“At eighteen, I was still a child. Sheltered. Graduating from high school and finding my way in the real world. Perhaps I thought it exciting that an older man found me attractive, but before I had time to unpack those silly, schoolgirl feelings, I lost my brother. Then my grandfather. Then my parents.”
“It’s…” His expression turns forlorn. Sad, but with a hint of impatience, too. “I need to remind myself that you’ve lost the foundation of who we are. That I’m not talking tothatRose anymore.”
“Why? WouldthatRose not have asked that question?”
He sighs. “If she thought it, she never voiced it. And I won’t lie, if she had, it would’ve broken my heart a little bit.”
“Will you humor me? For the sake of what we’re doing here.”
He flattens his lips, picking up his wine and swirling the liquid in the glass. “I think you and I were more than a trauma bond. I’ve certainly always felt so. You went through a lot over the years, but you approached every obstacle with grace and dignity and sensibility far exceeding your age.” He folds his arm across his stomach, his shoulders drawing closer. “Seth’s death rocked you, which was an entirely expected and reasonable emotional response. As a result, you sought the help of a therapist, and together, you worked through the aftermath of loss.”
My pulse jumps and stutters. My brows shoot high on my forehead. “Did I continue to see this therapist long-term? What’s their name? Requesting their notes would be extremely beneficial in rediscovering who I am, don’t you think?”
“Certainly. I could get her details over to you later, if you wish. Doctor Mara was a dear friend of my mother’s; she’ll have all that information tucked away. You saw her for about a year after Seth passed. Weekly at first, and then monthly toward the end. You stopped because you felt better, but when your grandfather died, those old emotions resurfaced, so you returned.”
“What about when my parents died?”
He shakes his head, staring down at his wine. “Doctor Mara was already at the end of her career when she took you on at my mother’s request. By the time your parents passed, she’d officially retired and closed her practice, and you had no interest in finding someone else or rehashing the past with a new therapist. During that same period, Doctor Mara had received a devastating health diagnosis and shortly after, had succumbed?—”
“Her, too? Geez.” I laugh. It’s ridiculous and humorless. Agitating and frustrating. “I shall refer to myself as the Angel of Death from now on. Sounds like knowing me is quite a risk to take.”
“It sounds so much worse when it’s all lumped together. You’re receiving seven years of news all crushed into a single discussion, but each of these events took place over a significant amount of time. Your brother wasn’t even stateside when he passed, but he was serving his country, bravely defending our freedom. It’s what he wanted to do. Your grandfather died of a disease. Your parents’ death was a tragic accident. And although losing Doctor Mara was painful for you, just as the others were, she was an older woman who had lived a good, long life. She was in her eighties by the time she retired. None of that was your fault, Rose.” He leans across the table, trying—but failing—to take my hand.
His eyes shutter with pain as I shrink backwards. His lips firm into flat lines. Then he settles for patting the table instead. “You’ve always taken everyone else’s problems on as your own. You’re a fixer.” Pulling back, he glances to the right and makes room for the server to set our plates down.
His first, then mine.
“Your rigatoni, madam.”
“Thank you.” I glance up at the man in a crisp white shirt and a spotless black apron tied at his waist, and once he sets my plate down, I meet his bright eyes. “It smells amazing.”
He flashes a wide smile. “I hope you enjoy your meal.” He takes a step away, folding into an almost bow and sweeping his arm through the air. Then he turns on his heels and bustles back to the kitchen.
“You’ve always drawn attention.” Darcy picks up his fork, his eyes shifting across to the still-swinging kitchen door. “Too beautiful for your own good.”
I select my fork and poke the steaming pasta, inhaling the delightful scent all the way to the base of my lungs. Scooping a small amount up, I bring it to my lips and hum because it tastes as good as it looks. Covering my mouth, I focus back on Darcy. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning. Thanking a server for bringing my food is good manners, don’t you agree?”
“Of course. But it’s been my experience over the last seven years that men cannot help falling in love with you. It takes just a smile. A single muttered word. Eye contact.” His eyes flicker between mine. “I lost count a long time ago. But I assure you, Rose, they always wished it were them sitting across from you, and not me.”
“I don’t know about that. I think it would be a dark world if I assumed every single person who was ever nice to me was nice only because they wanted a romantic relationship. Just as it would suck to think society assumed my manners were something they were not.” I tuck loose hair behind my ear and scoop more rigatoni onto my fork. “Did we live together?”
“Yes. We did.” He blows on his dinner, carefully placing the piping hot pasta on his tongue. Covering his mouth while he chews and swallows, his eyes dance with playfulness. “You officially moved into my home three years ago, though for the three years before that, you stayed over most nights, anyway. By the time we made it official, there wasn’t much left to move.”
ROUND FIFTY-TWO
OLLIE
Car lights flash across the front of my house, illuminating the living room and surprising me because Rose has only been gone for half an hour.
Could she be home so soon? Did she get her answers already?
I know it’s not possible. Fuck knows, my hope is no different from that of a child waiting up on Christmas Eve with aSanta-is-realmentality. But I jump up from my couch anyway and race to the door. Swinging it open—hoping, praying, wishing for a miracle anyway—my hope turns to despair. Because Santa, in this instance, is Billy. And I’m not sure I have the emotional bandwidth to look him in the eye and remember how much he hates me.
To remember his pain. The broken friendship. The eight years of anguish he’s lived with, and because it hurt so much, he made damn sure I carried my fair share, too.
He cuts the engine and slides out of his truck onto heavy boots, slamming the door and turning with arms loaded with files.
Frowning, I lean against the doorframe and scowl. “What are you doing, Billy?”
