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“Then go to bed. I’ll stay down here.” I gently push his hair off his face. “I don’t understand what happened,” I say, resting my hand on his shoulder. “We were having such a nice date. I thought we were happy.”

His hand slowly slides down the outside of my thigh, the warmth of it seeping right through the fabric of my jeans.

“Because that’s what happens.” He swallows. “Nothing good ever lasts for me.”

“But it didn’t have to happen. We’re fine,” I protest as his hand grips my leg.

Snaking his arm around me, he pulls me down on him until I’m lying against his chest, my head on his shoulder, my face against his neck. I don’t move, unsure of his motive and equally unsure how I feel about being so close to him when he’s acting so strange.

“You have no idea how bad I wanted this,” he says, and I can’t deny how sexy his voice can be when his raspiness touches the right words at the right time. My thighs tighten in response, warmth radiating from within.

“I want you to be happy. Tell me what’s wrong,” I whisper.

His arm tightens around me. “You make me happy.”

I relax into him after hearing his words and close my eyes as his hand lightly trails up and down my arm, over the uneven texture of my scars, without hesitation.

Yes. Bring the happiness back. Please.

“You really don’t know, do you?” he finally says.

“Know what?”

“I was there,” he finally says.

“Where?”

“The boy you grabbed for help. The one he pushed into the fire. It was me.”

A jolt of pain slices through me, almost blinding me in its ferocity.

I sit up, nearly falling off his lap, but he catches me and holds me against his chest. “What?” That can’t be true. We couldn’t have been in the same place at the same time so many times. That’s the kind of thing that happens on TV, and even I know that doesn’t happen in real life. “I don’t believe you.”

“Holly, it’s true. You described the entire night exactly how it happened. It was me. Look at me. Think back.”

The blue eyes… the shaggy blond hair…

I shake my head. “No…” I don’t want it to be him. I don’t want the horrible screams I heard to belong to the man who’s become my best friend, taken care of my dog, and given me special blankets and a dream catcher.

The man I love.

“I could’ve saved you. I was drunk, and I forgot you afterward. I never told anyone. Maybe if I had…” He gulps and coughs, and I close my eyes, hating his pain and struggle. “I could have described him to the police. I looked right at him. They could have drawn one of those pictures. He was a teacher. Someone would have recognized the photo in this small town. I fucked up, Holly. I fucked up so bad. I’m so fucking sorry.”

My heart is breaking inside, cracking and shattering, its tiny pieces coursing through my veins. “That’s not how I see it,” I say tearfully. “Not at all.”

He turns his face toward mine. “Really? How the hell do you see it?”

“If I hadn’t grabbed you, he never would have pushed you. You never would have gotten burned. You never would have—”

He never would have been in pain. He never would have been on drugs. He never would have fought with his father. He never would have crashed his bike. The moment I touched him, I destroyed him.

His lips come down hard on mine, silencing me as I ramp up into hysterics.

“Shh…,” he whispers. “Are you crazy? You were just a little girl looking for help. I fucked up. You didn’t do anything wrong at all.”

He’s wrong. So very, very wrong. “I’m so sorry, Tyler,” I cry. “If I had just not done that… I ruined your whole life…”

“No,” he says vehemently. “Heruined our lives.Him. That sick monster.”