Page 30 of Severed Heart

“You could have talked to her,” I sling at him, hurt seeping through my anger. “Mom’s a goddamned psychologist, Dad. She could have tried to help you find the fucking door.”

He shakes his head, negating that as a possibility, and blows out a breath. “You’re a good son,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’m sorry.”

He turns and starts walking toward the side of the bar, opposite the front door, as I shout at his retreating back.

“Hey, Master Sergeant Jennings!” He snaps to and holds my eyes. “If you truly mean that, get the fuck away from my mother!”

Inside the van, I spin tires as I race away from the bar, reeling with his revelations as my heart finalizes the slow shatter it started years ago. Overcome, I force myself to pull over and stalk away from the van as my emotions get the best of me. Chest heaving, I feel the largest part of myself breaking away from me—years of Dad’s expectations evaporating as I look up at the night sky. Snow pours from it, seemingly from nothing but the gaping black space hovering above. Face upturned, I hit the frozen ground, unable to move in any direction as a guttural cry bursts out of me.

Dom’s boots appear sometime later as I rip at the frozen grass, dirt collecting beneath my nails as I rehash my father’s admissions.

“He’s right,” I sniff, hating he’s seeing me in this state—this fucking raw—but if I’m going to get emotional, I would rather Dom lay witness than any other. Dom sits next to me for a few beats before his words break through my audible pants.

“I’m so fucking sorry, Tyler,” he whispers hoarsely. It’s then I realize I’m not the only one who’s emotional. I don’t dare look over as I grip my knees, my fingers white, nails somehow bloody.

“We’ll figure this out, man. I swear we will. You don’t have to enlist.” His words come out mangled as he absorbs the blow alongside me. What most people aren’t privy to is that my chosen brother lives by his feelings, primarily those of his gut. If there were a way for him to suppress or box his emotions, he wouldn’t survive it. His heart is what fuels him, though he’s an expert at masking that truth. It’s in rationalizing that about him that an idea strikes me, a notion of a possible way.

“No,” I rasp out in both declaration and vow. “I’m going to be the one that breaks the cycle.”

I don’t have to glance over to know he’s nodding.

“Come to my house,” he finally says. “Stay with me tonight. Sleep in Tobias’s bed. Don’t go home.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “Sorry, man, but did you ever once think that your house would be the place I’d seek refuge?”

“Fuck you,” he spits, a smile lifting his lips. “Then again, no offense taken.” Neither of us moves as he speaks up a few beats later.

“She’s leveled out some, though, hasn’t she?” No mystery to theshehe’s referring to.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” I admit. Delphine’s been trying to build some semblance of a relationship with Dom since Tobias left for France, and Dom’s done nothing but cruelly dismiss her. I wipe some of the frozen grass off my jeans as I stand. “She’s been trying since before T left, but I knew better than to point it out to you.”

“Think I should give her a chance?”

“I think you want to, and I’m not telling you one way or another, but, Dom—” I frown, unsure if I should tell him.

“What?” he asks in subtle demand.

“I read a few of the letters in her cigar box some months back. From what I can tell, what her ex-husband put her through, fuck man, it was horrific. I know it was wrong to invade her privacy like that, but after scraping her off the floor so many times, I had to know.”

“That bad?”

“Like I said, I only read a few of her letters, and what I did still fucks with me.”

He cut off my hair to the scalp.

Last night, he made me sleep in the snow.

Those written words physically pained me to read. What fucks with me most, and what I find incomprehensible, is that the formidable woman I’m accustomed to is the same woman who wrote those letters.

“Heads up”—I look over at him—“your mom’s return letters are in there, too, and are only marginally better. Abijah was no saint.”

“I thought you said you only read two?”

“Of Delphine’s,” I admit, guilty of the accusation in his eyes.

He arches a brow. “If I decide to start a diary, are you going to read it?” he cracks to lighten things, though my heart now bears a weight I know I’ll never be free of.

“Fuck off.” I wipe my face clear as fatigue starts to set in. “Sorry I drug you into that.”