I was impressed with Tab and Hayley. I’d shown up unannounced, and immediately changed into my running gear. Tab and Hayley had begged to go with me, and I’d agreed only after they said they both ran a lot of miles together. And so we ran. I set a punishing pace, with my earbuds in and Lemonade on as loud as I could handle it. I’d put in nine miles in record time, and Tab and Hayley had kept pace, although they were both fighting to stay with me.

I couldn’t stop, though.

If I stopped running, I’d start thinking. And thinking was the last thing I could handle right now.

I pulled out an earbud and turned back to the girls, who were a few yards behind me. “I’m going to keep going. You guys should go back.”

Tab put on a burst of speed to catch up. “You can’t outrun your problems, Claire.” She tugged out both her earbuds. “Literally or metaphorically.”

“Yeah, well…I’m sure as hell gonna try.” I put my earbud back in and took off, leaving them both behind.

Funny how well I knew this neighborhood, even after all these years. I could still navigate the twists and turns and know exactly where to go to extend my route by another mile. My feet just…knew. So I ran, and I ran, and I ran.

The girls were lagging behind now, but they were still following, refusing to give up. And, truth be told, I felt better knowing they were back there. They hadn’t asked a single question, they’d just run with me, just been there, and damn if that wasn’t exactly what I needed.

No questions, no interrogations, no demanding I open up.

Dammit, dammit, dammit—don’t go there, don’t go there, do not go there. Don’t think about Brock.

Fuck, I just thought his name. His name conjured images of his face, and his hands. Of him, this morning, mostly asleep. How he made love to me. That’s what it was, too. I had to admit it. I couldn’t deny it. He’d made love to me. Soft and sweet and slow, sleepily, clutching at me, moving with me in perfect sync. Thinking he was dreaming.

God, I hated myself. I fucking hated myself for how I’d handled that. I was a goddamn coward. A pussy. I’d let him think he was dreaming, and I’d taken the goodbye pleasure I’d needed and had run off in the early hours of dawn. But…I didn’t know how to figure it out. I couldn’t do it. He was falling in love with me, and I didn’t know how to love. I knew I was feeling the same way but…I just couldn’t. It was too scary. Too much. Too hard.

And he didn’t know about the other things I wanted, sexually. How much I wanted him to spank me and bite me and tie me up and do all sorts of dark, dirty, bad things. I didn’t even really understand why I wanted that stuff, why I craved it. A psychologist would probably trace it all back to Dad—to Connor, and all that, but I wasn’t interested in psychobabble analysis. Fuck all that.

But I wanted it. I wanted him to put his big strong hands around my throat and squeeze while he fucked me and I wanted to come when he let go, gasping for air as I exploded around him. I wanted to be tied up at his mercy. I wanted…fuck. I wanted too much, and he was too pure, too good. He liked sex; he was amazing at sex. He knew how to read my body, how to touch me, how to make me come. He was so generous, always making sure I came before he did, usually two or three times. He liked to fuck me everywhere. He was adventurous, but not…kinky.

And I am.

And also…love?

That was too much.

I was running all-out, full-on sprinting. I wasn’t even aware of where I was, just that I was panicking, my legs pumping crazily, lungs burning like fire, breathing ragged, heart slamming so hard it was dangerous. I realized I was on my mom’s street, nearing the house. I pushed myself as hard as I could, and when I reached the mailbox, I slapped it as I let myself stumble to a stop, gasping, hands on my knees, chest heaving. A full two minutes later, Tab and Hayley arrived at a much slower pace, sweaty and gasping.

“Damn, Claire,” Tab said. “You finished that entire last mile at a seven-minute pace.”

Hayley just stared at me.

When I could finally stand upright and breathe somewhat normally, I realized there was a newer model Taurus parked at the curb that hadn’t been there when we’d left for the run.

“Whose car is that?” I asked.

Tab and Hayley both shrugged.

“I don’t know,” Hayley said. “Mom mentioned she had a friend coming over today.”

I sighed in relief. I couldn’t handle Brock. I’d burst into tears and probably slap him and be angry and say a bunch of hateful shit I didn’t mean, simply because I didn’t know how to handle his overly emotional bullshit. Not when I was as fragile as I felt at the moment.

