“Say it. It is not your fault.”
No response.
“Say it, brat. It is not your fault that the world is awful. It is not your responsibility to shoulder the weight of every bad person in the entire universe. It is not your job to police every person in someone’s life. And it is fucking normal to be fucked up about witnessing a fucked up thing.”
His nose twitched as a tear fell down his cheek. “How else was I going to conceptualize what I went through? I was confused. And scared. If I didn’t feel something else—if I didn’t put that energy into something else, I’d just keep trying to kill myself until I finally succeeded.”
“I know.”
“I was so angry, Em. So lost and angry because why? Why me?”
“I know.”
“I hadn’t done anything but open my heart to her. I existed, and I was punished.”
“No. No, you brought light into the world, and she was greedy enough to take it. None of this is on you. None of it.”
He sat up, looking down at me, the water sloshing around him. “Will it ever feel like it isn’t?”
Slowly, I reached my hand up, watching his reaction. He was watching me, too. Watching me as I placed my palm against his cheek and rose on my knees. I pressed our noses together, closing my eyes. “Yes, Moon. If you let me help you get help, then yes, one day, it’ll feel like that.”
“Promise?” He whispered.
“I promise.” I pressed my lips against his, tasting our mixed tears. They were salty, and so fucking sad. So sad. So heartbroken.
But Moon was alive. That meant we had a chance. A chance to hold each other’s hearts. For me to hold his until it wasn’t too heavy anymore. If I couldn’t scorch the goddamn earth itself forhaving someone so vile exist on the planet, I’d make damn sure Moon healed.
Starting with therapy and a whole lot of love.
Chapter Twenty-One
Shamein the face of reality was weird. I could feel shame and guilt all I wanted, but when the reality of the true situation was right before me—not just the one I’d made up in my mind—it was harder to ignore how baseless it was.
I was ashamed of how much of a mess I was. I felt guilty that Emerson had walked in on me like he did. I was ashamed of the story I’d told him, even if it didn’t make sense, which was exactly why it was fucking with me. There was no reason for me to feel shame. Emerson kept making that abundantly clear. Though somewhere deep inside the recesses of my mind, my brain had decided I needed it. It’d become a fuel to survive, in a way.
If I felt too ashamed or too guilty, there was no way I’d open up and allow myself to get hurt again. Couldn’t be damaged if I didn’t give any collateral, and that collateral was my heart.
Emerson wouldn’t let me pack my own bag, taking care of everything for me. He’d decided we’d both call in to work and head back to his house. I’d argued with him at first, claiming my problems shouldn’t get in the way of his job, to which he’d said I meant far more to him than his badge. I’d shut up and sat on the edge of my bed after that, too stunned to say another word. Knowing someone cared that much about me was…odd. Someone who wasn’t forced to give a fuck in the name of family.
“Brat?”
I looked up at the nickname. “Yeah?”
“You spaced out for a second. Where’s your phone charger?”
“Oh, uh, should be on my nightstand. I can get it, though.” As soon as I went to move, Emerson shook his head and made his way over to it.
I couldn’t hide my frown if I wanted to, not yet ready to admit that I liked how he was taking care of everything instead of me. My knee-jerk reaction was to bristle and argue with him, refusing to let myself seem so weak.
But was it weak to appreciate the help he was giving me? A part of me wanted to say yes. Another part of me was desperate to say no and finally accept the kindness where it was.
“You kept them.”
I turned, finding Emerson holding all the notes he’d left under my front door. Looking away, I shrugged. “Of course I did. It was painful, you know? Being away from you.”
He set the notes back on my nightstand, curling my phone charger around his hand. “Then why did you do it?”
The age-old question.Why?Why had I decided to punish myself with isolation, rather than allowing myself the opportunity to know what support felt like? “I don’t deserve you, Em. You’re so fucking bright. And I’m so…” I trailed off, not sure exactly how to finish that thought.
