His expression sobers as he meets my eyes. In the loaded silence, every tiny hair on my body rises like leaves before a storm.
“They’re cases,” he finally says, like those words are two highly volatile chemicals he’s weighed with the utmost care. “The ones I need to remember.”
My body stills. I look at the tiny diary lock. The roller skates.The iron poker.
My stomach gives a sickening lurch. After a moment, I manage to say, “What you did for Maya… are those the kind of pro bono cases you usually take on?”
Slowly, he exhales, like he knows his answer will open doors he’s been trying to barricade. My eyes dart to the skeleton on his bicep. Its frighteningly unhinged smile as it gleefully leaves its closet. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “DV advocacy is my specialty.”
It takes my brain a second to catch up.DV. Domestic Violence. My heart slowly sinks to the bottom of my rib cage. I think of all the times I accused him of being the destroyer of Happily Ever After. How I assumed he was a divorce lawyer because of some personal grudge against romance. I think back to what Henry said about Jude on our date.He’s the most morally solid person I know. Honorable, even, if such a thing still exists.
“God, I’m such an asshole,” I say, my throat closing up.
He shakes his head. “You’re not. You didn’t know.”
But I’m barely listening because my mind is still looping over what Henry told me on our date.I’ve known him a long time, and I’ve never heard a single story about his childhood.My pulse becomes a drumbeat in my ears.
“Why?” I whisper.
His brows crease. “Why what?”
“Why is it your specialty?”
His hands, which had been rubbing soothing circles on my legs, stop. Something like panic flares in his eyes.
“Don’t ask me that.”
He says it like a plea, and I bite my lips, torn between wanting to respect his privacy and trying to reciprocate the gift he gave me—someone to trust.
“If you want to tell me,” I say softly, without any kind of demand attached to it, “I’m here to listen.”
His careful expression falters for just a second before it’s back in place. “I’m not the victim here. You don’t need to worry about me.”
The way he says it is measured and final. But there’s also a specificity to his tone that feels like a breadcrumb trail to other conclusions. Someoneisa victim.Whatever I’ve experienced is incidental. My chest begins to cave in.
“And I’m not Sofia’s mother,” I respond, tears stinging my eyes. “But it doesn’t mean that what she went through doesn’t break my heart,” I say, tracing a small, three-leaf clover on his ribs. “That it hasn’t left a mark on her family.”
His eyes meet mine, more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen them. “I can’t talk to you about this,” he whispers. “Not yet.”
I nod, finding his hands. He twines my fingers with his, and it seems to calm him. He takes a steadying breath, and the thread that connected us at Agatha’s memorial solidifies. It becomes a chain that could hold the weight of the planet.
His lashes cast downward. “I hate keeping secrets from you.”
My eyes spill over. For whatever he endured or had to witness. For my best friend, her family, and every person tattooed on his carefully disciplined body. “I hate that you have to,” I say, my voice choked.
“Shh,” he says, pulling me to him. I collapse forward on his chest, and he just holds me, kissing my hair, like I’m the one who needs comforting. If he could, I think he’d take care of the whole world.
I’m not sure how long we stay that way, but at some point, he lies me back on the couch, before coming down on his side against me.
“What happened here?” he says, taking my hand in his. He lifts it to press a kiss to the small cut on the side of my ring finger.
“Nothing. Just being clumsy.”
He frowns. “How did it happen?” he asks, like it’s his topmost concern.
I shrug, a little embarrassed by the way I was spending my Saturday night before Maya called. “I was curling ribbon for these favor bags for my mom’s sixtieth birthday party.”
“Don’t you have enough on your plate without a birthday party to plan?” he asks.
