As I make a beeline in her direction, my upper and lower teeth clench together so fiercely, so tightly, I’ll definitely be seeing a doctor about TMJ after tonight. I remind myself to try to stay calm, especially after my explosive reaction to seeing her with Beckham. The last thing I want her to think is I’m some out-of-control maniac; that would completely negate all of the positive things I’ve been working on. But, fuck, I really want to punch whoever the hell that dude is.

The smell of pot grows stronger the closer I get to the circle, and as I move over near where she is, I notice several joints being passed around the loop. Luckily, there’s an open seat to the left of her and fuckface, so instead of barreling up to her and making a big scene, I lower myself onto the vinyl fold-out lawn chair, trying my damnedest to reel in the frenzied fury racing through my veins before I open my mouth.

Pulling the brim of the hat down lower over my eyes, my knee bounces erratically as they break apart for the guy to accept a doobie from a girl on the other side, and the pool of lava deep in my gut burns even hotter. I have no idea what to expect from her when she sees me, but based on her inability to hold her head up on her own at the moment, I’m not sure it’ll even happen.

She’s tanked.

The guy—who really does look like a white Bob Marley, especially once I see the ponytail of dreadlocks dangling down his back—takes a few puffs off the joint then blows the smoke directly into her mouth from his, just like she used to do for me. I think I may be sick.

Bursting into a fit of drunk giggles, she throws her head back at something he whispers in her ear, and to keep her from falling off his lap, he circles his free arm around her thin waist and hauls her up closer to sit directly on top of his dick. My hands ball up into angry fists and I exhale an impatient breath, waiting…begging for her to look over at me. I’m not going to be able to keep quiet much longer.

Finally, Marley boy turns to me and extends his arm out to pass the weed. I pretend not to notice at first, making him nudge my shoulder and address me, which in turn gets her attention.

“Hey, dude, here you go.” The guy lifts the lit joint up in front of my face. “It’s all yours.”

I don’t reply, because I’m too busy staring at Hudson, who is now staring directly at me as well. Her glazed-over, bloodshot eyes narrow on me, and after a couple of seconds, a wide grin spreads across her face.

“Wait a minute! I know you!” she slurs while pointing at me, the goofy smile still intact.

I nod, keeping my face expressionless. I hate seeing her torn up like this, and knowing the way I’ve treated her most likely has something to do with the reason why, it fucking kills me. For Christ’s sakes, she’s so fucked up she doesn’t even know who I am right now.

“I know you too,” I reply softly, the edge of my mouth kicking up in a small apologetic smile.

“What are you doing he—” She starts to ask me one question, but then gets distracted and points at my shirt. “Hey! You aren’t wearing an ugly sweater! Why not?”

Glancing down at my plain black fleece hoodie, I lift my eyes back to meet hers. “No, I’m not planning on staying long. I just came to pick someone up.”

She curls her little nose up in disapproval and shakes her head, again nearly toppling to the ground. “Pick someone up? It’s too early to go home. I’m having such a great time here with,” she stops talking and looks over at the guy, obviously trying to remember his name, and then shrugs her shoulders when she gives up seconds later, “all these fun friends with ugly sweaters.”

I shift my gaze over to her nameless fun friend and look at him in a way that clearly says, ‘This little game is up. I’m gonna take my girl home now, and if you ever think about laying one of your piece-of-shit hands on her again, I’ll make sure you don’t play the guitar for a long fucking time.’

Guy language is a fucking miraculous thing, ‘cause it takes homeslice less than five seconds to read between my raised eyebrows to figure out it’s in his best interest to return what belongs to me. And she fucking belongs to me.

Hudson’s still babbling about something to do with the sweaters as Marley guy stands up, sliding her off his lap and onto her feet in front of him, except she’s so unsteady she staggers sideways and trips over a random branch, falling to the ground with a loud, “Owww.”

Being the only sober person around, my reaction time is light-years faster than anyone else’s, and I’m at her side in a matter of seconds, picking her up in my arms and shuffling her over to the chair I was just in. I sit her down and immediately begin to check her all over. The only place I can find any injuries is a good-sized scrape on her forearm, and although it’ll need to be cleaned and bandaged, I’m relieved not to find anything serious. And based on her near-comatose state, she’s not feeling any pain right now anyway.

I scan the small crowd that has gathered close to make sure Hudson’s okay, hoping to find the guy she was with so I can find out what she’s been drinking before I give her any medicine for the pain, but he’s nowhere to be found, probably hiding out from my wrath, which is a pretty smart move right about now.

Scooping her up in my arms, I’m cautious to keep the abrasion from rubbing up against anything as I carry her half-alert body across the backyard and into the house. I stop where Rory and Hudson’s three sisters are waiting to hear what happened.

“She’s okay, other than a scrape on her arm. I doubt she’ll remember any of this tomorrow anyway,” I assure them, peering down at her as I squeeze her even closer to me. “I’m gonna take her home now and get her fixed up. I know there’s some ointment and bandages in the bathroom cabinet. If I can’t find what I need, I’ll wake up Mel and Doug.”

They all nod their approval, and before I take her out to my truck, each of her sisters kisses her cheek or forehead and tells her they love her, but she’s passed out cold. I don’t say anything, ‘cause it’s probably best I don’t, but I want to tell them they should’ve done a better job watching out for her if they love her so damn much. That fucking tool could’ve done anything he wanted with her, and no matter how much she hates me, I know Hudson wouldn’t want that. That’s not who she is.

Her eyes stay closed throughout the entire trip to her house, only fluttering open when I lift her out of the truck and cradle her against my chest. She peers up at me through her heavy lids and sighs contently, then closes her eyes and buries her face in my sweatshirt without saying a word.

Using the key, I quietly let us in the front door and take her to her room, gingerly lowering her into the bed and removing her boots. Once I’m certain she’s settled and comfortable, I retrieve a cool, damp cloth, antibacterial cream, and a bandage from the bathroom in the hall, again careful not to make too much noise.

As gently as I possibly can, I doctor her up, cleaning, treating, and covering the scuff, all while she stays asleep. After I put everything away, I realize I should leave her to rest, but I can’t help myself and end up lying down next to her on the mattress to watch her sleep. She’s so fucking beautiful.

Memories flood my mind from the different times I’ve laid in this exact spot next to her, and though most are associated with good times—some fucking amazingly good—it’s the most recent memory that fills me with overwhelming regret and remorse. The way I treated her in the days after Caleb’s funeral is inexcusable, no matter what had just happened. She was hurting from losing him too, and instead of grieving with her, I only added to her pain by shutting her out.

God, I really fucked up.