Page 47 of Hunt You Down

Nervous, Dylan continued to talk. He’d hooked up with Emmeline just before the trial, and the condom broke. She was on the pill, so they didn’t panic. Then last week, she called to say that she was pregnant.

“What do you want to do?” I asked, turning to grab a blanket off the back of the couch.

Dylan reclaimed his seat next to me. “I said I’d support whatever decision she made. She’s still unsure.”

“What does that have to do with me being out here?”

“If we’re going to do this, then it would make sense for us to live together. Either I’d move her in, or I’d go back home.”

My brother still hadn’t looked at me. He stared across the room, finding a spot below the TV particularly fascinating.

“Are you scared?” I asked.

Dylan scoffed. “I’m fucking terrified.”

“You do what you have to do,” I said. “I’ll be fine, and you’d be nothing less than an amazing father—look how you’ve taken care of me.”

“Well, you did practically cling to my leg for six months, threw up on me, and I haven’t forgotten the time you—ow!”

My loving brother earned himself a swift punch to the shoulder before he could finish the rest of that sentence.

It took days for the symptoms of the concussion to subside. I’d had them before, but I usually powered through them on my own. I’d never been spoiled like this.

Dylan stayed for a week before his job started nagging him about his return. When André wasn’t at work, he was plastered to my side. While the last of the symptoms faded, André managed to weasel his way into a couple extra days off.

Truthfully, I could have managed myself, but I was too scared to be left alone. Nor did I want to risk Regan setting his sights on André. I’d never live with myself if he got hurt.

All too quickly, the day came that André had no choice but to be in the office. I sat in the middle of the bed and watched him get dressed. I hadn’t had much energy for cleaning, and he'd been too swept up with me to schedule the cleaner, but none of it seemed to bother him. He moved through the clutter like it wasn’t even there.

Once he’d cleared a path to the closet, I rubbed the spot on my side that somehow still ached—it had to be all in my head. The bruises had faded, but the pain lingered.

Though it wasn’t the pain that brought tears to my eyes. I tried to wipe them away before André noticed, but the hitch in my breathing gave it away. He rushed over to the bed, shirtless and pants undone.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, softly brushing through my hair

I couldn’t breathe. The stitches had come out, but my head still hurt. Anything that raised my heart rate made that worse, but holding back the sobs was irritating my chest and I had to pick my battles. “I don’t think I can do it,” I whispered.

“What, the cleaning?” André glanced around the room. “Don’t worry about that right now. We’ll go out tonight and⁠—”

“That’s not what I mean,” I said, laughing and wiping my eyes. “I’ll clean.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

André climbed into the bed and pulled me into his chest, kissing the top of my forehead. He’d quickly learned that method banished any signs of a panic attack. His hands brushed my hair away from my face, still effortlessly minding the spot where the stitches were. As I thought about him letting go so he could leave, the tears flowed down my cheeks uncontrollably. André did the only thing he knew to do: he held me. If I was honest, I didn’t know what else would comfort me. Maybe if Regan suddenly fell into a vat of toxic waste or spontaneously combusted—but I had to be realistic. By the time I could talk again, I’d made André late for work.

“I don’t think I’m ready to be by myself,” I sniffled.

André was silent long enough to make me wonder what he was thinking. A big part of me still expected him to send me home. Every day that he didn’t surprised me. I knew I was a handful, and worried that every panic attack or new trigger would be the final straw for him.

I prepared myself to shake it off and start tidying up when André spoke. “Come with me.”

I spun to look at him, wiping my nose with my sleeve. “I can’t do that. I’ll just be a distraction.”

André snatched a few tissues from the box on the nightstand, offering them to me. “No more than my phone. I have a couch, and a TV—you’ll be comfortable.” Once my face was clean, he tossed the tissues aside and grabbed my hands. “I promised to take care of you, and I have an easy day. I have one meeting after lunch and another on the way home, but you can come with me.”

My head started to throb, and I rubbed my temples. “You’re already late.”

“I think my emails will survive,” he said with a smile. “I mean it, just come hang out in the office. It’ll be nice to have the company.”