Page 16 of Extended Bridge (Passionate Beats #2)

Bennett shrugs. “He also had his mother and sister. And you.” His index finger traces my tear-stained cheek. “All people who loved and grieved over him. I wouldn’t have any of you. I guess this makes me more selfish than he was.” He clasps his hands in his lap. “I did suspect, you know.”

I can’t even begin to parse his confession, so I latch onto his final statement. “You suspected what?”

“That he was getting addicted. I didn’t insert myself into his private life to question him, though. It wasn’t my place. I figured he’d kick the habit when he was ready. I didn’t imagine it would kick him instead.” His body tenses.

“You’re not a doctor. You couldn’t have known.”

“And you are?”

“I was his physical therapist. I should’ve seen the warning signs.” My gaze darts to the man before me. “Medicine can help a patient heal and bring pain level down to manageable levels. That’s all I wanted for him.” I yank my ponytail holder out of my hair.

“I was with him twenty-four seven. You weren’t. I could see his behavior changes—not to mention how his pupils constricted when he was high.” At my gasp, he adds, “He was good. He hid it really well. But I could tell, and I did nothing.”

I whisper, “How?”

“My mother has been on various prescription medications throughout my life. Taught me some signs. I wondered.” He shakes his head. “Again. Not my place.”

“He was your friend.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize my mistake. Bennett doesn’t do “friends.” I rush ahead. “If you had confronted him, what do you think would’ve been the outcome?”

“I don’t know. Hopefully he would’ve gotten treatment.”

“If I had known, I would’ve insisted he go to rehab. Maybe he’d still be here.”

This answer is unknowable. If he were still here, would I be with him now?

Life with Darren was exciting because he was larger than life, yet we were very different people.

He told me he was drawn to my down-to-earth practicality—but when he died, I was already starting to understand how incompatible our lives were.

I mean, a therapist and a rock star, really?

I glance at the man in front of me—another rock star. But with Bennett, things are different. He’s a different man who speaks to me on a deeper level. Not merely on the physical, which has been beyond any of my experience. He’s hiding some painful scars.

“Why was your mother on medications? ”

Bennett’s long eyelashes blink several times. “It’s a long story.”

I glance at the clock on my phone. “We have time.”

“I don’t talk about her.”

“I know.” My phone rings, and I quickly send Ma to voicemail. I’ll call her back. What Bennett’s opening up to me about is important.

He watches my movements but doesn’t comment. “My mother’s always been delicate, as Dad used to say.”

“Delicate? How?”

His shoulders raise then fall. “Mentally. I understand she became increasingly unstable when they had trouble conceiving.”

I reach out and grab his hand. “But you’re here now.”

“Yes.” He squeezes my fingers. “That’s the problem.” He stares at our entwined hands. “They went to extreme measures to conceive and finally succeeded with IVF.” He takes a deep breath. “Mom became pregnant with me. And my twin.”

My mind puzzles at his response. I don’t remember hearing Bennett having a sibling. I keep my lips shut.

He continues, “As happens often with IVF, she lost my sister early. I survived.”

“I don’t know too much about pregnancy, but how far along was she to know she miscarried a girl?”

“She was only a few weeks in. There’s no way to know the gender. The only reason I call it a girl is because that’s how Mom refers to my twin.”

My palm covers my gasp. “That’s terrible.”

“Whenever we speak, there is the invariable sentence that begins, ‘If you’d let your sister live’ or, if she’s being more charitable, ‘If your sister were here.’”

How could any mother say such a thing to her only surviving child?

Obviously, Bennett’s said she isn’t in her right mind.

I can’t process the pain he must carry with him because of her.

Without thinking, I crawl the remaining distance and wrap my arms around his broad chest. “I can’t imagine. It wasn’t your fault. ”

His arms rise and clamp down over mine. “Like the deaths of your grandmother and Darren weren’t yours.”

Heat seeps into my body, from the front and the back. Both my cheek, pressed against his hard pec, and his arms wound tightly around my back, welcome his comfort. I hope my body comforts him in the same way.

I remember his comment about Darren’s drug use. “Is your mother getting help?”

His chest expands against me. But for being pressed against him, I might not have noticed. “She is.”

“Your father’s gone, right?”

“He died when I was seventeen. A few weeks before I joined UC.”

No wonder I feel a kinship with the lead singer. We’ve both known death. I handle mine by controlling my environment. He chooses to remain an outsider looking in on his life. I squeeze him tighter.

“I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through all this,” I tell him. Still on my knees, I adjust my weight.

He brushes hair away from my cheek. “You’ve had it rougher than anyone else I know.”

I gaze into his green eyes, the color of leaves after a rainstorm. “Except for you.”

“This doesn’t count, you know. You started it.”

My head tilts, my chin brushing against his shoulder. Confusion runs through my veins until it hits me. I pull away, all the while craving his warmth. “I’ll let you off the hook. This time. You still have one hug left.”

His smile carries with it a hint of sadness. “I plan on collecting, but not now.”

Not when we’re so raw I supply. “Do you want to talk any more about all of this?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve had more than enough for now. You?”

“Same.” I rock to my feet and stand. “See you at sound check? ”

“Don’t you know it.”

I return to my room, all the while wondering which one of us is looking forward to the evening’s gig more—him for the screaming fans, or me, to watch over my patient.

Or is there a third option I never considered—where we both help the other heal?