“Baby doll, you need to eat.”
She shook her head.
He sighed, forking up a piece and holding it against her lips. Reluctantly she ate it. For him. The relief on his face was worth it. But it sat like concrete in her belly. Heavy and hard.
She rubbed her stomach.
“Sore tummy?” Spike guessed.
Nodding, she frowned. Sadness was a veil around her. It was drowning her. Making it hard for her to breathe. To see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Spike sighed, then cupped her face with his big palm. “I’m gonna ring Hack. Get him to come out and check you.”
“I’m not ill.”
“Baby doll, you were shot. You’ve been through a huge shock. And you get debilitating migraines that are often triggered by stress and not taking care of yourself. Or in this case, me not taking care of you.”
There was a bitterness to his words she didn’t like.
She reached over and took his hand in hers. He looked down at it like he’d never seen it before.
“Spike?”
“I know you blame me. I blame me as well.” He stood suddenly, slamming his fist against the countertop of the kitchen island. The display of emotion, of barely controlled anger, shocked her.
This wasn’t Spike.
You’re doing this to him.
“I don’t blame you.” How could he think that? None of this was his fault.
But it was as though he didn’t hear her. He started pacing. “I should have done more.”
“Spike.”
“I should have saved her.”
“Spike.”
“Too late. We were too late.”
“Spike!” She slid off the stool and suddenly he was there, his hands wrapping around her waist.
“What are you doing?” he questioned. “You need to be careful.”
He was treating her as though she was fragile. And she got it. Because that’s how she felt right now. However, the old Spike wouldn’t let her get away with half the stuff she had. She’d have already found her way across his knee. He hadn’t threatened once to keep track of her transgressions.
“Spike, listen to me.”
He stared down at her, his eyes tormented. She cupped the side of his face, the way he often did for her.
“You’re right.”
Agony etched into his face and he flinched, closing his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he was calm. Poised.
As though waiting for a blow.
“You were right that it wasn’t healthy for me to bottle everything up. To go through life pretending it would all be okay if I just smiled more. I . . . this isn’t just about Daria’s death. That was the trigger. But this is about more than that. Daria’s death was in no way your fault.”