“You’re catatonic, Laney. What the hell?” Tripp snaps his fingers in my face to jerk me to the present. He moves towards me, and I must wince. “It’s me. I’m not going to hurt you.”
When my head lifts, it’s not Declan anymore. I lunge forward, wrapping my arms around Tripp, seeking comfort. In his arms, a rush of safety engulfs me. The small circles on my back calm me enough that my breathing levels out.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper against his chest. “Sometimes . . .”
“You don’t need to explain it to me.” His chin rubs the top of my head as he shakes it from side to side. “I’m not new to this with you.”
“What do you mean?” I ease away, glancing up at him through my eyelashes.
“The night you snuck into my room.”
“You thought I was coming in to screw your brains out.”
“I was wrong.” Tripp chuckles, tickling his fingers down my spine. “Can’t blame me for hoping and praying. Once I figured out what you needed, I was done for.”
“I didn’t want to be alone,” I admit, hating how weak that makes me sound.
“And I refused to allow you to be as long as I was under that roof.” Tripp has a tender side he doesn’t want anyone to see. He’s always so put together, to the point of resembling a statue. “That hasn’t changed, you know?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, then you have sweet moments with me like this one, and I’m brought back to the times we shared over Christmas, and I’m reminded why you managed to break down the walls around me.”
“I’m still that guy,” Tripp pleads.
“You’re also the guy who criticizes my friends. It makes it hard on me. You couldn’t care less about that little fact because it drives you crazy to think I could need someone besides you,” I explain, stepping around Tripp to grab my things.
“Laney, don’t go. I’m sorry, okay? Those friends of yours drive me crazy. That’s all.”
Tripp can believe what he wants. Since I haven’t given him any details other than what’s been on the media, he’s choosing his own narrative. He doesn’t know the hell I’ve been through. His knowledge is based on the fact that he showed up in the middle of my healing. He is a much-needed distraction, a bandage on the wound. The problem is, sometimes the bandage covers the proof of the pain. Sometimes the fucking wound needs air to breathe.
I grip his face. “Tripp, I appreciate you so much, but I think I really need to go to my dorm.”
“If you must, then at least let me call you a car.” He blindly grabs his phone, knocking around the contents on his table. Tripp is the guy who has a solution for every problem. Like right now, he knows I need to get to campus, and he’ll be the boy to call for the car, but not the boy to offer to drive me.
“Car will be here in five minutes. Call me when you get to your dorm, okay?” He kisses my forehead and leaves the room.
Needing the fresh air, I wait outside, my coat tight around my body, shielding myself from the one thing that doesn’t seem like it’s out to get me. The black car arrives, and the driver gets out to open the door for me.
“Good evening, Ma’am,” the older gentleman says, tipping his hat as I dip low to slide into the back seat.
My attention stays on the window, but every so often, I shift my eyes to the driver. He switches between watching the road and me.
“You’re a new driver, I take it,” I say. “I’ve been in Tripp’s fleet of cars, and I’ve never seen you before.”
Most of the drivers are younger, well dressed, polished, and quite frankly, intimidating. This man is a little frumpy and looks like he could be anyone’s grandfather.
“I’m actually not a driver for the DuPont family, Ma’am.” He smiles at me.
“Then who are you?” My curiosity gets the best of me.
“Tripp wanted to make sure you felt comfortable.” I smile at the information. “I don’t typically leave the DuPont estate for trips around town, but tonight, Tripp, Mr. DuPont, insisted, as he knew you’d be traveling alone, Ma’am.”
I swipe my phone screen. Three seconds pass, and I’m opening our text thread, sending him a quick thank you for being so considerate.
“Tripp DuPont is many things, but I’ve never seen him be so thoughtful as he was tonight. I assume you’re the reason for the change in behavior,” the driver says, keeping his eyes on the road.
He stops at the curb and puts the town car in park. As he gets out and opens the door for me, I can’t stop the giddy grin plastered on my face.
“Have a good evening, Ma’am.”
“Thank you for the ride and for making me feel comfortable.” I hold out my hand for him to shake, which he does.
“We each have demons, and sometimes you need people around you who try to better understand them and push them away for you.” He tips his hat one last time and slides behind the wheel.
I watch the bright taillights until they disappear into the night. When the darkness takes over, I rush to punch my pin code in, and once the door clicks unlocked, I race inside.
My therapist calls it PTSD. Little things trigger me. They aren’t always the same. Sometimes, they come out of nowhere, but I’m learning to deal with them every day. Being alone is one of the hardest things for me. Things happen to us that we don’t always have control over, but that’s life. My control has been stolen from me, but I’ll be damned if I cower in the corner.
I’m stronger than the inner workings of Henry Lexington. I’m stronger than Declan Dumas. I’m stronger than the darkness that clouded our campus.
