Page 31

Not that I can make it.

Or afford to hire someone to make it for me.

I could…try, I guess.

Try and fail.

Ugh.

“Hey,” he says softly, “where’d you go?”

I exhale. “Nowhere.”

“Liar.” The accusation is quiet. Gentle. “Tell me.” A little firmer, bordering on order.

“I can’t cook,” I whisper. “Can’t hire someone to cook for me.” I feel my throat getting tight. “Can’t even go to the grocery store and buy ingredients to fumble my way through a meal.” I push my plate back, close my eyes. “I just can’t believe that I’ve allowed myself to get to this point.”

“You know, I’ve been in this business a long time.”

His voice isn’t gentle, but I don’t need gentle—don’t want it.

That’ll propel the tears over the edges of my eyes, sending them skating down my cheeks.

I’m so done with crying about my life.

I want to do something.

I suppose that’s why I’m here.

Of course, it would be nice to actually have a plan on how to do that something.

“I’ve seen a lot of things, good and bad,” he goes on, “but the one constant is that shit happens, it happens whether you follow the rules or not, whether you do all the right things or not, whether you’re a good person or not. Hell, sometimes I think it happens more often to the good people because there’s a line in the sand they’re not willing to cross.”

I think about all the lines that Dylan crossed.

And I shudder. “I just know that when it all gets out people are going to say Why didn’t she just leave? Or Why would she allow it to get to that point? Or worse.” I sigh, rub at the throb in my temple. I feel mostly normal, albeit tired with the occasional headache.

Though, I don’t think this headache is from my injury and hospital stay.

It’s because?—

“I’ve asked those questions myself,” I say. “Over and over again. I stand here and look back and feel like the weakest person on the planet. Because I don’t have answers that make sense.”

“Princess,” he says, his big hand moving slowly across the table, gently wrapping it around mine. “We don’t have to talk about this.”

I don’t want to talk about it.

And yet part of me needs to.

“You don’t have to listen,” I tell him. “I know you’ve been through your own injury and have your own problems.” I try to slip my hand from his. “You’re already doing enough for me—you don’t need to be my therapist too.”

His grip on my hand tightens, and I feel a sliver of worry slice through my middle.

Yet, even as I’m processing that, he immediately releases me.

Like he sensed that worry.

Like he knew.