Page 86 of Hard to Lose

And even now, staring at Gunner as he looks over his shoulder and parallel parks his truck, I’m not sure if I ever will.

He’s so different than my norm, but maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I needed to think outside the box. Maybe what I thought I needed wasn’t it.

But is Gunner it?

I shake loose the thought, which is more and more frequent after spending so much time together. You can learn a lot about a person in a short amount of time when you’re sharing space with them.

Like how clean someone is, how they like to spend their downtime, what their pet peeves are, and how they act when they’re tired or hangry. The funny thing is Gunner is like me in all of those aspects other than he never puts things back where they belong. And I’m not talking in places I think they belong, but rather in the places he had them to begin with.

We’ve had banter over it. And tiffs.

Regardless, in the end, we’ve laughed and then snuggled on the couch . . . or more often than not, kissed each other until the kissing turned to snuggling in other ways.

But it’s nice waking up in someone’s arms. I’m not sure why I never knew that. I’m a person who always wants her space and time to decompress or sit in silence. The fact that I can do all those things without feeling smothered is new and insanely unexpected.

When Gunner looks back to the front of the truck, he catches my eye and smiles. “What?”

“Dare I ask where you’ve taken me?” I look around at the nondescript strip mall where we’re parked. It’s in the downtown area of a town about thirty miles east of Destiny Falls. There’s a decent-sized sports bar across the street, a park in the distance, with huge swaying trees and a busy playground. The parking lot houses a nail salon on one end, a dog groomer on the other, and in the center is a large shop with blacked-out windows and a huge sign above the door—in font that looks like it’s blurry—that reads RAGE.

“We’re going there.” Gunner points.

“The haunted house-looking place?” I ask, referring to the place called Rage. “Should I worry that you’re trying to off me in some creepy ritual?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. He leans forward to press a chaste kiss to my lips before getting out of the truck, leaving me staring at him with curiosity.

When he opens my door, I simply lift an eyebrow at him, asking for more information.

“It’s a rage room.”

“What the hell is a rage room?” I ask as I climb out of the truck.

“After you told me about your mom the other night, about losing her at such a young age like I did my dad, about how sudden it was, and how you’re not one hundred percent certain you ever really dealt with it, I figured this is exactly where you need to be.”

I stare, blinking at his handsome face and kind eyes as I try to figure out what I did to deserve him. To deserve a man who actually listens to the things I say and tries to make them better.

“Gunner—”

“You mentioned in passing—maybe you didn’t even mean to let it slip—that this week was the anniversary of her death. And while I don’t want to pry, ask how it makes you feel, or any of that other psychobabble shit that would only serve to piss you off or make things awkward, I thought this might be a place where you can let it all out. Even for just a little bit. A place where there will be no judgment for however you choose to express yourself.”

I stare at him—at this man who doesn’t just listen, but really hears me—and am more than touched that he thought to bring me here. That he caught my slip the other night about my mom, didn’t choose to call me on it, but rather opted to give me an avenue to express the mixture of grief, discord, and anger, which has been hitting me haphazardly at random times throughout this week.

Just further proof that he gets me in a way I’m not one hundred percent certain I even get myself some days.

“Look, I’ve been there. I’ve tried to shove death away, reason why it happened, you name it—and all that succeeded in doing was make me angrier. So I understand where you are, I get you, and I hate for your sake that I do.” He takes my hand and points our linked fingers at the entry to Rage. “But today, we’re going to take a small step towards healing the tiny cuts inside of you that break open every now and again.”

“Thank you. I don’t even—” I tug on his hand for him to stop, so I can lean up and press a kiss to his lips.

“You can keep thanking me if you want,” he murmurs against my lips.

“I will once you explain to me what the hell we’re about to do.”

“Let me show you.”

Over the next few minutes, I’m signed in, waivered up, and put in plastic hazmat-looking plastic coveralls.

Gunner is grinning ear to ear.

A rage room. A place where you’re given time in a room to break shit. Whether it be for fun or to relieve stress or to get your anger out.