The Last Time I Cried Your Name novel Chapter 135

It felt like all the strength had been sucked right out of her, like her insides were crushed, leaving her nothing but a hollow shell. The usual spark in Petty’s clear eyes was gone.

A hand suddenly moved in front of her face. Warmth pressed against her ice-cold cheek.

“Don’t look,” Harris said quietly, steadying her with a hand on her shoulder.

But the image of Laura hugging Franco wouldn’t leave her head. It kept replaying, over and over, like a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from. She felt dizzy, her mind spinning.

Finally, she couldn’t hold it together anymore. She half-collapsed into Harris’s arm, her head bowed as she fought the urge to throw up.

The dry heaves dragged up something deeper. Tears spilled down her face, her eyes red and swollen against skin that had turned almost ghostly pale.

Inside the house, Franco had pushed Laura away the instant she hugged him. He seemed to sense something. His deep, dark gaze turned toward the yard, toward Petty, who was being shielded by Harris.

Petty’s whole body shook, like she might break into pieces at any second.

“Franco!” Laura called after him, watching his strong, hurried steps as he walked away. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted his cane, forgotten by the table, a silent reminder that his leg was still healing.

Laura spun her wheelchair to chase after him.

Petty had really come back. Laura was certain now—she couldn’t let go of this house.

Harris saw Petty’s reaction, and he knew her emotions were all over the place because of the mild concussion. He reached out, ready to help her leave.

If he’d known it would be like this, he never would have agreed to bring her here.

But Petty brushed his hand away, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I can’t just let it go.”

She looked up at the house she hadn’t set foot in for over ten years. It had been locked up so long. Only now, standing in the yard, could she really take it all in.

The bricks and roof tiles were still kind of like she remembered, but everything seemed so much older now.

It had rained last night, and the sky was still heavy and gray. The ruined treehouse was soaked through, every plank wet and slippery.

Years of weather had left moss growing across the wood.

Petty stepped forward, her shoes sinking into the debris.

She hit a slick patch and nearly lost her balance, stumbling forward.

On the porch, Franco’s face tightened. He started toward her, then stopped, his hand at his side curling into a fist so tight his knuckles cracked.

Harris grabbed her arm from behind, his voice tense. “Petty, what are you looking for? Let me help you.”

But Petty didn’t seem to hear him. She kept moving, one step at a time.

The wood creaked under her feet. Some boards were already splintered from being broken apart. As she stepped on them, the cracks grew wider, groaning under her weight—until finally, the planks gave way.