Before I can reassure her, she untangles her fingers from mine and plows all ten through her hair, bowing her head into her hands.
“Fuck, Dan,” she damn near shouts. “Fuckyou, Dan,” she repeats, softer, but no less fierce. Or pain filled. “What did he think would happen if he called her? Does he do this on purpose? Does he get off on toying with people’s emotions? Keeping her on the hook? Maybe he just enjoys knowing there’s someone out there so desperately in love with him, she puts her entire life on pause forthirteen fucking yearswaiting for him to come back so she can hit play again…”
Her sob rips through the car.
Screw this. I speed through the next light and intersection, yanking my car over to the curb. Slamming the gear into park, I get out, snatch open her door and, unsnapping her seat belt, pull her out. And into my arms.
Her harsh, racking cries tear at my heart with dagger-sharp talons, even as she clutches at me. That might break me faster than anything. Other than sex, Cypress doesn’t cling, doesn’t lean on anyone. That she is now…
I bow my head over hers, pressing my lips to the top of her head, murmuring nonsensical words of comfort. Promises that I’ll hold her, won’t let anyone else hurt her. Vows that she can trust me not to hurt her, depend on me to protect her.
Words that she can’t hear over the torrent of tears and muted, almost animal-like whimpers.
How long we stand there on that deserted, shadowed street, I don’t know. Don’t care. But when her weeping finally eases, and she stops shuddering against me, my arms ache. And yet I continue to hold her.
“All I’ve ever heard from both of my parents all my life is love, love, love,” she rasps against my chest. “It’s their reason for everything they’ve done, that they still do. Cheating. Rolling over and accepting it. Abandonment. Obsession. Even blackmailing your own daughter.” Her flat chuckle has me squeezing her harder. “If that’s love, I don’t want any part of it. It does nothing but turn you into a prisoner who willingly chains his own foot then complains about not being free. Screw love,” she whispers.
She drops her arms from around me and steps back.
Curling my fingers into my palms, I stuff both hands into my coat pockets.
Screw love.
Can I blame her for the raw bitterness coating those words? Not after what I just witnessed in her mother’s apartment. Not after studying that shrine on the mantel and seeing for myself where Cypress fell in the hierarchy when it came to the cluster that is her parents’ relationship. Not when Dan’s placing his love for my mother above Cypress is the reason she’s hiding out in my apartment, afraid he’ll discover the connection between us and cut off his financial help.
Not when love was the excuse her father offered her when he walked out on her as a little girl when she needed him most.
So no, I can’t blame her.
That doesn’t mean my fingers don’t tingle and itch to grab her, haul her close, and make her listen to me. To get it into her head that her parents’ shit-show of a relationship isn’t love. Love isn’t selfish. It doesn’t betray. It doesn’t harm, but protects. It doesn’t seek to trap or manipulate.
But then again, what do I know about love?
If I close my eyes, I can easily envision the evidence of what love can do to a person. Can feel its crimson stickiness on my hands, inhale the wet-penny scent of it. Can hear the shallow breath of it from labored lungs.
Even if I hold up Knox and Eden as a shining example, their love cost them both the bond and security of family.
Yeah, I know fuck all about it.
I move forward, careful not to brush against Cypress, and reach around her to open the car door. Once she’s inside, I return to my side and slide behind the wheel.
Silence is the third passenger in the vehicle, and neither one of us tries to put it out.
Everything between us has been said.
Chapter Twelve
Cypress
I walk into Jude’s apartment, my chest as empty as a hollowed-out log. Instead of moss, messy emotions—sadness, regret, exhaustion—cling to me, ready to fill that hole if I let my guard down.
Weariness sits on my shoulders, weighing me down. Each step, each drag of breath is a concentrated effort. Scrubbing my palms down my face, I wince at the dry, tight skin that is a result of the torrent of tears I cried against Jude’s chest. God, had I really broken down in front of him?
Flashes of me clinging to him, shuddering and rambling about my parents’ decades-long drama cascade through my head like shards of ice against glass. Humiliation zigzags through me, cracking the casing of pride I’d depended on to protect me for so many years.
No one. I’ve never told anyone about my childhood. Never allowed anyone in far enough to let them glimpse the wreckage it left behind. But I did with Jude. And right now, as I enter his living room, arms wrapped around myself, I’m trapped between escaping to my room and locking myself in, and turning around and burrowing my face against his chest. Hiding in his arms and seeking the comfort I want but am too proud—too scared—to ask for. Because asking him for it means I need him.
And I can’t afford that. My heart, my sanity, can’t afford that.
