Of course she isn’t. Lucy is sweet and funny and tenacious. She doesn’t have a mean bone in her body.
“He’s right,” Nick adds. “Those mistakes—your mom’s mistakes—aren’t your burden to bear. You were just a kid. You can’t keep punishing yourself for what happened in the past.”
Irritation skitters along my spine. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
He arches a brow. “Aren’t you? Because that’s exactly how it appears from where I’m sitting.”
“Dude. You need to listen to a podcast or five on childhood trauma,” Becks says, completely matter-of-fact. “It’s obvious you’ve internalized the experience and decided it’s safer not to love—or be loved—as a result.”
“That’s bullshit.”Isn’t it?“I love Mama Hart.”
Beck grins. “And how long did it take you to tell her?”
“Five years.” It’s a running joke in the family.
“Exactly.”
“Whatever. That’s not the same thing.”
Caring for the woman who raised you is hardly the same as giving your heart to another.
“True.” Nick flicks a piece of lint off his jacket. “But I doubt Lucy will sit around waiting for five years just to see if you pull your head out of your ass and stop comparing her to the monsters from your past.”
It’s possible Nick’s gruff encouragement comes from a desire to escape this conversation or a need to get back to business as usual, but either way, he makes a valid point.
Lucy isn’t some lying asshole, manipulating everyone around her for her own gain. And to paint her with the same broad strokes as those bastards my mother dated would be a disservice to her kind heart and gentle—albeit snarky—spirit.
Hell, I should thank her for having the courage to call me out for being a shallow prick and teaching me to let my guard down.
I could tell her things I’ve never told anyone before and trust she’d keep them in confidence. Trust she wouldn’t use them against me or look at me differently afterward.
And the first time she needed me to return that trust, I fucked it up, accusing her of breaking her word and being a hypocrite.
Because I didn’t know then what I know now.
That no matter how many promises you make or how many times you vow not to fall in love, the heart isn’t ruled by logic.
You can’t fall out of love with someone by telling yourself it’s impractical or dangerous or even a terrible fucking idea.
Just like you can’t stop yourself from falling in love with someone who gives you everything they have to offer—bright smiles, quiet understanding, gentle touches—with no expectation of reciprocity.
Thanks to Lucy, I now know what it means to love.
It doesn’t have to be bold and splashy like in the movies. Sometimes it’s quiet and unassuming, like a marshmallow roasting over an open flame.
I haven’t forgotten those hard times with my mother—and I probably never will—but the road trip with Lucy changed me, replacing bad memories of processed food and cheap hotels with fun, sexy ones, leaving a void only she can fill.
And like a jackass, I pushed her away.
Because I was afraid.
Afraid of being like my mother. Of giving my heart away too freely and not being able to withstand whatever challenges might come.
Coward.
The word coats my mouth like spoiled milk.
I made the biggest mistake of my life in Santa Monica.
