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“Just so you know, I would have made us breakfast in strained silence if you hadn’t apologized. I would have been hurt, but I would have given us space. Since you wouldn’t have apologized because you’d shut down, I would come to find you and prove that I meant what I said. I’m not easy to chase away.”
Leon rakes a hand through his hair. It’s still wet from the shower, and his fingers make a path I’d like to trace. “I’m sorry.” The words are rough and strained, but I know he means them because the pain in his eyes says he’s sorrier that he hurt me than he can ever express. My heart gives an answering shiver.
I set the coffee pot on the counter and then closed the distance between us. I wrap my arms as far as I can reach around his shoulders, which isn’t very far because he’s so damn deliciously wide there. I stand on my tiptoes, and when our lips meet, he’s ready, not cold or defiant.
He still tastes like salt and mint, and he is breathtaking and heady. There are no more words. There is no need for words. We are perfectly, blissfully happy, dwelling in the silence. I love kissing this man. He’s all ragged edges and wounds and hurt and horror, but together, we can soothe that, though maybe not all at once. Maybe not all, ever, but some are still better than none, and I know I won’t always be the one having to make the first move, reassure, and swallow down the sting of hurt. I also won’t always be the one doing the defending, convincing, and protecting.
Leon gave himself to his father as a freaking sacrifice to save his mom and sister, so I know he knows how to be loyal, and he does know how to love.
He kisses me deeper, his hands tilting my face, one moving through my tangled hair. His sigh in my mouth is intimate and delicious, like a gift he’s giving up to me.
He tears his mouth away suddenly, his chest and shoulders heaving, but he rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed for a long time. He lets me feel him. See him. Touch him. Underneath the hard, often brusque layer that the rest of the world sees lies the softest beating heart.
I know it’s there.
I think I just need to help him find it.
10
LEON
The sliver of the moon is hardly noticeable tonight. I like the way the darkness feels—the soft cloak of it. I don’t feel like I need it to hide tonight or like I need it to soothe me. It’s far more complicated than that.
For the first time in years, the pain in my head has subsided to a dull ache. I barely notice it’s there. For someone like me, it’s like not having any pain at all. I’m not thinking about my head. I’m thinking about Darby.
Her eyes were so soft and gentle in the kitchen this morning that I felt something draining out inside me. Drop, drop, drop. It was like I was bleeding out, but instead of dying, I felt more alive than I ever have.
Kitty hugged Darby before she left after breakfast. She apologized on my behalf again, and I felt like an ass. I would rather have cut off my own big toe and eaten it than hurt Darby, but what I said after my shower was a last-ditch effort to take control of a situation that was out of control. It was slamming on the brakes in a runaway car, far, far too late. It’s not just the bad parts of life that can be hard to bear. The good can be really hard too.
I already know, in the deepest part of me—the pit of me that I would term as a heart—that I am in serious trouble. I already feel like I can’t deny Darby anything. Leaving here with her and going back to the life that I had just a few days ago no longer feels like much of an option because I will never be able to get that life back. Everything is different now. Everything changed last night. And this morning.
When Darby saw me.
And she fought for me anyway.
I feel exhausted even though I slept for most of the day. After Kitty left, Darby said I should rest. She was going to see to some work stuff herself and clean the big bedroom and move in there. I woke up at seven, and since the sun was still going strong, I did work for a few hours before I heard Darby start to make dinner. I should have helped her, but I didn’t trust myself. I was afraid I’d say something I wouldn’t be able to take back, and it wouldn’t be the usual idiotic, hurtful variety. She made grilled cheese sandwiches with tomatoes and pickles on the side—my absolute favorite.
I was going to try to give her a proper apology and tell her the grilled cheese she made was a Grade-A grilled cheese game when her phone rang. It was her parents, and before she answered, I told her that I’d be out on the beach to give her privacy.
I am not a beach or lake person, but it’s nice here. Peaceful. I stare out at the inky, placid surface of the water. It stretches on for miles. The cabin here must have been one of the first built on the lake because it’s got a prime spot. The dock is over by the rocky section of the shore, and the beach here looks natural, not man-made. The sand is close to white—fine and soft—and there are no cabins within view. Just the lake. The lake, the sliver of the moon, and the starless sky above. The air is thick with the smell of nature, which is mostly the lake. It’s not really that great of a smell, but I like it anyway. It’s musky and salty, but not the ocean kind of salty. Out here, in shorts and a T-shirt, I feel good. The air is still warm from the day, and a night swim in the cool water would be refreshing.
The one thing that stops me is the goddamn prosthetic. I’ve been wearing it for days, and it’s not the kind of thing that’s meant to be worn without being taken off for periods of time. At least, I don’t like wearing it that way. In the summer heat, it’s starting to chafe, and my skin feels raw and sticky underneath.
When I try to slide it off, the bastard doesn’t want to come off, and the sucking sound is nasty. Sweaty, like I thought. Finally, the plastic gives, and I set the thing in the sand. A horrible way to treat a very costly expenditure, but it won’t hurt it. It’s not just so realistic-looking that no one would ever be able to tell the difference, but it’s built tough too.
“Gah! Did you just take off your hand?”
Darby’s gasp brings my head around sharply. The pressure in my skull doesn’t increase, even though I pause to take stock because I just wrenched my neck, and that usually has consequences. She’s standing on the edge of the beach, her footsteps so soft that I didn’t hear her approach. She looks more confused than horrified or disgusted.
“It’s a prosthetic.” It doesn’t kill me to say that as much as I thought it would. I guess I’m making progress. My sister would be proud. I only feel a little bit like I’m going to combust into hot flames of shame, not that I’ll die of it within the next five seconds.
“I—I can see that. But why do you have a prosthetic hand?” Her gaze tracks to the sand, where my left hand is perfectly normal from the outside and is very much attached to my body.
“Are you spying on me?”
She crosses her arms, going rigid. “No. I just came out to find you since I was off the phone. I—are you mad?” She waits, but not the kind of bated breath waiting. She truly wants to know.
I am shit at this, at letting anyone in. “Embarrassed, I guess. I would rather you not have known.”
