A Million Shattered Pieces

Chapter Twelve

"There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds."

"Hello?"

The sound of Brock's voice brought on another round of sobs. I could hear him shifting on his side of the line, the sound of sheets being thrown back.

"Claire, what is it? Are you having another attack?" The light across the street went out, footsteps pounding down stairs filling the background on the phone.

I took a deep breath, the small task of doing just that almost too much. "No. I just—I wanted to hear your voice." I squeezed my eyes shut, tears sliding down the sides of my face. "To make sure you were okay."

"Why wouldn't I be okay? Do you want me to come over? It's only four in the morning, but—"

"I'll meet you halfway." I sniffled, forcing myself to move away from the window.

There was silence on the other side for a few moments. Lights turned on where the foyer was in Brock's house, the door opening. Even from this distance, I could see him. His disheveled blond hair, the old shabby sweats he always slept in still on. For the first time ever since we'd met, he didn't have a long-sleeved shirt on. But I couldn't see what his arms looked like from across the street.

Finally, Brock breathed into the phone. "Okay. Meet me outside."

A quick click sounded. I threw my phone down on my bed, grabbing a thin sweater to throw over my dress as I crept down the stairs. The rest of the house was silent, the quiet snores of my father coming from my parents' bedroom. It seemed each step groaned under my weight as I descended to the main floor.

The Christmas tree was still up, its lights flashing every color of the rainbow against the cream-colored walls. Pipes groaned somewhere from within the walls. Water dripped from the sink faucet, deafening in the silence of the early morning.

I threw the front door open, slipping on my boots and shutting the door without so much as a click behind me.

Brock was already halfway across the street, standing in the middle of the road.

I ran to him, a fresh round of sobs punching into my lungs as I slammed against his solid body. The impact nearly sent us crashing to the ground. Broken whimpers left my lips, the nightmare haunting me even when I was awake.

Arms wrapped around me tight, pulling me closer. Brock's warm breath hit my neck. He buried his face in my hair as I clung onto him like he was about to fall apart. A few minutes passed before I gathered up enough strength to speak.

"I had a nightmare. About you." My face must be twisted in a terrible wail, but the sounds remained trapped in my chest.

Brock ran his fingers through my hair. Something wet started to soak my shoulder, and I realized he was crying. It was the first time he'd ever actually shed tears in front of me.

"Don't leave me," I whispered. "Come back to my house. Spend the night."

He shook his head, pulling away to look at me. "That will give both of our parents the wrong idea. They'll think that we—that—"

"I don't care," I cried. "What they think doesn't matter. We know nothing will happen, their opinions don't matter."

Brock laughed, brushing away some of my tears with his index finger. "Claire, it does matter. They won't trust us ever again."