Page 68 of Home Ice

I cock my head at him. “Not maybe. It’s shit. You’re right. It shouldn’t have been him.”

“Like I said, I don’t let myself think about what-ifs.”

“Didn’t sound like it to me.”

“I’m fine, Hawke.”

“You’re not.”

I watch his jaw flex, shadows creasing where the muscle tightens and lets go again. “Nothing will change what happened.”

“It won’t, but that doesn’t mean you have to be okay with it. That doesn’t mean we can’t all agree it sucks.” I turn to him, but Barrett avoids my eyes. “Who have you talked to about this?”

He glares out at the water. “No one wants me droning on about such a depressing fucking thing.”

“Droning on? What the fuck? You don’t have family to talk to? Friends?”

“They want updates. Positive things. They don’t want to hear about how I went weeks without sleeping because I was terrified he’d have another stroke in his sleep and I’d be too late. They don’t want to hear about my sixteen-hour days trying to get on top of the bills. They don’t want to hear about doctors’ visits, and being overwhelmed, and wanting to get in my car and leave and never come fucking back.” Barrett huffs and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “So no. I don’t want to tell people about that stuff. They’d hate me if they knew the thoughts I really had.”

All this time, I’d been so caught up in my own shit, so pissed off that he’d abandoned me to the stress of a new job, a new city, all on my own. And he’d been drowning. “I could never hate you.”

“Really?” His eyes are blank behind the tears shining in them. “What if I told you, when he first came home after the stroke and I was on day seven with no sleep, he could barely get out of bed except when I was helping him with PT, and all he did was swear and scream at me, and I wished, for a split second, that he’d died instead?” Barrett’s bottom lip wavers. “What then, Hawke?”

My heart splits in two. Not because he thought that, but because he’s letting it rot him from the inside out. I turn, meeting him face on, and cup his jaw so that he can’t look away. “I’d tell you that you need therapy. Not because you thought it, but because you love him so much that you’ve held on to the guilt for so fucking long.”

His eyes squeeze closed, a tear slipping out, and his voice sounds wet when he answers me. “Therapy is for rich people.”

“Lucky I’m rich, then.”

His eyes snap back open. “No fucking way.”

My grip on him tightens. “I’m not negotiating with you.”

“I won’t take your damn money.” He dips out of my hold, but I grab his arm before he can get away.

“I won’t give you a choice.”

“It’s not up to you!”

But for as fiery as Barrett might get over this, I don’t care. He can’t keep a decade’s worth of trauma bottled up. I won’t let him. “Make an appointment.”

“No.”

He shoves me off him, but I grab his waist before he leaves. He’s not walking away this time. The more he fights me, the more I lean into the blows. He shoves and twists, trying to get away, but he was right when he called me stubborn. I’m winning this one.

“Let me fucking go.”

“Make me.”

“I’m serious—” His shoulder catches my jaw.

“So am I,” I growl through clenched teeth.

With a final shove, Barrett’s back hits the hood, my hands planted on his shoulders and leg pinning both of his.

“I won’t interfere in your life,” I tell him, struggling to catch my breath. “I’ll stand back while you work yourself into the ground, but what I won’t fucking do is let this one go. You need to talk to someone.”

“That’s not your call.” His chest is rising and falling quickly. “I’m fine. I’ve always been fine.”