I followed Tab and Hayley into the house, wiping sweat out of my eyes with the back of one wrist. I heard Mom say something to my sisters as I moved through the den toward the kitchen. The next sound I heard was the three of them speaking softly and then the front door slammed shut.

The kitchen table was in the corner, so when you walked in from the den, you had to turn to see it completely. Which meant when I walked into the kitchen and went straight for the fridge for a bottle of water, I didn’t stop to look at the table, to see who was there with Mom. I just assumed it was Mom’s friend.

I twisted the top off the bottle and braced one hand on the edge of the sink as I drained half the bottle, still fighting to breathe normally.

Mom had gone silent, and so had her friend.

My skin crawled, suddenly, the back of my neck tingling, my spine going cold. Goosebumps broke out over my skin.

No.

NO.

I turned.

“Have a good run, Claire?” Brock asked.

Fuck, he was hot. I couldn’t help but notice, appreciating the faded, light-wash blue jeans, combat boots left unlaced so the tops slouched open and the hems of his sort of but not really tight jeans sagged into the opening of the boots. A plain black V-neck T-shirt, tight and stretchy around his perfect body, highlighting his rippling abs and thick pecs and broad arms. He had a faded, dirty yellow baseball cap on, a black patch on the front with “PIPER” in white embroidered lettering, the bill curved just enough, and a pair of aviators hanging from the V of his shirt.

His eyes burned into me, mocha brown, pissed…and deeply hurt.

Fucking gorgeous.

My throat seized.

My hands started shaking.

“Brock.” My voice sounded…tiny, and as scared as I felt. “Hi.”

“Hi?”

He stood up, and I realized exactly how big and strong he really was, and how tiny I was in comparison. I wasn’t afraid of him, but—oh hell, yes I was; not physically, I knew he wouldn’t ever hurt me, but—shit. I was just scared.

“Hi?” he repeated, stalking toward me. “After the way you ran off, that’s all you have to say?”

I stood my ground. “Don’t. Just don’t, Brock.”

He tilted his head to one side. “Don’t what?” He stopped when barely an inch separated us, and I had to stare up at him. “Don’t be pissed at the cowardly way you left? Letting me think I was dreaming? Letting me wake up and find you gone? I’ve spent most of the day in the air, trying to figure out what I could have done differently, and I—I can’t come up with anything. I’m so fucking angry, Claire.”

“We’re not doing this.”

“Yes, we fucking are,” Brock snarled.

The bitter, shaking anger in his voice rattled me to my core. I shrank away from him, curling into myself at how angry he sounded. Brock was even-keel, always. He was unflappable. He never freaked out. He never got angry. He was the most stable person I knew, which was part of what was so attractive about him to me—I could always count on him to be just…him. Cool, calm, collected, and beautifully handsome no matter what.

And now he was so angry he was literally shaking.

“Back up, please,” I said. “You’re scaring me.”

He ground his jaw, but didn’t back off. Instead, he grabbed me by the hips and lifted me off the floor, sitting me on the counter. He took my jaw in one hand, pressed my head back against the cabinet, and he kissed the ever-loving hell out of me. His grip on my jaw was a vise, painful. I relished the pain of his grip, succumbed to the kiss, to the brutality of it. There was no love in the kiss, only claiming. Domination. Punishment.

It turned me on so hard I felt my pussy gush with damp hot need, clenching in anticipation.

He didn’t disappoint. Brock reached down and yanked my tiny blue Spandex running shorts down around my knees, rolled up my pink running bra. He had his jeans open in a flash, and then, before I could so much as suck in a breath, he was slamming into me. He filled me in one hard, rough thrust, driving his cock into me to the hilt, so hard I gasped. He palmed the back of my neck with one hand, grabbed my wrists in the other and pinned them against the cabinet over my head.

Oh…oh fuck.

He pulled out slowly, until I thought I was going to lose him, and then he fluttered a few times, short shallow teasing nudges, and then…he fucked me. He drilled me so hard it hurt, and his grip on my wrists was painful, and his hand on the back of my neck was fierce and harsh, keeping my head tilted back so I was forced to look up into his eyes.

