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I will only say “I’m fine” when I truly am.
It’s not prolific, but they are the intentions that come to mind. I put the book away, inside my night table, and go wash up for bed. I slip on one of Mick’s T-shirts. It doesn’t help that the top smells like him or that I can still feel the delectable ache between my legs.
I crawl into the queen-size bed. Big and empty, loneliness surrounds me. I leave the lamp on, and missing his body heat, pick up the novel—going first to the happy ending—and wait for Mick to come home.
ChapterSix
Micah
You can’t protect the peopleyou love from everything.
I run faster, pound the pavement harder, trying to escape the truth that lances through me like a thousand serrated blades.
I hadn’t been able to protect my mother from my father’s abuse. Not Cayo from dying. Not Dwayde from the custody case. Or Dee from losing our baby.
I run another mile. If I just keep moving maybe I can block it all out. But the regrets and remorse chase in dogged pursuit, slashing and tearing through my guard.
Each step is fraught with snatches of the night. Dee’s burst of courage and me shutting her down cold.We’re in this together,and me, walking out. The panic on her face when she thought I could be leaving her floods me with guilt.
I’d been afraid that Dee would be the one to run scared. But here I am. Literally running, because staying and facing my fear of failing her was harder.
She accused me of wanting to take over her life. She couldn’t be more wrong. I respect and admire everything she’s made for herself. It’s that life and the one that we’re building together that I’m trying to protect. If we were to go public with a press release, reporters would hound herat home, at work, everywhere she goes. Her normal, anonymous life as she knows it would no longer be her own. I could ensure the media’s physical distance—I’d hire an army of security to do it—but I couldn’t prevent their presence or what they might write.
And O’Malley with his personal vendetta, coupled with his ambitions for a big story, will swoop in for the kill. If he looked hard enough, he could find out that Dee had been shuffled in and out of foster care, that her troubled mother committed suicide, that the Torreses had taken her in. From there he’d surmise that we’d had an intimate relationship as teenagers. He could learn of her miscarriage…of her battles with food that landed her in the hospital two years ago. Jesus. I can see it all exploding in the press and over social media.
My hands bunch into tight balls of fury. I would destroy O’Malley and crush whatever sources allowed the story. But for Dee, it would be too late, the damage done. Her privacy and all her vulnerabilities would be exposed. Taken in by the masses, chewed up and spit out. And she’d be left in the wreckage.
You can’t protect me from this.
That makes me want to smash my fist through something. I keep running, pumping my legs and arms until my shredded lungs force me to stop. Bent at the waist, sweat drips off my face and I suck in heaving breaths.
I won’t fail Dee this time. I can’t.
It’s past midnight when Ireturn. Toeing off my sneakers, I enter the bungalow with the creak of hardwood beneath my feet. Dee lies curled on her side. The ambient glow of the lamp whispers over her face and curls that are spread across my pillow. Her breaths move in the rhythm of sleep and a novel limply dangles from her hand. I remember Dee telling me she always read the ending of a book first. I couldn’t understand that then. But after learning about the unpredictability of her childhood—never sure of what each day would bring—I get why she welcomes certainty. It’s what I’m determined to give her.
I manage to ease away the novel and turn off the lamp without waking her. I watch Dee sleep for several more minutes, then go take a shower. Ducking under the hot spray, the water rains over me,washing away the sweat if not the tension. After drying off, I quietly slip back into the bedroom. It’s only when I slide beneath the covers that she stirs.
“Mick?” Her eyes blink open. Brown and generously sprinkled with flecks of gold—the sunlight that has always warmed the cold darkness in me. She traces my jaw with her fingers.
I bring them to my lips for a kiss that’s steeped in love and apology.
A sad, understanding smile appears. “About earlier—”
“Ssh.” I cut her off, stopping the conversation I don’t want to have again. “It’s late. I just want to be with you. Hold you. Sleep with you.”
“K,” she murmurs and cuddles into my arms. “I’m glad you’re home.”
“Me too, beauty.” I strum my fingers down her back until her breaths are deep and even again.
Then shutting my eyes, I beg for relief from my thoughts. But shrouded in black silence, they keep striking with knifing persistence.
Everybody has a weak spot, Peters.
Our baby was a girl.
Your fame isn’t yours to handle alone anymore.
You can’t protect the people you love from everything.
