“Too late now.”
I let go of the doorknob and stalk to the window. My head dips as I ponder.
She’shere, the most real thing I’ve had in years. So why can’t I open up to her?
My fists clench. Self-preservation.
Because my mother taught me that love can be yanked away at any moment.
I learned to protect myself, to hide parts of myself.
I hear the shuffle of the sheets as she stands. “Tuck, I need to tell you—”
“Wait.” I whip around and rush to her before she can say something that ends us. It’s what I let my past girlfriends do. They get fed up; then finally, they give up and walk out.
“You’re the only girl I’ve brought here; I want you to know that. This is me trying, but I’m fucked up, okay?” My teeth tug on my bottom lip; then out rush my words. “You want to know why I was alone over the holidays? My mother hates me because my dad killed himself on my birthday. He got in his car and drove it straight into a tree. He’d been drinking, and they’d argued. Maybe he’d given up on her. Maybe he was disgusted with himself, his life, her—I don’t know.”
I yank out the bottom drawer of the nightstand and pull out photos.
She takes one. “Your parents?”
“At a society thing they were at.” I sit on the bed with her as we gaze at the picture. It’s like art, capturing a moment in time, a slice of emotion from my parents. Wearing a slinky gold evening gown with her hair swirled up, my mother stares up at my dad with adoration, maybe desperation. Dressed in a tux, he clasps her hand in his. His jaw is clenched as he glares at the photographer.
“You look like him,” she murmurs.
I grunt. “Fuck that.”
“Okay, you do, but he seems cold.” She traces her fingers over his face.
“Never to her. He was mad with love. They didn’t intend to have me. I was a mistake. I made things worse.”
“Tuck ... I’m so sorry.”
I exhale long and hard. “He hit her, she hit him, and he hit me when I got between them. She covered her bruises with makeup and kept telling me to smile. Her love for me depended on that smile.” My teeth grit at the emotion clawing at my chest. “And yeah, I still pretend like none of that happened. It’s easier than dwelling on shit I should be over.”
“It doesn’t work like that, Tuck. Scars on the inside are still there.”
“Her love had conditions; he never showed any. The thought of family terrifies me. I can only be responsible for myself. At least then, I’m not hurting anyone. Maybe I’ll inherit her issues. It’s genetic. You want to know me? Really? You want the stuff that’s underneath?”
“Tuck—”
I can’t stop. “I didn’t grow up normal. I grew up tense and scared. With chaos all around me. I didn’t know what would set him off—or her. I crept around our house on eggshells. Football was my only reprieve. The summers in high school when I went to Texas for football camp were the best months of my life. I’ve spent the last few years thinking I was good, you know, but now I’m dealing with open aggression issues. That’s from my therapist. I rage. I fly off the handle at shit that wouldn’t have bothered me five years ago. I’m worried about my future in football. I’m worried my mother will never forgive me. I’m worried I am my father deep down. I pick fights. I drive too fast. I’m so worn down and desperate that I take walks and give out coats to lower my stress.”
“You do it for other reasons too.”
“Do I? Maybe I’m just a real asshole and the only reason I’m doing it is to feel better about myself. Maybe I don’t care about homeless people. Oh, and here’s a tidbit for you. I take meds for depression and anxiety. Mash all that together, and what you get is a man on a razor’s edge. Is that the guy you want to be with?”
She swallows. “Yes.”
“Well, shit. Baby. That’s not what I expected you to say.” I brush a tear off her face. “Then stay. Just don’t go, okay? People leave us, Francesca. Give me, us, a chance. Please.”
Her breath hitches. “I will. I am.”
“Patience?”
She nods. “Kiss me.”
Relief soars in my chest, and I take her in my arms.