“Look at me, Claire,” he snarled.

“I am,” I whispered.

He pulled out again, and this time he fucked me even harder, no warning, no teases, no making me come first, just a wet pounding of his cock into me. God, so good. The pain told me I was alive, that this was real. His anger was terrifying and his power was delicious. The dominance was intoxicating, so deeply, intensely heady that I could barely breathe for the perfection of this. His cock filled me so beautifully, the powerful thrusts so hard and rough and brutal and unflinchingly possessive that all I could do was wrap my legs around his waist and accept what he was doing to me.

His hand left my neck and cupped my breast, then he pinched my nipple with throbbing, piercing power to the rhythm of his fucking, and the harder he pinched the higher and hotter the pressure inside me built. I wanted to touch him, I wanted to flick my clit, I wanted to kiss him—but he would allow none of that.

I struggled against his hold on my wrists, and knew that he wasn’t letting go. So I thrashed as hard I could, genuinely struggling to get free, tugging against his hold as hard as I could, with all my strength. I growled like an animal, snarling and raging, my hips writhing helplessly and furiously against his pounding thrusts. I craned my neck, stretching toward him, trying to get my mouth on him, my lips, my teeth. I’d bite him, I’d kiss him, I’d lick him, but he stayed out of reach. I thrashed, and he held me in place. He pinched my nipples, one and then the other, so hard I squealed from the pain of it, and yet the pain only made me fuck him back even harder, and he felt it, he knew it.

I growled in my throat as he fucked me, and I couldn’t help but stare up at his unflinching gaze, and couldn’t help the anger that flashed through me, the hate, the self-loathing, the pain, the hurt, the confusion, and everything else inside me that was all too tangled up to name or sort or understand.

The anger.

So much anger.

At Dad, at Brennan, at Mom, at the world, at Brock.

He didn’t say a word. He just fucked me with brutal, punishing power, and I fucked him right back with all the anger I had, and we were both growling and grunting like snarling wolves fighting over a scrap.

He held my wrists and he palmed my back and jerked me closer to the edge of the counter and fucked me with complete abandon, and I could only cling to him with my legs and arch my back and move my hips as much as I could and take what he wanted to give me.

He pressed his forehead to mine, and his breathing was ragged, hissing through clenched teeth. “Take it, Claire.”

“Oh—oh god.”

“No. Say my name.”

“Brock! Oh god, Brock!”

“Take it, Claire. Take it all.”

“Yes! Give it to me, Brock!”

“You feel it?” His breath was hot on my lips, his body hard against mine, his cock slamming relentlessly, driving me to an orgasm so powerful I could feel it shaking through me even before it really crested. “You feel us?”

I sobbed as it crashed into me, through me. Words were impossible, breath was impossible, thought was impossible.

“Claire—do…you…feel…US?”

“YES!” I shouted. “I feel us, Brock, I fucking feel us, goddammit!”

He pulled me hard against him as he prepared to come, and his palm cupped the back of my head to cushion the blow as he slammed my head against the cabinet and kissed me as hard as he was fucking me.

“What is it you feel, Claire?” he demanded.

“Us, Brock. I feel us.”

“No, that’s not good enough. Say it. Say what it is.”

I sobbed again, harder than ever, tears running down my cheeks, my breasts heaving against Brock’s hard chest. I shook my head, struggling against him, denying his words, denying his truth, refusing his demand.

“SAY IT!” he shouted, and I felt the power of the words in the vibration of his chest and in the ringing in my ears.

“NO!” I shouted back.

He fucked, fucked, fucked, and I felt his cock throb inside me, buried deep, and I clenched around him with my own violent orgasm, screaming shrilly, and then snapping out to sink my teeth into his lip as he came with me. I felt him come hot and wet inside me.

He pounded into me, spurting even more. “Say it, Claire.”

“NO!”

“Coward.”

I sobbed, pressing my forehead against his, tears on my face, dripping down my chin, knowing he was right, knowing exactly what he was demanding I say. But I couldn’t.

