Play On - Michelle Smith Page 0,60

asking me. I’ll be fine.”

She is so far from fine. Holding my hands up, I take a step closer. “All right, I get it. I…” I almost say “I believe you,” but that’s not true.

Last time something like this happened, that night in my truck, my holding her hand helped. So I grab that same hand and tug it gently, pulling her to me for a hug. It takes a few seconds, but her arms circle around my waist, gripping me tightly like she’s latching on for dear life. Closing my eyes, I breathe her in, citrus shampoo mixed with the cologne on my hoodie.

As my eyes open, my gaze falls upon the nightstand. And right there, the world melts away. The floor disappears and the walls collapse and there’s nothing, nothing, but—

“Marisa, what is that?”

Her body tenses in my arms. “What’s what?”

Pulling away, I stomp over to the nightstand and grab the tiny straight-blade razor from beneath the lamp. My hand trembles as I hold it up. “I said, what the hell is this?”

“It’s n-nothing,” she stammers. “I wasn’t going to—”

“You have a fucking blade beside your bed,” I shout. “So try again, Marisa, because ‘I wasn’t going to’ isn’t going to work.”

“I wasn’t!” Tears spill down her cheeks as she steps forward. “I almost slipped, Austin. Almost, but I didn’t. See?” She yanks up her sleeves, revealing nothing but the marred skin already there. “Nothing. And I’ll be fine, I swear. I just need sleep.” Her voice cracks. “Just let me sleep it off. Please.”

My own tears cloud my vision. My lip quivers as I set the blade back on the cluttered nightstand, next to my old lucky hat of all places. God almighty, I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know.

I don’t.

“Even with my meds, I slip sometimes,” she continues, wiping her nose with her sleeve.

She slips. So this—this is slipping.

“I thought I could work through it on my own this time because things have been so good lately,” she rushes to add. “But I’m calling my doctor first thing Monday, okay? I swear, Austin. You’ve got to believe me.”

There’s an awful lot of swearing going on. Dad swore in his letter. That swear didn’t mean a thing once he drove his truck off a bridge.

The letter. Marisa’s notebook.

I can’t breathe.

“How long’s it been?” I manage to ask. “Since this… this ‘slip’ thing started?”

She presses her lips together, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Not long.”

“How long?”

She seems to struggle as she answers, “A little over a week.”

My mouth drops open. “Are you shittin’ me? And you said nothing? I’ve been right here the whole damn time, Marisa!”

Her lip trembles, and now tears are sliding down my cheeks. Shaking my head, I storm past her to the door. But I can’t leave. I can’t look at her, either—not without completely breaking apart. Instead, I grip the doorframe and stare down at my feet.

Breathe. Breathe. Damn it, breathe.

The front door slams closed downstairs, and her parents’ voices mingle together. I sigh with relief. They can fix this. They’ll know what to do.

Marisa lets out a sob. I whirl around, finding her on her knees, her face in her hands. No, no, no. I rush forward and fall to my own knees, wrapping her in my arms and holding her to my chest as she cries. I want to protect her from whatever’s going on in that head of hers. God, I want to make it go away more than anything. I wish I could save her. Fix her. Something.

But I’m helpless. And that’s the worst feeling of all.

“I’m so sorry,” she cries. “I’m so sorry I let you down. I always let everyone down. I don’t know why I do these things, Austin, but I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave me. Please.”

“Marisa,” I whisper, blinking away my tears, “you didn’t let me down, baby. But I’m going to call your parents now. I’ve got to.”

“No.” She pulls away to look into my eyes, her own wide and frantic. “You can’t. You can’t. They’ll send me away again. I can’t go back to the hospital. Please. I told you, I just need the night. I didn’t even cut. I didn’t.”

More than anything on God’s green earth, I want to trust her. I want to wrap her in a blanket and pretend tomorrow will be better. But I can’t.

“I believe you. But what happens when I leave? What happens if I leave and you don’t go to sleep, and you have