He let out a long, shaky exhale, but never stopped rubbing my thigh, comforting me.
He jerked his body back so he could look at me. “What?”
He nodded, cleared his throat as if preparing to speak aloud, then, hesitantly,
I smiled, easier now that the side of his body was pressed against mine. The grass was wet enough to dampen the seat ofmy jeans. I’d care in a bit, but I couldn’t bring myself to care just yet.
He gave me aHmmph, whaddya know, that was easyarch of his mouth and brows.
I told him.
His eyes grew wide, their hazel churning, troubled.
I gulped as my memory assaulted me with the acerbic sounds of sliding gravel, next the crunching, creaking, and straining of steel as Griffin went over the cliff in Clyde. Then, that awful, disturbing, terrifying silence.
Fuck, a decade of therapy might not make a dent in my trauma. Swallowing again, I winced.
“Think you could hand me my water? It’s in my bag. My mouth tastes like something died up in it.” I winced again. What a fucking poor choice of words.
He disengaged from me gently. “Yeah, of course. Sorry, should have thought of that.”
Itsked. “Nothing to be sorry for. You’re being wonderful.” I received the bottle with a smile of thanks.
As composed as I was going to get, I told him,
His brow drew low, shadowing the trouble that wasn’t leaving his eyes now. He looked at Clyde with open suspicion.
His brows couldn’t furrow any more deeply. Lines bunched between them.
I chortled darkly.
He ran his free hand through his hair some more.
I swallowed, drank more water, nibbled on my lip.
He gaped at me.
But he trailed off, glancing once more at his baby.
Only the hand raking through his
