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Zoe had no right being this reasonable before 9 AM.

I picked at the lid of my coffee cup. “I don’t know what to do.”

She didn’t respond immediately. She let me squirm in the silence for a minute. It was rude. It was effective.

Finally, she said, “You can’t save him. You can let him know you’ll be there when he decides to save himself. That’s it.”

Deep down I knew that. Shit, it was the same conversation I’d had with my therapist during one of our last sessions. Maybe I should start going back to her, so I could figure out how to understand rock-headed men.

“But Zoe, he dragged me to get help,” I pointed out. “Literally. You were there when he damn near threw me in his truck and drove me to Dallas eight years ago. Shit you and Trenda stood and applauded.”

“We didn’t applaud. We just wished him well.”

“You were traitors.”

“It worked.”

“Remember when he booked me sessions with that therapist who looked like Santa Claus. Zarek would sit in the waiting room reading golf magazines while I cried to a stranger.”

“And he only did that after you showed signs you wanted help,” Zoe countered. “You started showering again. You started cooking again. You stopped pretending you weren’t drowning.”

Damn her for having a memory like a steel trap.

“Has Zarek shown any signs yet?” she asked.

I opened my mouth to answer her question, but I wasn’t sure.

Zoe reached across the table and gripped my hand. “Honey, he has. He really has. It was huge when he showed up to the barbeque. He participated. Making love to you? That was phenomenal.”

I smiled slowly. “It really was.”

“You’re right, he has. But I just don’t understand why he still feels it’s necessary to literally beat himself up for something that was totally out of his control. That’s not improvement.”

“You’re right. Something doesn’t smell right about that.”

“I’m going to talk to him again,” I decided.

“Just talk?” Zoe teased.

I sent her a death glare. She chewed another bite of muffin.

“What?” she asked, all faux innocence. “You seemed very motivated last night.”

“Stop,” I ordered.

“Go talk to your man,” she said. “You’re doing it right this time. You’re not dragging him. You’re letting him know you’re in his corner. And who knows…” Her grin sharpened. “Maybe you’ll get lucky again.”

I groaned into my coffee.

But I couldn’t deny it.

I was going back.

Whether I was ready or not.

Chapter Eighteen

The drive out felt shorter this time.