Page 8 of Downfall

“I—what?”

I’ve been so caught up in letting myself be this close to her, feeling the weight of her wrist in my hand, that I almost forgot the reason I stalked over here in the first place. As soon as I got past the all-consuming dizziness of seeing Skylar Galloway again after all these years, I noticed the cast on her wrist, and my blood turned cold. She’s hurt. All I could think about is that she got fucking hurt and I wasn’t there. Then I thought about all the times she stubbed her toe or got a paper cut in the six years we’ve been apart, and how it should have been me there to give her an ice pack. Wipe the blood away. Make a joke about how clumsy she can be while I put a band-aid with skateboarding dogs on it or some shit. Because Skylar Galloway doesn’t own beige band-aids.

I couldn’t stop wondering if it was an accident, if she just tripped over her perpetually untied shoelaces, or if it was worse. I imagined someone grabbing her wrist, twisting it until she screamed, and I couldn’t stop the rage from coursing through my veins. I tried to leave. I told myself nothing good could come from confronting her. I made a promise to myself, to her, years ago, that no matter how much it gutted me, I would stay away. It’s why I promptly left the courthouse even after Emory whispered to me that they were throwing Ash and Allie an afterparty.

I made it half a mile down Main Street before I turned my bike around, downed half of the flask I brought in my pocket, just in case, and crashed through the front door of Allie’s restaurant.

Now Skylar is looking at me like I’m the devil incarnate as she snatches her arm out of my grasp.

But I’m nothing if not an asshole, so if she thinks I’m letting this go, she’s dead wrong.

“Who broke your wrist, Skylar?”

My voice is steady but firm, leaving no room for my question to go unanswered, but it does anyway. She takes a step back, putting space between us. Her eyes don’t just radiate anger; they’re heavy-lidded and glassy like she’s been drinking.

“That’s none of your business.” She goes to turn away, but I’m right behind her, closing every bit of distance she creates.

“Too bad I just made it mine.”

She whirls around so fast, her long auburn hair almost catches me in the eye. “Are you serious? We haven’t spoken in years, and you want to know why I’m wearing a fucking cast? As if it matters to you.”

I ignore her last comment because I can’t form the words to explain to her just how much it matters to me. “Ash didn’t mention anything.”

She scoffs, turning away again, muttering her next word more to herself than to me. “Un-fucking-believable.”

“Skylar, tell me what happened.”

She’s completely ignoring me now as she walks to a counter set up with beverages on the other side of the restaurant and grabs an open bottle of champagne.

“Skylar,” I try again, following her as she pushes open the side door that leads to the outdoor patio. It’s freezing as fuck, so no one is out here. She slams her ass into a chair, taking a long swig of the fizzy wine.

Scrubbing my face, I fight the urge to light up a cigarette. She hated when I started smoking back in high school. She used to hide my packs, so I’d have to tickle her until she finally gave in, but she always made me promise to quit. I did quit. For a little while, anyway. But then I broke her heart, and when she left town, smoking was the only luxury I let myself have.

She takes another sip of champagne and that’s when I notice goosebumps running down her exposed arms. Who the fuck wears a dress like that in the middle of winter? I shrug out of my leather jacket and drape it over her shoulders, my own arms now bared to the elements. I swapped my suit jacket for the leather one earlier, so now I’m in nothing but a dress shirt with the sleeves pushed up to my elbows.

“I don’t need your stupid jacket,” she scoffs, attempting to shrug it off.

“Too fucking bad.” I place a firm hand on her shoulder, keeping it in place.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Because I don’t want you to freeze to death? You’re right. I should be arrested. You want to call the authorities, or should I just walk over to the station and turn myself in now?”

Her eyes roll around in a complete circle, but then her mouth does this little half-turn thing, like she’s trying to keep from smiling, and surprisingly, she hands me the bottle of champagne.

“It was a car accident,” she breathes like she’s tired of having to say the words. When I don’t say anything, she adds, “My wrist.”

“When?” I don’t mean for my voice to croak, but the images of Skylar surrounded by smoke and scattered glass are making my throat constrict.

“A couple of weeks ago.”

“Were you driving? Who were you with?”

She grabs the bottle back, taking another deep pull. Some of it dribbles down the corner of her mouth. I take it from her, watching as she wipes her lips with the back of her hand.

“What’s with the twenty questions?”

“Just tell me, Skylar.”