He came, and he came, and he came. So much semen. He slammed into me one last time, and I felt his come squirt out around his cock onto my outer labia, dripping down my taint. And then, when he was done coming, he sagged against me, nestling his head against my shoulder, nuzzling his nose into my neck. His hand released mine, and I couldn’t help myself. I buried my fingers in his hair and rested my head back against the cabinet, no longer sobbing but still crying.

“Claire, please. Fucking say it. I know you feel it.”

“Say what, Brock?” Stupid to pretend I didn’t know what he meant, what he wanted. It was my last-ditch defense, though.

He groaned, a sound of utter despair and frustration. “Don’t play stupid, woman. Not with me, not about this.”

He was still buried deep inside me, still hard. His come slid out of me and down into the crack of my ass. He breathed on me, breathing hard, face buried in my neck, words muffled.

I stroked him, his hair, his broad shoulders. I had to. I couldn’t not touch him. I couldn’t not comfort him. Not when he was like this.

A sob broke free from me. “Love,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

He lifted his head to meet my eyes, and I saw utter agony in his eyes. “Say it again.”

“Love.” I spoke loud and clear. “That’s what I feel. For you. From you. Love. Fucking love. LOVE!” I shouted. “Is that better?”

“Claire.”

I spoke over him. “You think me saying it is going to make this work? Like the word has some kind of magic to it? Like I’m just going to suddenly be less fucked-up because I’ve admitted that I’m in love with you?”

“There is magic, yes.” He held on to me, as if to prevent me from running away again; smart man. “There is absolutely magic in the word. When you mean it, when it’s real? When it’s down deep, in your blood and bones? Yeah, there’s magic in admitting love. Is it going to fix you? No. It’s not that kind of magic.”

“Then what’s the point?” I asked.

For the first time since seeing Brock, I became aware of where I was—in my mother’s kitchen, on her counter. Naked. With Brock’s dick inside me, his semen dripping out of me. I’d screamed and cried and shouted and sobbed. He’d yelled and roared like a lion, and the back door was open, the neighbors less than fifty yards away. I wasn’t sure where Mom or the girls were. The only thing I remembered was her talking to the girls when we first got back, and then hearing the front door slam. I hadn’t even stopped to consider them, but I still didn’t care. Not now. There was too much else to care about.

“What’s the point?” Brock asked, his voice rough and low. “The point is life. The point is, no, I can’t fix you, or your life, or your issues. It’s not my place to fix them. I’m not trying to. I never have. I never will. That’s your job. It’s my place to just fucking love you, no matter what. It’s my place to be there. To listen, and hold, and kiss, and love, and fuck, and talk, and take charge when you need me to. Back off when you need me to. The point is love—Love is its own point.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know anything about this stuff.”

“And I do?”

“I don’t know. You seem to.”

“I’m just as scared as you, Claire. This whole thing is just as big and weird and all-consuming for me as it is you.” He cupped my face in both hands, and I met his eyes again. The anger was gone, replaced by…shit, I don’t even know. A lot. “I don’t know one thing about love. Except that I want it with you. Which means I’m not going to just give up. I’m not going to just you let sabotage us or run away from me just because you’re fucking scared and mixed-up and have shit going on that I can’t fathom. I’ve had my own heartbreak and hurt, Claire. I lost my mom when I was a kid. I lost my dad as an adult, and I wasn’t even there for it.”

He sighed and rested his lips on my forehead for a moment before continuing. “I lost my best friend in a plane crash. We were flying together, doing a tandem Half Cuban Eight, and she…I don’t know. She caught the tip of my wing with hers at the inverted down-line. I managed to right myself, I still don’t know how, but she didn’t. I watched her crash. I watched her hit the ground and die in a ball of flames.”

“Holy shit, Brock,” I breathed. “I never knew.”

“I don’t talk about it. Not sure even my brothers know. The point is I’ve been hurt.” He glanced up at me. “I said she was my best friend, because that’s what she was. But she was also my fiancé. I wasn’t going to tell anyone. We were going to fly to Vegas and get hitched by Elvis the day after the airshow. But then she died. And I haven’t been able to…to let anyone get close ever since. It’s just been casual fun. Until you. And that’s all you were supposed to be, but then…I just knew it was more. From the start, I knew you were a hell of a lot more than one night of casual fun.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I asked, my voice a whisper.

