Page 59 of On The Edge

Cruz.

He’s the one dealing with this abuse. And yes, it is abuse.

Why does he put up with it?

Why doesn’t he tell his dad to go to hell?

He’s the one those words hurt more than me. He’s the one I’m worried about and want to reach out and hug.

Dominic Navarro is no one to me. Sure his words stung, and no doubt his unabashed rejection will hit me full force when the shock wears off and the exhaustion hits, but again, in the scheme of things, he’s not relevant.

But I have a feeling he’s everything to Cruz.

Completely uncomfortable and at a loss over what to do, I head back to the room where I’ve kept my stuff for the day. My one and only thought is to get the hell out of here. Dominic is the last person I want to come face-to-face with, especially in such close quarters.

I pick up my laptop and belongings and shove them into my tote bag. Never in my life have my parents spoken to me like that. Not when I won. Not when I failed. Not even when I went against their wishes and tried to spread my wings and prove my independence from them.

They let me try and fail. They let me try and succeed. They let me grow and learn. And in each and every instance, they stood beside me cheering me on. Or they stood behind me so I knew they were there, knowing they wanted me to see I could do it on my own.

They never belittled or scolded. They never said I told you so when they had every right to.

I can’t imagine how I’d have felt if they spoke words similar to Dominic Navarro’s to me. I’d be crushed. Devastated.

“She’s not good enough for a Navarro, plain and simple. Take care of the problem or I will.”

His words hit me again and I pause as I look around the small space. There is clearly so much more than meets the eye to Cruz and what motivates him.

Or holds him back.

The deep rumble of Dominic’s voice floats down the hall. It’s light and carefree—fake as fuck—to whomever he’s speaking with, but I can’t shake the tone of it minutes ago from my head.

I need fresh air. I need space. I just need away from this world that suddenly feels claustrophobic. Suddenly frantic, I move toward the back exit of the building, open the door, and then my feet falter. Cruz is just outside the door. His hands are braced on the wall, and his head is hanging down. His eyes are closed as he draws in slow, even breaths.

The flashback of the first time we met hits me. Back then I felt I knew what to do and how to offer help to him. This time around? Now that I know him better? I hesitate from a feeling of helplessness like I’ve never known.

“Cruz,” I say softly, but when I reach out to put my hand on his shoulder, he yanks his body away from my touch and spins on me.

“Don’t. Please,” he says as we stand face-to-face, eyes warring and uncertainty swirling. Every emotion imaginable emanates off him—hurt, grief, anger—but it’s the isolation lurking in the depths of his eyes that guts me. “Just . . . fucking don’t.” Each syllable is pained.

I lower my hand slowly and will him to feel the compassion in my eyes. A compassion from the looks of it he’s not used to receiving. “What do you need from me?” I ask, choosing my words carefully.

His jaw works. “Nothing. I’m fine.” He swallows forcefully. “I’ll have a team car get you back to the hotel.”

“Cruz. Will you at least talk to me? Tell me—”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he says gruffly, his shoulders squaring and his resolve back front and center.

“You’re not going back with me?”

“You don’t want me around you right now. No one does.” He spits the words out like he believes them, and that’s almost worse than the hurt in his eyes.

“We can go take a drive. We can—”

“I don’t need to be babied, Hart. Not by you. Not by anyone.” His jaw clenches as if he’s restraining himself from saying so much more. “Just . . . go.”

Our eyes hold, words exchanged without speaking. He needs space. I need to give it to him. And yet every part of me struggles with letting this man I barely know, go.

“I said, go,” he repeats. “Please.”