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Cash could have died because of me.
He knocked me down. He could have been hit instead of me.God.
This pain.
I’m folded into myself, hunched over, clutching my knees. I don’t know how else to keep from coming apart.
When my dad died, it was horrible. But this? Knowing the man I love more than anything could have been killed because of me?
“Oh, honey.” I never heard the door open, but Cash is here, the mattress dipping as he sits beside me.
“Please, sweetheart.” The pain in his voice makes me sob harder all over again.All of this is my fault.
“Ari, honey, you’re going to make yourself sick.” He lifts me up, gathering me in his arms, settling me on his lap. One hand strokes my back in large circles, the other cupping my nape. “Just try to settle your breathing, okay?”
I can’t. Everything Cash does makes me feel worse.
His touch on my back, so gentle and soothing, the soft kisses he’s pressing to the top of my head, his voice, so worried—they all remind me how much I love him. And then the devastation hits me all over again.
“It’s all my fault.” A knife stabs through my heart. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper into his neck. “I’m so sorry.”
“No.” Cash hardens his tone. “Ari, no.” He cups my cheek, forcing me to look at him. I’m still crying and I hate that I can’t stop it and I’m so weak in front of him.
“Just look at me, okay?” His eyes hold mine, reassuring and calm. He takes one of my hands and puts it on his chest. “Breathe with me. Don’t talk, just listen to me. I need you to calm down, and then we’ll talk about this.”
Calming down seems an impossibility. My breath is stuttering, my heart beating hummingbird-fast. Two words are ping-ponging in my head.My fault. My fault. My fault.
But eventually, my sobs slow to small shudders and gasps, and I sag against Cash, completely wrung out. I’m sniffling into his shoulder—so attractive—and my face feels tight from crying.
Cash kisses my forehead, so soft and tender it nearly makes me start crying again. “I’m going to get some tissues. I’ll be right back.”
When he sets me on the bed, the loss of contact is terrible. But he’s back right away, a box of tissues in hand, and he pulls me back into his embrace. He hands me tissue after tissue while I blow my nose—I try to get up so he won’t see, but his arms tighten around me and he says, “Ari, sweetheart, I don’t care. I just want to hold you.”
There’s a sizable pile of tissues on the nightstand by the time I’m done—lovely—but wonderful Cash just chuckles. “You should see my tissue piles when I have a cold. It’s like the pyramids in here.”
Which I’m sure is not true—Cash is probably the neatest man I’ve ever met—but I appreciate him trying to make me feel better. Which, dammit, makes me feel terrible again.
“Now.” Cash shifts so I’m sideways in his lap, and he looks down at me very seriously. “I don’t want to hear you talking about this being your fault. It isnot. At all.”
It is. Miserably, I start, “But, I went on the date, and he—”
“Going on a date is not a mistake.”
“Maybe… but… it’s still because of me… all of this…”
And then another thought comes to me. I hate it, but it might be the right thing to do. “Maybe I should leave.”
Cash rears back like I struck him. “Why?”
Tears prickle at my eyes again. In a small voice, I say, “I could go home. And we wouldn’t see each other until after the trial. Then… you’d be safe.”
There’s a moment of silence when I think Cash thinks it’s a good idea, too. I should start packing; do I have food at my house, and how will I sleep through the night alone?
Then his expression goes fierce. “Ari, I can’t believe you just said that.”
“What?”
“Do you seriously think I would leave you? Now?”
