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“Yeah. I don’t know what to do. My dad’s on his way over, and I called you. Claire is pretty shaken up too.”
I tell him I’m on my way before we hang up, and I grab my stuff at a record pace. My heart is reeling from one betrayal to another.
Though Harvey never betrayed me, I betrayed him. I might’ve slept with the man responsible for his injuries.
I don’t give a shit that Palmer was driving. Damon protected her. He was old enough to know the moral consequences of a hit-and-run.
I put the journal in my purse. I don’t bother emailing Damon that I’m leaving work. I take an Uber since Joey drove us this morning.
I can’t believe Harv tried to kill himself.
Last time wasn’t just a hoax. He wasn’t simply drunk; he’s hurting.
I breathe deeply, but my breaths feel stuck—pained and trapped.
My mind is blank. I can’t picture Harvey taking pills, seeking to end his life.
They say you can’t blame yourself. That there’s nothing you could’ve done. That people make their own choices.
Stupid, useless words from people who have never known the melancholy accompanied by guilt once it spreads through your veins like a venom you never sought.
I can’t do it. I can’t think of Damon right now.
All I can focus on is knowing that Harvey’s alive and well.
My hand is clutching my phone with a slight tremble, while my awareness dives headfirst into the abyss.
Finally, the Uber driver drops me off at the front of Harvey’s place, and as soon as I close the door behind me, he speeds away like a teenager experiencing his first car.
Henrik meets me at the entrance, a cup of coffee in hand, embracing me in a tight hug. I swallow when I pull back and see that he’s been crying.
“I shouldn’t have told him.” He shakes his head, and I place my hand over his arm.
“He would’ve found out eventually.”
“Yeah, well.” His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “I’m glad I found him in time. I don’t know if he would’ve done it, but just the thought that he might’ve gone through with it ... anyway, Dad’s talking to him right now.”
I place my purse on the kitchen counter as Hen tells me Claire’s in his room. I find her sitting on Henrik’s bed, no doubt needing the space, as she faces the backyard.
I cross the room and settle on the bed a few feet from her.
She clears her throat. “You were right. I should’ve looked over him better.”
“Claire.” I sigh. “You’ve been watching him better than anyone since—”
“Because it’s my job.”
“And because you love him.”
Her small laugh echoes through the room. “He’s so happy around me.” She turns to face me. “I’m sorry. I know it hurts to hear,” she adds when I wince. “I thought you were exaggerating when you said to watch him with drugs. I already know how easy it is for some to get addicted to pain meds, but he seemed to be doing well. Who knows? Maybe he got really good at hiding his depression.”
“Sure, possibly.”
She pushes the onset of tears away from her cheeks. “I don’t think he’s an addict. I’m with him every day. I’d know. But I strongly believe he needs therapy. He accepted that job, and he wassohappy, I can’t begin to understand why the thought of you moving in with your man would set him off like this.”
The guilt resurfaces like a black hole that’s impossible to escape.
“The news was probably the nail in the coffin. Too many changes all at once. We ended things, I moved out, Henrik moved in, your relationship changed, he was going back to work, and he might be pressuring himself to fully walk again.”
