Play On - Michelle Smith Page 0,61

those same thoughts again? What’ll you do?”

“I’ll call you,” she whispers, but it comes out as a question with zero certainty. And that’s the only answer I need.

I press a kiss to her forehead, my lips lingering there because, Lord, I don’t want to let her go. But I can’t fix this. I’m in way over my head here. Staring into her eyes, I yell, “Mrs. Marlowe!”

She looks at me like I’m both nothing and everything. Like I just committed the worst betrayal she’s ever experienced. It destroys me. Hell, it fucking kills me.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my voice wavering.

My head whirls as two sets of footsteps thunder up the stairs. Within seconds, Marisa’s dad is snatching her away from me, gathering her up in his arms like a baby. And after he hurries from the room with my girlfriend against his chest, I finally know exactly what “slipping” means.

Mrs. Marlowe inhales sharply. She moves to the closet, grabs a bag, and begins stuffing clothes inside methodically, like this is nothing new. Like Marisa’s going to a freakin’ sleepover.

“You should go,” she says, not bothering to turn around.

I somehow manage to stand without falling back on my ass. Without Marisa in here, the room feels even darker. Empty. Dead. “Where’re you taking her?”

“Hospital,” she says. “Again.”

“Why?”

“There’s no telling what she’d do if we didn’t take her. I think you know that.” She zips up the bag and starts for the door, still not meeting my eyes. “We don’t ask questions anymore, because there are no real answers. It’s just life these days.”

How is she so calm right now? “I’ll ride with you,” I tell her. “Hell, I’ll drive myself.”

She stops in the doorway, hanging her head with a sigh. Finally, she faces me. “This isn’t something you want to see. Do yourself a favor and go home.” She walks toward me, her lip quivering. “Do you know what’s going to happen at the hospital, Austin? They’ll give her meds that may knock her out for hours. There’ll be a revolving door of doctors and nurses. She’ll have to see a psychiatrist and likely a therapist before they even think of letting her walk out the door. If they let her out the door anytime soon, considering her history.”

The room spins. My stomach churns. Everything’s off its axis because this can’t be happening. This can’t be happening to me, to this girl who’s knocked me to my knees in two months, to what we had—have—brewing between us.

Taking a step forward, I open my mouth to tell this woman how much I care. How badly I need to be there with Marisa tonight. To be there for her. But the only thought my brain can formulate is, “Mrs. Marlowe, I love her.” Saying the words doesn’t feel weird. It doesn’t feel out of place. It feels right. I just wish I could have told Marisa first instead of her momma.

She doesn’t roll her eyes. She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t scoff. She smiles, one of those “you poor sap” kind of smiles. She sniffles as a tear slips down her cheek.

“I love my daughter,” she whispers. “I love her more than life. But loving Marisa is asking for heartache. Trust me.”

“She’s worth it,” is all I can say, and it’s the honest-to-God truth.

Shaking her head, she says, “Go home, Austin.” And she turns away, leaving me alone in the room of a girl whose spirit still lingers here. But it’s not enough. It’s not her.

I could’ve stopped this. If I’d just said something about that stupid piece of paper I found, things may not have made it this far. I could’ve fixed it.

Somehow, I make my way down the stairs. Out the front door. Through the puddles left by the earlier downpour. Into my truck. I didn’t want storms today, but I got a damn hurricane.

My phone, which is still lying in the passenger seat, lights up with a warning that the battery’s almost dead. Not surprising, since I spent half the day calling Marisa. I grab it and scroll through my contacts and hit Jay’s number. Tonight needs fixin’, and he can help make that happen.

“Yeah,” he answers. There’s a bunch of hollerin’ in the background, followed by a splash.

“You down at the river?” I ask, cranking up my truck. “They kept the party goin’ with that storm?”

“Yup. A little rain ain’t gonna drown out the river.”

When Jay starts talking like that, there’s only one explanation. “You drunk already, dude?”

“Yup.”

“Good. I’ll