The vulnerability in my voice surprises even me. Since when do I ask for reassurance like some lovesick teenager?
But the truth is, yesterday changed everything, shifted the entire foundation of my world, and I need to know where her head is before I let myself fall any deeper into this impossible situation.
Lucy is quiet for a long moment, considering her words with the care of someone who knows how much damage the wrong ones can do. When she speaks, her voice is careful but honest.
"Confused? Yes. Overwhelmed? Definitely. But regrets?" She shakes her head firmly. "No regrets. I know what we're doing doesn't make sense to most people. I know they'd probably think I'm crazy for even considering..."
She trails off, and there's something in her tone that makes me look at her more closely. A shadow that passes over her features like a cloud blocking the sun, like she's remembering something that still has the power to hurt her.
"Crazy's just a word people use when they don't understand something," I tell her, meaning every syllable. "Doesn't make it wrong."
"I've been called worse things by people who were supposed to know better," she says quietly, then seems to catch herself.
"But that's not the point. The point is, this feels right. I can't explain it logically, but it does. All of it. You, Beau, Gabriel, the way we fit together. My only real concern is that someone's going to get hurt."
The admission hangs between us, honest and raw and cutting straight to the heart of my own fears. Because I've been terrified of the same damn thing since the day Beau stopped speaking to me. Hurt is what I do best, even when I don't mean to.
"Lucy." I pull over at a scenic overlook, putting the truck in park so I can turn to face her properly.
Through the windshield, the Montana landscape spreads out like a promise, endless sky and rolling hills that make you believe anything's possible. "Look at me."
When she meets my eyes, I see all the vulnerability she's trying to hide. The fear that this is too good to be true, that something this perfect has to have a catch. It's a look I know intimately because I see it in my own mirror every morning.
"We're all going into this with our eyes wide open," I tell her, my voice rough with emotion I'm not used to showing anyone. "I can't speak for the other guys, but I can speak for myself. I'm all in, Shortie. Whatever this is, wherever it goes, I'm not running. Not from you, not from any of it."
"What if it doesn't work? What if we mess up what you and Beau are trying to rebuild?"
The question hits closer to home than I want to admit. Because the truth is, I've been wondering the same thing, turning it over in my mind like a worry stone.
Yesterday was the first time in two years that Beau and I worked together instead of against each other, and it feltso natural I almost forgot why we'd been fighting in the first place.
Almost.
"Beau and I have been circling each other like wounded animals for two years," I say finally, the words tasting like truth and regret. "Snarling and snapping but never quite going for the throat. If being with you is what it takes to remind us we used to be brothers, then maybe that's exactly what we need. Maybe you're not going to break us apart. Maybe you're going to put us back together."
The words surprise me as soon as I say them, but I realize they're true. For the first time since Sophia left, I can look at Beau without feeling like someone carved out a piece of my chest with a rusty knife. And if Lucy's the reason for that, then I owe her more than she knows.
"You really mean that?" she asks, her brown eyes searching my face like she's looking for lies.
"I really mean that." I bring our joined hands to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Besides, I've got a good feeling about this. All of it."
She's quiet for a moment, then leans across the console to kiss me. It's soft and sweet and tastes like promises I'm not sure any of us know how to keep, and when she pulls back, there are tears in her eyes.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For being so sure when I'm not sure of anything."
"I'm sure enough for both of us right now."
I pull back onto the road, and we drive in comfortable silence for a while. Lucy's head rests against my shoulder, and I can feel the tension leaving her body with each mile we cover.
Whatever demons she's running from, they feel further away when she's with us.
When the clinic comes into view, I'm almost disappointed. The drive gave us time to just be together without the complications of other people or responsibilities or the real world trying to intrude.
"Actually," Lucy says as I park in front of the clinic, "would it be okay if we make a quick stop at the diner first? Gabriel worked all night, and I thought maybe I could bring him some breakfast. He's probably running on nothing but coffee and stubbornness by now."
The request should trigger every jealous instinct I have. Should make me want to mark my territory, remind her who she spent the night with, whose name she was screaming in the hay. Instead, I find myself smiling at her thoughtfulness.
Damn. When did I get so reasonable about sharing?
