“Smarter. Kinder. Fuck, she could make friends with anybody. She made every place feel lighter just by walking into it.” His gaze drops somewhere over my shoulder instead of at me. “She was the closest thing I ever had to home.”
His voice cracks. “And then she was gone.”
“And if she were here. If things were reversed, she’d be saying the same thing about you.”
“It was my fault. I started the fire.”
He’s barely looking at me when he says it. He says it like he’s repeated it to himself so many times it stopped sounding like words years ago. Somewhere along the way, the fire stopped being something that happened and became who he believes he is.
My hands stop moving in his hair. “You didn’t mean to,” I say quietly. I know that much has to be true.
He lets out a short, humorless breath. “Intent doesn’t change the outcome.” His thumbs pause against my hips, then start again, slower, like he needs the motion to keep him going.
“I was hiding out,” he says. “Somebody at school said my parents turned to drugs because it was better than loving a worthless kid like me.” His teeth grind.
My chest pulls tight.
“My grandpa could always tell when something was wrong, and he wasn’t the kind to leave it alone. The man could needle you until you talked just to shut him up.” Emmett swallows, the fading light carving deeper shadows into his face. He looks completely wrecked.
“But I was too angry. Too scared of what might come out if he pushed. So I snuck out to the barn.”
He pauses, and the quiet around us feels too big.
“I wasn’t thinking,” he says. “I just wanted out of the house. Out of my head.” His jaw tightens. “So I stole a couple cigarettes from a ranch hand, then hid in the barn and smoked. When I was done, I crushed it out with my boot. Or thought I did.”
His eyes fall to the blanket between us. “The barn was filled with hay, old boards, and dust. It went up in a blink.”
I have to focus on breathing fearing if I don’t I’ll stop altogether or hyperventilate. I can feel his pain, see his guilt, taste his regret. He wears it like it’s his skin. I’ve always known that, but knowing why makes it more potent.
“I left.” His voice breaks.
My stomach twists.
“She was supposed to be inside studying.” His throat works. “Turns out she’d snuck out to the barn to see her horse.”
Pain lances straight through my chest.
Not because I blame him.
Because it’s suddenly impossible not to understand why he blames himself.
“I walked back toward the house and smelled smoke before I saw it.” His jaw tightens, eyes distant now, replaying something he never really left. “At first, I thought somebody else was burning trash. Then I heard it—wood popping. Animals losing their minds.”
His hands press harder at my waist without realizing it.
“The barn was already glowing from inside—smoke pouring through the seams. I ran . . .” His voice drops. “Yelling for help as I went.”
Listening to him recount the details without losing it is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I think he needs to tell me.
“It took a few minutes to realize Rory wasn’t in her room like we thought.” His eyes finally meet mine. They’re wrecked. Open in a way that hurts to see. “That’s when it hit me.”
His voice barely holds.
“She was in the stables.” My hands cradle his face before I can stop myself.
He keeps going.
“It was already too late. The barn was unstable.” His mouth trembles, just once. “But I couldn’t just leave her.”
