“He died when I was nineteen.” I look out the window at the crashing waves. “Heart attack. It was completely unexpected. He was only fifty-two and seemed healthy. He went for a run one morning and just... never came home.”
“That’s rough.” His eyes soften as he reaches across the table to take my hand. “I’m sorry.”
“It was,” I admit. “But, of course, my mom took it evenharder. They were high school sweethearts. They had this epic love story that spanned almost three decades. After he died, she just... shut down.”
“How so?”
I trace patterns into the condensation on my water glass. “She stopped eating and barely slept. I would come home from college on the weekends to find her sitting in his chair, wearing his sweater, staring at nothing. It was almost like she disappeared, too. So I moved back home for a while to take care of her.”
I’m grateful for the interruption when the waitress brings our food. This isn’t something I’ve talked about with anyone in a really long time.
“It took almost a year before she started acting like herself again,” I continue after another bite of my lobster roll. “She joined a grief support group, started teaching again. She even dated a little, though nothing serious has come of it yet.”
“Is that why you write romance?” Ryder asks. “Because of them?”
Surprised by his insight, I think about it for a minute. “Maybe, a little? I never thought about it that way, but yeah... I think seeing how they were together showed me what real love looks like. The kind worth writing about. I’d always wanted to be a writer, though. Since I was a kid. I was a voracious reader, too. Still am.”
“And what about after college?” he asks gently. “How were you discovered as an author?”
“Okay.” I pick up a fry from my plate and wave it in the air. “The truth is, I started out as a professional ghostwriter. I wrote dozens of love stories for other people before I was brave enough to admit I wanted my own name on the cover.”
“Dozens?” He takes another sip of his beer.
“Yeah.” My voice catches when I look up to see him lookingat me intently. “Writing has always been a way I could feel like I fit in without actually taking up space, you know?
“Growing up, I always felt kind of invisible. I got good grades, but I kept to myself. I didn’t feel like I fit in anywhere. When I was twelve, we moved to Portland because of my dad’s job, and I met Sasha. We’ve been best friends ever since.”
“It’s good that you have her in your life.”
“It is.”
He takes another sip of his beer, and I watch in awe. The memory of what that mouth touching the rim of his glass did to my pussy last night is making my inner walls flutter.
My next question almost comes out as a squeak. “What about you?”
“I don’t really talk about my past.”
“All I know is what I’ve already plotted out, which isn’t much. So I’m just wondering if it’s any different now from what I came up with before.”
His brows furrow as he spins his nearly empty glass a couple of times before he speaks.
“My parents split when I was ten.” Setting the glass aside, he leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. “Once I reached junior high, I got into a lot of fights. My mom told me that if I didn’t get my shit together, I’d wind up in jail. So, I joined the Marines right out of high school. Figured if I wanted to fight, might as well pick something worth fighting for.
“I did two tours before I was honorably discharged. After my last deployment... shit got real messy. PTSD and anger issues basically took over my life. I met Claire at a meeting and she became my sponsor. Eventually she offered me an apprenticeship at a shop she was working at, told me I had a steady hand and a weird knack for listening to people’s stories.”
He glances up at me and the look on his face is so vulnerable I want to go over and wrap my whole body around him. “That was the first time I felt like I belonged. Like maybe I was worth something outside of wearing a uniform.”
“I’m so glad you found your place,” I say softly.
“Kinda feels like maybe I’m still looking for it.”
Those words hit me hard. It’s my fault he’s here. My fault he has to relive his past.
His gaze flicks toward the ocean, watching the waves as they crash against the shore.
“I’m sorry,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s my fault you’re in this mess.”
His sharp gaze snaps back to mine. “Don’t be sorry for creating me, Noia. I’m not.”