He pulled out of me, finally, and I slid to my feet, knees shaky. He bent and lifted my shorts into place, tugged my bra down. Picked me up and carried me like a doll outside to the matching red Adirondack chairs. Set me in one, and took the other, not letting go of my hand.

“I’ve never told anyone,” he said, eventually. “Not because it was a secret, but just because it was…it was mine. I didn’t want to make a big thing for my brothers. They were all over the world doing all sorts of different stuff, and they’d all want to meet her, and I just wanted to have something be only mine for a while. You’ve seen how my brothers are, always in your face and in your business. And it’s even worse now that Bast and Zane have women in their lives. I don’t know. I just didn’t want to share her.”

I struggled to fathom what he was telling me. “You were in love with her?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Tell me about her?”

He breathed out shakily. “It’s still hard. Her name was Beth. She was one of the most talented aerobatics pilots I’ve ever met. I mean, there aren’t many women in the field anyway, but she was…she was amazing. We started out as friends, but it became something else, and then we realized what it was and…we kept it quiet.

“She wanted to elope and then bring me to meet her family—apparently she was the black sheep of her family. They wanted her to be a housewife or something, some hoity-toity upper-crust family from the East Coast. She wanted to fly, so she ran off and learned to fly.” Another shaky breath. “It was a freak accident. She was so careful, so precise, so talented. A gust of wind, or a blink of an eye, a missed cue, I don’t know. Her wingtip caught mine, and she just couldn’t correct in time. I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t save her. Couldn’t do shit but watch her plane crash and burn.”

“Goddamn, Brock.”

“I landed as they were putting out the fire. I—I pulled her body from the wreckage myself.”

I gasped, feeling a pang of agony for him. “I’m so, so sorry, Brock.”

“I didn’t fly for three months. Drank myself into a stupor for most of that time. And then another pilot dragged me out of my trailer and forced me to dry out, drove me to a shrink, and told me to get my head out of my ass. So I did. But flying…it’s never been the same. Not without Beth. Dad died not long after and I came back here. Met you.”

“You miss her?”

He nodded. “I do.”

“You really loved her, huh?”

He breathed out a trembly breath. “So much.” He turned his gaze to mine. “You want to know something, though?”

“What’s that?”

“Yeah, I loved her. Yeah, I miss her. But what I feel for you…it’s so much more than anything I ever felt for Beth. That’s what makes this whole thing crazy. I loved her, I really did. But you…what I feel for you surpasses that by an infinite amount.”

“How is that…how does that even work?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I just know she loved life and she loved love, and she would have wanted me to keep living and love again. I don’t have any qualms or doubts about that. When I’m up in the air, flying the Piper, I feel her, sometimes.” He squeezed my hand. “There. That’s the one thing I’ve never told you. And now you know. And you know why I’m not going to give this up easily, no matter how much of a pussy you are about it.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You ran off in the middle of the night, Claire.”

“It was early morning, actually.”

“Whatever. You fucking ran. You fucked me, and you let me think it was a dream.” He held my gaze. “That’s cowardice. I know you’re scared, Claire, and I’ll say it again—I fucking get it, okay? I’m not expecting you to just be suddenly fine about us, or your family situation, or anything. But you owe me more than what you did to me this morning. If you seriously, legitimately cannot handle us—if you can look me in the eye right now and tell me you don’t love me and that you don’t want to ever see me again, I’ll walk. I’ll walk away right now and you’ll never see me again. But you owe me that much, Claire. You don’t get to vanish like this was a one-night stand with a random stranger.”

Panic. Deep, dark, overwhelming panic. He’d just fucked me the way I’ve always wanted to be fucked. He took me. He used me. He punished me. I’d never, ever in my life been so thoroughly and beautifully and roughly used like that, and I wanted it every single moment of every single day for the rest of my life.

But he wanted more from me.

He wanted LOVE.

The man I’d called Dad never loved me.

The man who’d conceived me had never even known I existed.

My mother…I supposed she loved me, in her way. But she also couldn’t look at me without thinking of what she could have had with Brennan, what she lost. Sure, she spent nearly forty years with Connor, but it was passionless. They’d never kissed in front of us, never acted as if they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. They were friends, they were life partners, but…it wasn’t passion. And I never felt loved.

