Page 103 of The Bodyguard

That song? That was the song I was always humming? I knew that song.

Jack stopped beside me, letting it play.

“Recognize it?” he asked after a bit, a little out of breath.

“Yes,” I said, not offering more.

It was an oldie by Mama Cass called “Dream a Little Dream of Me.” When the song started over, I sang along with the first line: “Stars shining bright above you…” When I was little, my mom used to sing it all the time—while doing dishes, while driving carpool, while tucking me into bed.

“So what’s the deal?” Jack asked.

“It’s just a song I know,” I said.

“How do you know it?”

“My mom used to sing it all the time when I was a kid. But I haven’t heard it in years and years.”

“Except for, like, every day, when you’re humming it.”

I didn’t argue.

When the song ended, Jack put his phone away. It suddenly seemed awfully quiet.

“I think she only sang that song when she was happy,” I said.

Jack just nodded.

“If I’m honest, I can’t remember her singing it—not even once—after my dad left.”’

Jack nodded again, and as I felt the tenderness in the way he was watching me, I also felt a rising pain in my chest—penetrating, like when your hands have gotten too cold and then you put them in hot water. A thawing pain that stung behind my ribcage and then climbed up into my throat.

And I guess the only way that pain could get itself out was to melt into tears.

I felt them sting my eyes.

I stayed very still, like if I didn’t move, Jack might not notice.

But of course he noticed. He was six inches away and staring right at me.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice soft.

I kept still.

“You can tell me,” he said again. “It’s okay.”

It’s okay. I don’t know what kind of magic he infused into those two words, but somehow, when he said them, I believed him. Everything I had ever told myself about being professional and staying on guard and maintaining boundaries just… fluttered off in the wind.

I blame the sunshine. And the long grass. And that endless, gentle breeze over the pasture. I gave in.

“My dad left when I was seven,” I said then, my voice shaking, “and my mom started dating a guy named Travis pretty soon after that, and he…” How to phrase it? “He wasn’t the nicest guy in the world.” I took a shaky breath. “He yelled at her a lot. He picked on her and told her she was ugly. He drank every night—and she started drinking, too.”

Quietly, without even shifting his gaze, Jack took one of my hands and wrapped it in his.

“On the night of my eighth birthday,” I said, taking a big, shaky breath, “he hit her.”

Jack kept his gaze steady.

“Those words are so tiny, when you say them. Three quick syllables, and it’s over. But I think, in a way, for me, it’s never been over.” I looked down, and more tears spilled over. “She was protecting me that night. We’d been supposed to go out for pizza and cake, but Travis decided at the last minute that we weren’t going. I was so outraged at the injustice that I slammed my bedroom door. He started to come after me. I’ll never forget the sound of his footsteps knocking the floor. But my mom blocked him. She stood in front of the door and wouldn’t move until he went after her instead. I hid in my closet, clamped down tight into a ball, but I could hear it. The scariest thing about the punches was how quiet they were. But her crying was loud. When she slammed back against the door, it was loud. When she hit the floor, it was loud.