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Tucker:

I forgot to give you a key to let yourself in on Sunday when you get back. If you come after the boys’ bedtime, please text and don’t ring the doorbell.

I answered, of course, with a simple “Okay,” and that was that.

Whether I hate or love that that was the only thing he texted . . . well, I can’t be sure, but suffice it to say I’ve thought of little else since I walked away from him.

I still made the decision to get here after the boys would be down for the night, didn’t I?

The buffer of their presence would probably have given me a few moments to brace myself, but I refuse to keep being a coward.

This is a job, for fuck’s sake, it’s not the end of the world, and as Hannah reminded me, I can leave whenever I want if it becomes too much, if I get triggered again.

Dr. Natalie . . . well, I couldn’t not tell her how scared I am of Tucker, or why. I think Hannah knows, but she doesn’t get paid to root around in my brain and pull out the weeds, so she might’ve let me have some peace.

What my therapist said at the end of our emergency session repeats in my brain.

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

It’s a fucking simple statement, so why did I need the reminder?

Fucking generalized anxiety and abusive relationship that fucked with my brain, that’s why.

The trek up the stairs should be easier with only my backpack, but it isn’t.

Goddammit, I need to stop being so fucking dramatic, and just get the fuck on with it.

Sending the message is easier than I thought it’d be, and I even smile to myself when I hear the lock disengaging only a few seconds after.

Tucker was either waiting nearby for me to text or it’s a coincidence.

I don’t believe in coincidences; I believe they’re the way the universe comunicates—I read a quote like that somewhere ages ago and it stuck.

So, if he was waiting, then he’s only endearing himself further to me and burrowing into that stupid as fuck organ of mine that has no business inviting any guests, or it’s a coincidence and the universe is telling me something I’m not ready or equipped to hear.

Either way, I’m pretty sure I’m fucked.

We don’t say anything right away.

I don’t know why he stays silent—if he’s waiting for me to speak first or is unsure—but my excuse is that I’m hit with those happy, warm, inviting eyes, and dammit, I deserve to bask in that for a minute, don’t I?

Thanks to the rundown Hannah and Barry gave me yesterday, I have a better idea of who Jim Barclay was, and I don’t understand how he could’ve been partly responsible for the amazing people his children have shown themselves to be.

Tucker’s sisters, with their vast differences, are all active, interested listeners, polite, protective, and though it varies from one to another, they all have a certain warmth to them.

Maddox and Mason, so innocent and full of curiosity, and unusually polite for kids their age.

And of course there’s Tucker, who I suspect that on top of having all of those qualities as well—yes even the sense of innocence and being full of curiosity—also has a bleeding heart.

The thought that now he has all this power and influence he might have to lose that precious quality is more upsetting than it has any right to be. It brings out one of the few things I never lost—my own protective instinct.

That train of thought will lead me nowhere good, just like focusing on how comfortable he looks wearing a light blue, soft-looking shirt and worn-in gray sweatpants is a bad idea.

Especially the gray sweatpants.

“Hi.” I squeak out the tiny word. I need him to speak now, or move, or something.

“Come on in.” He steps back while asking, “How was your weekend?”