tears. Lord knows one of them has had more than her fair share of them already. Along with all the other parts of myself I'd given to her.

I suppose this is my karma for refusing to read the writing on the wall and letting myself get swept away by the likes of Becca Dragoni again.

And my penance for trusting someone like Preston Holden.

Quite the dynamic duo those two are. One seduces...and the other destroys.

That thought causes me to launch my water bottle at the wall so hard the plastic breaks and the contents splatter.

Just like they did to me.

“I take it you're feeling better?”

I turn my head to find Breslin standing by the door, concern lining her pretty, albeit exhausted face.

“A little,” I whisper, my voice sounding about as guilty and sheepish as I feel.

“That's good.” She walks across the room and opens a drawer. “I came by to pick up a few things before I head back to the hospital. I'll be out of your hair in a minute.”

I stay silent as the awkwardness surrounds us like a fog.

I can't bring myself to tell her what happened with Becca and Preston...because it hurts too damn much.

And she can't bring herself not to hate me for being responsible for one out of the two loves of her life almost dying.

I can practically feel the divide of our friendship growing larger with every brief interaction we've had since the shooting, and it kills me. Yet, I have no desire to do anything to stop it from ru

I'm not sure I have the desire for anything anymore. It's like I can only operate on certain frequencies now, and my mood is either miserable and bitter. Or numb and detached.

It goes without saying which one I prefer.

“Kit,” she says suddenly, and I look into her now glassy eyes. “I need you to know despite how upset I was at the hospital that night, I'm happy you're alive.”

That makes one of us then.

She waits for me to say something, but when I don't; she hikes her bag up her shoulder and heads for the door.

“Breslin,” I whisper, my voice barely above a whisper.

She pauses, her back to me. “Yeah?”

“I—” I swallow the words I really want to say. “Drive safe.”

Her shoulders tense. “I hope you get over this stomach bug of yours soon.” She goes to close the door behind her, but not before uttering, “Maybe then you can visit Landon. I know he'd really love to see you.”

The hard slam of the door tells me the words she really wanted to say too.

The words I deserve to hear.

I pace up and down the hallway with my heart in my throat.

I have no idea what to say aside from the obvious—I'm sorry for letting you bleed out on a cafeteria floor while I stayed in an elevator like a spineless jellyfish.

Because of him.

My belly flips and I have to clutch it to stop myself from dry heaving.

Shit, maybe I really am getting sick and it's not a ruse anymore.

I blow out a quaky breath and lower the hood on my sweatshirt. Stop being a sissy, Kit. The least you can do is look the man in the eyes, apologize, and thank him for saving your life.

It's the right thing to do. What I should do. What my parents would want me to do. Heck, if they were still alive they'd—rightfully so—be disgusted and ashamed it took me so long.

My heart thuds painfully against my chest with each step I take toward his hospital room.

The kiss Breslin and Landon are in the middle of comes to an abrupt stop when I enter, and I spew the first words that pop into my head. “Sorry, I probably should have knocked or something.”

Breslin bolts upright. “Don't be silly. I'm glad you came.”

Landon smiles at her and then at me. “Hey, stranger. How's it going?”

His cheery disposition only makes the lead in my stomach grow heavier. He has every reason to throttle me and yet he's acting like he's happy I'm here...instead of the reason he's here.

I shuffle my feet, wishing the floor would open and swallow me whole.

“Kit?” Breslin and Landon say at the same time and I realize I never answered Landon's question.

“Oh, you know, it's going,” I say to my shoes.

I can't look at him. Seeing him in that hospital bed only adds another painful cinder block to the rest of the pile.

“Can you give us a minute, Bre?” Landon says and it's all I can do not to beg her to stay.

“Sure.” She looks between us before her gaze settles on me. “I'm go

When Landon and I wince, she curses under her breath. “I'm sorry. I didn't—”

“It's okay,” Landon assures her at the same time I say, “I'm not hungry.”

It's not a lie. Just the thought of eating causes vomit to work up my throat. The last time I was hungry...three i

I don't miss the worry that lines her face as she walks out. Leaving me all alone with Landon.

To say I'm uneasy would be an understatement. My eyes roam around the room, looking anywhere but directly at him. “You got the basket of bran muffins.”

“I did,” he says, shifting on the bed. “You only sent about a dozen of them.”

I rock back on my heels and study the paint on the ceiling. “Well, you know, fiber is healthy. Keeps you regular and all that. I hear it's good for—”

“Kit,” he snaps, the frustration in his voice unmistakable.

Finally, I look at him, and the dam inside me bursts wide open—spilling a week's worth of tears, guilt, and heartache with it. “I'm so sorry, Landon.”

His expression softens. “Come here.”

I want to protest because I don't deserve to be consoled by him, but when he starts to maneuver out of bed and grimaces, I rush over.