Chapter 95

As Christian sees me put the pieces together, he slowly nods. “Yeah, Iris,” he murmurs. “It’s bad.”

“Christian,” I whisper, leaning forward and reaching for him. But he tightens his jaw and my hand falls limply between us as I shake my head. “Why did you do this? I’m – I’m not worth it, Chris –“

But the way he looks at me when I say that – I just don’t have any words with which to finish that sentence.

“You’re worth it, Iris,” he says, his voice steady and assured, like he’s never been more sure of anything in his life. “All right? And…it’s done. So, the only thing we can do now is move forward. Come up with a plan.”

I stare at him for a long moment before I nod, just once. “Okay,” I say, agreeing to it, because he’s right. And even if I feel so incredibly guilty that Christian’s done all of this for me – put himself in danger, given up so much –

The only thing I can do for him now is support him.

I let him see this as we sit in the car and stare at each other – my utter faith and willingness to obey. Whatever he tells me to do, I’ll do it.

A small smile starts at the corner of his mouth and, gently – briefly – Christian raises a hand to my cheek, cupping it in his palm for just a moment.

But then it passes, and he drops his hand, and glances towards the convenience store. “We have gas,” he murmurs before returning his gaze to me. “But…we should get some food. And water. And use the facilities, because we’re going to be on the road for a long time.”

“Okay,” I whisper, suddenly realizing how dry my mouth is and how desperately I’d like to use the bathroom.

He glances back at me and then smirks a little, starting to laugh.

“What?” I ask, sitting up straight as he unzips the thin black jacket he’s wearing, starting to slip it off his shoulders.

“You just…look a little rough, Iris,” he murmurs, smiling gently at me as he passes me the jacket. “Don’t be surprised if when we go in there I get a lot of dirty looks, and you get some pamphlets for a battered women’s hotline.”

I gasp a little, putting together the pieces, and then I whip my head up towards the visor in front of me, tugging it down so that I can see the mirror tucked beneath. I gasp again, horrified when I see my reflection.

Because I could tell by the ache in my face that it was bad – but this bad? I am absolutely covered in bruises, including the start of a black eye, and there’s a gross crust of blood around my lips and dripping down my chin, and beneath my nose, and there’s even dried blood in my hair –

I groan, covering my face with my hands, so embarrassed and horrified, not wanting to see my reflection again at all -

Christian laughs again, gentle, and snaps the visor shut, reaching for me, tugging softly at my wrists so that my hands fall away from my face. “I’ve seen worse, Iris,” he murmurs, smiling at me and studying my face. “I’ve endured worse – they haven’t done anything that won’t heal, all right? You’re just…a little beat up right now.”

And I groan lightly, leaning my head back against the headrest of my seat, staring at him as he smiles at me. But I’m grateful, honestly. Because pity right now would send me to pieces – but this calm assurance, this light laughing it off like it’s no big deal?

Even though it is a big deal – the kind of trauma that will probably follow me for a lifetime?

Christian knows that this is what I need.

And he knows because…he’s my best friend. Because he’s known me all my life. Because he’s read every stupid email I’ve sent him for thirteen years, and probably understands me better than I understand myself.

Slowly, a grin spreads on Christian’s face. “Come on, Daisy, what do you say?” he murmurs, studying me. “Let’s go get you cleaned up and get you a sandwich. That’s step one. And then we’ll go from there, all right?”

“All right,” I reply, a tremulous smile finding my lips as well.

“That’s my girl,” he says, nodding once before turning and getting out of the car.

And I sigh, but my spirits are significantly raised as I open my own door, tugging on the jacket and zipping it up over my very bloody dress.

Twenty minutes later, we’re back in the car, and I’ve got a lap full of junk food.

“Do you want any of this?” I murmur, unable to keep from smiling down at the insane collection of chips and candy and wrapped convenience sandwiches that Christian bought me.

“Not right now,” he replies, his voice a little distant as we move quickly down the highway.

We did indeed get some looks when we entered the shop, but I made a beeline from the bathroom as Christian went to the refrigerator for drinks. When I came out a few minutes later, damper but also less bloody, I was relieved to see that I attracted much less attention.

I’m still bruised, but at least without blood all over my face and hands people are willing to dismiss me as a poor thing rather than something they have to call the cops about.

Christian had been very indulgent with me then, letting me pick out whatever I wanted, and I admit that I went a little bit overboard. But after spending a few hours alone locked in a coffin, I think I’m quite ready to steep myself in the good things life has to offer: chips, and cookies, and chilled mocha lattes in cute glass bottles.

I take a few moments to collect myself, to come back to my body and to enjoy the food. Doing so, as silly as it might seem, really does make me feel less panicked, more normal. You can’t be in fight-or-flight, mode, after all, when you’re eating a six-pack of tiny donuts covered in powdered sugar.

As I eat, sipping leisurely at a great deal of water – I’m very dehydrated, after all – I start to take an assessment of my body and all of my wounds. My whole body aches beneath all of its bruises and cuts, and I desperately want a hot shower. But beyond that, I’m starting to finally feel…

Well, to feel okay.

Okay enough to start to wonder…what the hell is going to happen next.

“Christian,” I say quietly, turning my head to look at him.

He hums at me, inviting me to ask but keeping his eyes on the road.

“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice soft in the silent car.

He takes a deep breath and then glances at me, I think deciding how much to tell me. But then he gives in. “We’re going to a place I’ve kept secret,” he answers. “From everyone. No one knows about it – not even Nico.”

“Is Nico okay?” I ask, a little desperate and distracted from my original question. “And Frankie?”

As I say his name, an image of Frankie’s smiling face appears in my mind, and my heart sinks horribly.

Frankie. Am I ever going to see him again?