The Blind Boy

23.

A/N: There's a trigger warning at the beginning of this novel, but adding another one here. Mentions of sexual abuse in this chapter. 

Their knuckles brush in the Uber, a delicate, burning kind of touch – the kind of touch that makes her want more, and that terrifies her – because Ash is not the sort of person to want anything.

She needs.

Ash is a creature of need, of normalcy, of routine. It's cold, so she needs a new coat. She hasn't eaten in days, (because her foster parent has forgotten her existence, zonked on drugs) so she needs food. Water. Money. Insurance. Good grades to ensure a graduation cap. A job soon so she can pay Robb rent (because even though he offers, she refuses to be a burden come next year).

It all piles on, these needs, to the point where her desires are shoved so far down that she's certain they've all withered away by now.

But no. As she purposefully brushes their hands together, evidently they haven't.

Things that are extra, like nice clothes (or even friends) make Ash nervous, like she's going to be punished for taking more. Will she be punished for having this, with him? Likely so.

Nothing good is going to come from this, she inwardly warns herself. Why set yourself up for pain, for failure? This friendship, this connection, it's fleeting. The pain wouldn't be. It would be long lasting, like it always is.

A part of her feels betrayed, because that is the part of her mind that she listens to the most, and this time she just isn't. It feels like the ground has escaped from underneath her feet, like she's plummeting into something unknown.

Rory Denvers has a habit of doing that to her. All reason ebbs in his presence. The Uber rolls in front of her house, the man practically slamming on his breaks from nearly missing her stop, and their hands jerk away.

"Bye," he says. It's spoken so softly and tenderly that she nearly shudders, and when he reaches over her to get to her door – to open it for her – his lips brushing near her neck, she does. It takes him a few tries and she can see the frustration growing on his face, but she likes that he's this close for this long.

"Sorry," he apologies, flustered, when he finally manages to swing the door open.

"Rory," she murmurs, tone dropping. She wants to say something, anything, and he pauses. She knows that he can hear it in her voice – the want, the intensity – because he swallows, looking torn. They stay that way for a moment, Ash's eyes dropping down to his lips, and Rory's breath staining them.

He must know how close they are.

His expression shutters then, shifting from something awed, something pleading, to something cold and far away. "See you tomorrow," is all he says and she nods, trying to banish the disappointment as swiftly as it comes.

Friends, Ash reminds herself firmly, for the umpteenth time. Just friends. You both agreed.

Then she steps out of the car, thanking them both, and embraces the cold. Her teeth are practically chattering by the time she reaches the front door, hands trembling as she goes to turn the knob.

It's warm, blissfully so, and she immediately rubs her gloved hands together. Ash slips off her boots, her eyes flickering to the suitcase at the front of the door. She knows what that means – well, she has two theories. Either Tara is leaving, being booted by Helen, or there's a newcomer. Either way, Ash isn't thrilled.

While Tara is wild and untethered, she's also a kid. Helen might be neglectful and occasionally abusive, but it's better than a group home. Ash knows what happens in those, what happens when you get sent to the wrong family – she knows better than anyone.