How could I show Brock what I’d never felt?

I didn’t even know what love was.

Was it letting him fuck me softly and gently, in a bed, and pretending I liked it? Was it the soft, melty feeling I got sometimes when I looked at him? Like my heart was expanding and I couldn’t handle how hot he was, how kind and thoughtful and sensitive and powerful he was?

How was I supposed to love him?

I hated myself. I hated how badly I’d hurt him, this morning.

And I was selfish enough to want to keep him for myself. I wanted him at my disposal, in my bed, in my life. He made me a better person. He made me feel good. He made me feel beautiful.

But what did I give him? Aside from a world-class BJ and a high-rev libido, what did I have to offer? I was a fucking mess. I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know what I wanted from life. I liked programming and running, but…what else was there? I liked sex. I liked to be dominated the way he had just now. I liked to be used like the dirty whore I was, because that’s all I felt like I was worth.

FUCK.

There it was. That was the reality. That was the deep-down truth I’d been avoiding for so long: I wasn’t worth being with a man like Brock.

Tears trickled down my face as the truth seeped through me. It hurt. It hurt so bad, but it was also a relief to finally be able to admit it to myself. I wasn’t worthy of him. It wasn’t about love or sex or how he fucked me or what I wanted. It was just the basic reality that I wasn’t good enough. I’d never been good enough. Not for Dad, not for Mom, not for myself, not for anyone, and certainly not for a damn near perfect human being like Brock Badd.

He was watching me. He saw my tears. He saw the pain.

“Claire?”

I shook my head. “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

I slid off the chair and knelt in front of him, taking both of his hands in mine. I met his gaze steadily with my own. “I can’t do this, Brock. I just can’t. I don’t know how. You tell me to just…try, like it’s so easy. But I don’t even know where to start. I’m selfish enough to not want to let you go, but…I’m no good. I’m too much of a mess. And I just…I fucking—I can’t do this, Brock. I’m sorry.”

“Say it, then.” He stared at me unblinking, unflinching, but I saw the agony in his eyes. The anger. “Fucking say it.”

I shook my head. “I can’t say that, either. That I don’t feel…something for you, that I don’t want to ever see you again—neither would be true. But I also can’t do this. Not now, at least. Not yet.”

“Then what are you saying, Claire?”

I broke into a sob, my eyes squeezing shut as tears sluiced down my cheeks. I let go of his hands and buried my face in his legs, shuddering and shaking. “I don’t know, Brock! Just that I can’t! I don’t know how to love you! I don’t know how to even like myself, for fuck’s sake, so how I could I possibly be woman enough to love you? I’m not that woman. I want to be, but I’m just not.”

“So you want to love me, but you don’t know how, and you’re not willing to try? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“If that’s how you want to hear it, then sure. It’s not about not being willing, it’s…FUCK! I don’t know how to even say it so you understand!” I pushed away, stood up, tried to stop my shoulders from shaking, my breath from catching. “I can’t do this with you. I can’t be with you.”

“Yes you can, Claire.”

“No, I can’t.” I turned around and faced him, so he couldn’t say I didn’t say it to his face. “You deserve more than what I’m capable of giving right now, Brock. I can’t be with you. Not yet.”

“Not yet.” He stood up and moved so he was inches from me, looking down at me. “That means you might be able to in the future?”

I shrugged. “Maybe? I can’t promise you anything right now. I’m too fucked-up. This thing with my—with Connor, and my mom, and everything, it’s too much. And you on top of it? Wanting me to love you, wanting me to be this woman who can just be…I don’t know, something I’m just not…it’s more than I can handle.” I backed away from him. “You’re pretty much perfect, Brock. You’ve got it all. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re talented, you know what you feel and how to express it, you can just talk about things that I don’t know how to even express within myself, and you’re just…you’re sweet and sensitive and affectionate and understanding, and—and yet you can come in here and take me hard and fast and fuck me so good it hurts…you’re perfect, Brock. And I’m—” I backed away another step. “I’m not. I’m so far from okay that I don’t even know what it looks like, what it’s supposed to feel like.”

“I’m not perfect, Claire.”

