The words land in a brutal thud.
“She died in a fire.”
The air leaves my lungs in a sharp gasp. Not because of the words themselves, but because he’s saying them to me at all. When he looks at me again, he’s a shell of the man from earlier.
“Didn’t know that part, did you?”
No.
I didn’t.
The shadows I’ve seen hanging off him since the helicopter make horrifying, heartbreaking sense.
“You remind me of her a little—kind, nurturing, feisty when it matters.” The longer he talks the more his voice wobbles. “Rory was the best of us. A real-life miracle to my grandparents and to me. And I’m the reason we lost her.”
I step forward, my hand cupping his cheek. Emmett leans into the touch, his eyes closing, his jaw tight under my palm. “It was an accident,” I say.
He pulls back, expression steely. “No.”
There’s such heartbreaking finality in the word.
“Forgetting to take the meat out of the freezer is an accident. Snoozing your alarm clock one too many times is an accident. She’s dead because of me. Nothing I do can erase that.”
“But you’re trying,” I whisper as much to myself as to him.
He hums. “Am I?”
“You protect people from fires. You’ve saved countless lives, homes, entire communities.”
“It’s the bare fucking minimum. I’ve caused so much pain to everyone who’s ever loved me. Nothing I do will ever make up for that.”
“You really believe that.”
“And you should too. You see the best in people, and you’re seeing things that aren’t there in me. Don’t try to fix me. I’m beyond repair. You should run, Aspen.”
My fingers sink into his hair, anchoring him to me so he can’t look away. “You won’t hurt me, Emmett.”
“I don’t try to hurt people. It just happens.”
“Bullshit. You keep punishing yourself for it—closing yourself off. Acting like you deserve to suffer forever.”
“And I deserve every ounce of pain.”
“You deserve good things. If everything you’ve told me about Rory is true, she’d want you to stop beating yourself up.”
He ducks his head, tongue darting out to wet his lip.
I trace the movement, my head swimming. Whether from the drinks or being this close to him, I can’t be sure.
“Aspen.” His tone softens to one I’ve only ever heard him use with me. “You’re doing it again.” So soothing and patient, his voice wraps around me, safe and warm, the same way I imagine his arms would feel.
“What’s that?” I hum. God, he’s stunning. Whether he’s stern and growly or giving me a half smile, when he’s being antisocial and grumpy, every version of Emmett makes my knees weak. But when he softens just for me . . . it’s heart-stopping.
“Trying to fix things that aren’t your responsibility.”
“I’m not.” It comes out instinctively, maybe a touch defensive, before I mentally unload the baggage that comes with the accusation and focus on who I’m talking to. This is Emmett. Complicated and hurting and impossible to ignore.
“Tell me, Emmett, do I deserve good things? Because you’re what makes me smile. You’re my good thing.”
