Page 44 of You Saw the Best In Me

“What do you want to know?” he asks, finishing his food and cleaning the trash we left on the counters.

“Everything you’ve got, broody,” I smile and sit on the couch, patting the spot next to me.

“Well, Harper and I are technically half-siblings. Neither of us know who our fathers are,” he sighs like he remembers something painful.

I don’t say anything, letting him fill the silence whenever he’s ready.

He already knows most of my past and dark secrets, and I think it’s time I start to learn some of his.

“When Harper was three, our mom was diagnosed with brain cancer. It was caught so late that we could only watch her die and keep her comfortable. I had to take care of her and Harper alone,” his voice cracks, and I can’t help the tears welling in my eyes.

It explains his protective instincts and his bond with his sister, they’re all each other has.

“Does Harper remember her?” I ask, rubbing his arm in an attempt to console him.

“No, she doesn’t. We have pictures and videos, and I keep her memory alive with stories, but it’s not the same. Life, destiny, fate, whatever the fuck you call it, took our beautiful mother too soon, and we have to live with that pain every day,” he wipes tears from his cheeks and stands up, walking to the kitchen and gripping the counter so hard his knuckles turn white.

I follow him, wrapping my arms around his waist. He didn’t leave my side when I broke down, and I won’t leave him either.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t resist, almost embracing that I’m holding him.

It’s quiet for a few minutes as I let him work through his thoughts and finish when he’s ready.

“I was seventeen. I had to quit school to take care of them both, and on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, I held my mother’s hand while she took her last breaths. Harper screamed for what felt like hours, hungry for lunch, but I couldn’t let her go. I didn’t know how,” he breaks down into a full-on sob, and I have to hold him up physically, or he’ll fall straight to the ground.

I’m crying at this point, wrecked over this emotionally charged story. It’s nowhere near what I expected, and I almost wish I didn’t ask.

“Maverick, I am so sorry. Nobody should have to deal with that pain alone,” I whisper against his back, listening to the sound of his breathing.

“Grams was too busy partying in Vegas to come home, and she didn’t even know Mom died until two days later when the hospice nurse called,” I let him go, dipping between his arms and leaning against the counter, so he has no choice but to look at me.

“We don’t have to talk about this anymore. It’s okay,” I say, stroking his cheek and moving the hair out of his eyes.

He doesn’t say anything, but his sea-green eyes tell the real story. The pain, grief, and pressure have built up over the years, and he’s supposed to be the one who keeps it together. He keeps everyone safe, and that includes me now too.

It explains the fierce need to protect me, it’s because he’s done it for the people he loves all his life.

Neither of us say anything for a while, and we don’t move. We’re slightly intertwined in the middle of his kitchen, the weight of his pain holding us close together.

Finally, he takes a deep breath, and I brace myself for what he’s going to say next.

“Her name was Carissa, and you reminded me of her the second I saw you. When you told me your name, I nearly fainted,” he can barely get the words out, stammering over his tears, and I can’t do anything but hold onto him.

This grumpy, moody man has carried the weight of his family and baggage heavier than mine for so long, and I misjudged him from the moment I met him.

“Do you have any pictures of her that I can see?” I ask, and his body tenses with my question. “It’s okay, Maverick; I shouldn’t have asked. Another time, maybe.”

I rush the words out, not wanting to ruin this moment or upset him anymore. I pull him closer to me, wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my cheek against his chest.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and we stand together in the kitchen for a long time, just holding each other.

Nothing else needs to be said or shared. This is enough right here.

Usually, I’d be terrified of this kind of intimacy, the way we’ve opened up to each other without having sex, but this feels right.

This is two damaged people attempting to survive in a world where everything has gone wrong, and we have the trauma, scars, and deep-seated fears to prove it.

The only difference is that we’re relying on each other. Finally, we let someone else into the world the way we see it and combine that fucked up shit into a place where we can be our stripped-down, natural, and free selves.