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Heat rushed into her cheeks. “Rebel ran away again.”
Those dark eyes of his shifted to the dog. “She doesn’t look lost.”
Veronica glanced down at Rebel. Once again, she wore that cocky, self-satisfied expression. “I think she did it on purpose. I think... she was taking me for a walk.”
Connelly chuckled, and a warm flush spread through her body at the sound of his laughter. It had been so long since she had heard him laugh like that, and it made strange, fluttery things happen in her chest.
“Well, I’m glad she brought you back safe and sound.” Connelly stepped closer, his eyes flickering over her face. “How do you feel?”
It was a loaded question. Connelly had always been able to read her like a book, even when she didn’t want him to. She hesitated, unsure of what to say.
Rebel barked and bounded off toward the house, breaking Veronica from her uncertainty. She took a deep breath and turned to Connelly.
“I feel... alive.” She looked up at him, really looked at him, for the first time in years. He had changed since they last saw each other— his hair was shorter, his face more lined— but the essence of him was the same. He was still her Connelly. Her best friend. “Thanks for being here, Conn.”
“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” he said, holding out a hand. “C’mon. You gotta be freezing. Let’s get you inside. I brought lunch.”
She didn’t take his hand, and she saw the quick flash of hurt in his eyes before he turned back toward his car and grabbed a bag out of the front seat. It was from the Mad Dog Pub, and her stomach rumbled as the scent of fried food drifted toward her on the breeze as she trailed him into the house. She’d always enjoyed the Mad Dog’s food and suddenly realized how much she’d missed eating there.
As they ate together in companionable silence, she marveled at how easy it was to be with him. It was as if they were still kids, back in Seattle, playing by the lake with Rainier looming in the distance. They’d dreamed of climbing that mountain. They’d made up stories of all the amazing adventures they’d have once they were adults.
And now here they were, in the shadow of another mountain, decades older. They never did have any of those adventures they’d dreamed of. At least not together. That was partly her fault. She’d pushed him away after the assault because being close to any man—even her own father—had sent her into a panic attack.
But it was his fault, too, for writing that damn book. It didn’t matter that he’d changed her name and some details; she knew it was her story. He’d taken her trauma and turned it into entertainment. It didn’t matter that the book had been a success and had helped other survivors. It didn’t matter that he’d dedicated it to her. It had still felt like a betrayal, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to forgive him for it.
But maybe, she could move past it.
She put down her sandwich and stared at him, noticing for the first time the bags under his eyes and the way his hands shook slightly as he reached for his drink. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
Her heart sank into her stomach. He was keeping something from her. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He set down his barely touched sandwich and reached for a napkin. “It’s nothing you need to worry about. I want you to focus on healing.” He wrapped up his sandwich and got up to put it in the fridge.
When he turned back, his smile was a bit too bright and strained around the edges. “How do you feel about trying a car ride? We could drive up to the Rescue, and you could talk to?—”
“No.”
His smile faded. “You managed a walk.”
That didn’t mean she was ready for more. And Redwood Coast Rescue was the very last place she wanted to go. “I’m not going back to the therapy group. Or talking to that new counselor.”
“Why not?”
Because he’s not Dr. Firestone. But she didn’t say that out loud.
“Because I don’t need therapy. I’m doing just fine,” she lied.
Connelly’s eyes narrowed, and she knew he saw right through her. “You don’t have to keep pretending with me, Vee. I know you’re struggling.”
Veronica bristled at the use of her childhood nickname. It was a name only Connelly had ever called her, and she hated the way it made her feel vulnerable. “I’m not pretending. I’m fine.”
Connelly leaned forward, his eyes blazing with intensity. “No, you’re not. You’re a mess, and you need help. You need to talk about what happened to you, and you need to deal with it.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. And I don’t want to deal with it.”
“Then what do you want?”
She didn’t know the answer to that. All she knew was that she wanted to feel something other than fear and shame. But telling him that seemed too intimate so she kept her mouth shut and put entirely too much focus on picking up the remains of their lunch.
