Yet here I was, babying like I’d never babied before. As if “Pip” wasn’t bad enough. Pretty sure I’d heard “kitten” slip out earlier too.
Hell. I might as well start writing poetry on my notes app.
What was even worse? It didn’t feel as dire as I knew it could be. In that moment, I totally understood why Kieran told me if he was wrong about Haz, I would have toput him down.
And he didn’t mean for a nap.
Our world was ride-or-die. Trust and loyalty were premium, more valuable than any weapon. That was why, for the last ten years, there were only the two of us. It was why I was in this life at all. Letting in someone else made me vulnerable and, in extension, would make Kieran vulnerable too. It was why he was so concerned about Rett being anaddict.
Turned out Kieran’s instincts were right about Haz.
But what if mine weren’t right about Rett?
And if they were right, that meant I’d be dragging someone soft and innocent into this life. A life where the only exit was death.
So let me sum this up. If I was right, death for Rett. If I was wrong, death for me.
The only solution was to walk away. Which I did. It damn near killed me, but I’d done it.
I wasn’t sure I could do it again.
“I’m sick.”
The two words shattered everything. All my internal conflict lay scattered around me in shards.
My head snapped up, eyes locking onto his pale, wary face.
“What?” I asked, voice gravelly.
“That’s why I asked Tommy for those pills.”
A tornado of thoughts and emotions sent me whirling. Of everything he could have said, this was the last thing I expected. I shook my head, trying to clear it even a little. “You mean like last time? You had a fever and some kinda flu.”
I’d taken care of him then, and I could do it now.
“Yes—I mean, no.” He shook his head.
“Which is it?” I asked, growing impatient.
“I’m sure that’s why I was sick last time. I mean, I’d been shoveling all that snow, and I was rundown?—”
“What snow?” I burst out. I didn’tknow about any snow.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“The hell it doesn’t!” I said, grasping him by the arms to give him a little shake. Between us, the boxes of creamer rattled. “Everything about you matters.”
His body sort of slumped like a battery draining right in my hands.
“C’mon,” I murmured, picking him up. “Put that on the counter.”
“No way!” he argued, hugging the boxes against his chest.
Fucking creamer.
I went back to the couch and sat down with him in my lap, his sock-covered feet falling onto the cushion beside us.
“It’s the kind of sick that doesn’t get better. It’s chronic.”
