Page 98 of The Curveball

CHAPTER31

WREN

I thoughtI’d learned to manage the sudden, untamable sobs a long time ago. The ones where I’m out of control, where I bury my face in a pillow and scream. I’m outside myself, and my body wants to thrash and curl inside out. It’s a panic that grips me from behind. Flashes of feeling like I’m unable to breathe, that I’m going to bleed out and die.

It’s been years since it’s happened, but seeing Griffin – my Griffin, my safe Griffin – hunched over a groaning Clay, something triggered in my head. Breaths came too fast, too shallow.

I was tossed back into that dark guest house, a big, muscular body over the top of me, the heat of my own blood on my skin. Dying. I thought I was dying.

“How’s she doing?”

I must be screaming in my head because I hear Alice’s soft voice.

Cleo strokes my hair. “She’s calming down now.”

“Here’s some water.” Alice comes over and rests a hand on my shoulder. “Wren Bird, it’s going to be good in the morning. You’ll see. The sunlight always chases away the dark.”

I hug the pillow to my face again.

“Your mom’s on her way, punkin,” Cleo soothes as she rubs my back. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep.”

I shudder in silent sobs. I try to sing a song in my head, I recite lines from my book, desperate to get out of the dark, out of the suffocating memory.

Maybe I imagine it, but I swear the last thing I hear before exhaustion pulls me to sleep is Griffin’s laughter.

* * *

Voices stir me awake.I crack my crusty eyes. Sunlight cascades over the coffee table. It’s morning and I’m . . . at Cleo’s house. Last night—my chest tightens. Griffin and Clay fought.

“He shouldn’t have even approached him. The guy is slimy.”

Carter is here.

“I’m going to—gah—I want to just wring that man’s neck. What was he thinking?”

Mom.

“Is he really going to come after Griffin?”

Mateo.

“Looks like it.”

There’s Darren.

My entire family is here. How long have I been asleep? I sit up, rubbing the ache in my head. Crying to sleep always leaves a nasty headache in the morning. I kick off the blankets. My legs, my arms, all of me weighs two tons as I slog toward the kitchen.

My family is huddled around the circular table, coffee and cinnamon rolls in front of them. Maybe they sense my gloom, but I hardly make a sound, yet every set of eyes locks on me.

“Wren.” My mom hurries across the kitchen. She pulls me in her arms. “Honey.”

“Did you drive through the night?” I murmur against her shoulder.

“It’s only four hours, sweetie.” My mom pulls me back, her hands on my face. “I’m so sorry this happened. He shouldn’t have been there.”

“No.” My voice is hoarse and raw. “He shouldn’t have been, but I didn’t think I would lose it again. But seeing all that, seeing Griffin—”

“Wren, come on. You know Clay must’ve done something or Griffin wouldn’t have hit him. I’m still not convinced he did.” Darren shoots to his feet.