Page 97 of Talk Wicked to Me

“What do you mean?”

“I could be wrong, but you said going through your parents’ belongings would feel too final. I wonder if you feel the same way about forgiving yourself, and you’re holding on to the guilt as a way of holding on to your parents.”

“But…Why would I do that? I don’t want to feel guilty.”

“Nobody does, but grief does strange things to people, and guilt is powerful. It tethers us to people and things like a heavy, unbreakable chain, weighing us down. We don’t like it, but we willingly carry it for a hundred different reasons.”

How many times had her therapist told her something similar?

“The key is figuring out why you’re carrying yours,” Ginger said gently. “Maybe you’re worried that if you let that guilt go and let yourself truly move on, you’re letting them go, too.”

Emerson’s chest tightened, something in Ginger’s words ringing true.

“But, sweetheart, your parents are part of you. They live in your heart, and they’re present in everything you do. In your thoughts, your mannerisms, the way you love Brennan, and the way you love my son.”

She knew Ginger was right about her parents, but she opened her mouth to correct her about Baz, since they’d never said those three impossibly big words to each other. But knowing Ginger saw, and apparently approved of, her love for him, made her emotions bubble up again, and she couldn’t deny it.

“I’m not saying you have to forgive yourself today, tomorrow, or next month. I’m just saying it might be worth thinking about, because that precious boy you’re raising is learning from you, and he feels everything you feel.”

Talk about perspective. All it took was one glance at Brennan for Emerson to know what she had to do.

BAZ SAT AT a table in the clubhouse with his brothers and cousins as his father went over details for the Suicide-Awareness Ride, which was taking place the morning of the rally. The event was only ten days away, and it felt like a damn ticking time bomb. In less than two weeks he’d be in Indonesia, a world away from Emerson and Brennan, and he fucking hated that. He needed to get his arms around this shit, and he hoped his old man might be able to help him figure out how. His phone vibrated, and he pulled it out of his pocket.

Tank eyed the text, fuming in a harsh whisper. “Who the fuck is that?”

“Seriously?” Baz hissed. “You gotta ask like that?”

Tank’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching.

“For fuck’s sake.” He was not in the mood for this shit. “It’s Emerson’s friend. She’s helping me with something.”

Tank lifted his chin in question.

Ignoring him, Baz thumbed out a response, then shoved his phone in his pocket, feeling Tank’s scrutinizing dark eyes on him for the rest of the meeting. Baz was anxious enough. He didn’t need Tank breathing down his back.

As soon as it was over, Baz pushed to his feet.

“Where’re you going?” Tank asked.

“I need to talk to Con.”

Tank’s brows slanted. “What’s up?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.” He started to walk away, then turned back. “Let me ask you a question. You remember those cat condos Ashley and Mads painted?”

He smirked. “Pussy Palace? What about ’em?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you went into the woods with the girls that day?”

“Ash swore me to secrecy. Why?”

“You lied to me instead of breaking your promise to a five-year-old?”

Tank lowered his chin. “We don’t break promises to anyone. Especially her.”

“We don’t lie, either,” he said sharply.

Tank held his stare. “I didn’t lie, little brother. You asked if I knew what they’d done. I told you I didn’t, and that was true.”