“I know, I mean, nobody is actually perfect and I get that. But to me, for all intents and purposes, you pretty much are.” He needed the words, and even though it cost me the last shred of sanity and dignity I had left, I gave them to him. “I don’t deserve you, Brock.”

He laughed. Actually fucking laughed, the bastard, and moved toward me. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, Claire. For real. Nobody deserves anybody else. You can’t…not deserve someone.”

I backed away again, keeping distance between us so I didn’t dissolve into tears, or break down and give in to wanting him. “Intellectually, I understand that. But don’t you see? The problem is that, logical or not, it’s how I feel.”

He spun away, yanking his hat off and scrubbing his hand through his hair. “Claire, I—how can I make you see yourself the way I see you? How can I fix this?” He sounded agonized, his voice rough, throaty, almost tremulous. “I don’t understand where I went wrong.”

I sobbed again. “You didn’t, Brock! I—I absolutely hate using this stupid horrible cliché, but…it’s not you, it’s me. You’ve done everything right.”

“So why…why can’t we work through your problems together?”

“Because I don’t know how to be a we, Brock. I don’t…I don’t know what else to say, how else to put it. I just can’t do this with you. I just can’t.”

He replaced his hat and turned to face me. “So that’s it? There’s nothing I can say? Nothing I can do?”

I shook my head. “I don’t want it to be this way. I don’t want to hurt you.” I closed my eyes, tasting tears. “But no, there’s nothing you can say. Nothing you can do.”

“You want me to leave.”

I nodded. “It’s best, for right now.”

“You’re staying here?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything.” I tried to stop crying, but couldn’t. “I’m sorry, Brock. I’m so sorry.”

He lifted his aviators and slid them onto his face, hiding his eyes. “I just have to say two things, for the record.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, hugging myself. “Okay.”

“One, I want you to know that I think this is complete bullshit. I think you’re wrong, and you’re just too scared of being abandoned to let me in. And two, I’m in love with you.” He kept his distance, hands shoved into his hip pockets. “I told you I’d leave you alone if that’s what you really want, so that’s what I’m going to do. I’ll give you time, I’ll give you space. But I think you’re wrong. I think you’re underestimating yourself, selling yourself short. And me, too, for that matter. But I’m not going to try to talk you into being with me. Either you want it, or you don’t.”

I’m in love with you.

GODDAMMIT. He had to say that? Now? Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Not fair. So not fair. Because I knew I was doing the right thing. If I tried to have a relationship with him right now, it’d be a disaster for both of us.

But fuck me, this hurt so bad. I couldn’t stop crying, and I could tell he was fighting it, too.

“I’m sorry, Brock,” I said, in a broken whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

“Me too.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

He shook his head, but more because he seemed unable to find words. He backed away, heading for the side gate. He let himself out, pausing before latching the chain-link gate behind himself. “This is fucking bullshit, Claire. I hope you know that.”

I shook so hard with sobs that I couldn’t stay on my feet. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ll wait. You change your mind, you find your way through whatever it is you’re going through that you can’t share with me, I’ll be there on the other side.” He backed away another step, digging a set of keys from his hip pocket. “You know where to find me.”

I didn’t get a goodbye from him. He didn’t look back. He got in the rented Taurus and drove away. He didn’t peel out, didn’t do anything crazy, but as the back of the car pulled away, I could see his head and shoulders from behind. He yanked his hat off and tossed it angrily, then slammed his fist on the steering wheel a good half dozen times, so hard it was a wonder the wheel didn’t break. Then his hand disappeared in front of him. Wiping his face, maybe?

The idea of Brock crying shredded me. I didn’t want this. I’d never wanted this. This was exactly why I never did the emotional connection thing. This was why I just fucked ’em and chucked ’em. No emotions, no mess, none of this bullshit emotional agony.

Fuck this.

Fuck Brock for forcing me into this.

It wasn’t just him, though, was it? It was me, too. I let this happen.

I collapsed into the grass and gave into wracking sobs.

At some point, Mom found me there, and sat in the grass with me, and her silent presence was almost more than I could bear, but also not enough.

Nothing was enough. Nothing could heal this.

And it was all my fault.