As a closeted over-thinker, this has been a rough couple of hours.

I shouldn’t have said it.

Logically, I know she can’t stay.

Won’t stay.

This isn’t her life anymore and no matter what she says, she can’t just walk away from them.

Her mother.

Bradford.

Even if I discount the obscene amount of money she’s been drowning in for the past eight years, even if I accept that she does love me, and that she finally believes me when I tell her I love her, nothing has really changed for her. She’s still Henley. She still thinks it’s her personal responsibility to take care of her family. That she’s the only one who can.

The ugly truth of it is if she does love me, want to stay with me, that makes me the low man on the totem pole. Henley has never made her own wants and needs a priority.

Except when she’s rejecting you. Pushing you away… so maybe it’s not her own wants and needs that don’t rank. Maybe it’s just you—huh, fuckface? Maybe she just doesn’t think you’re worth the risk.

Swiping a rough hand over my face, I start to sit up. Pull away from her. It’s how I survive. Keep myself together. I pretend that she’s right about me. That they all are. That I’m just another blue-collar local, graced with good genetics and loose morals. The guy who winks and grins and fucks his way through life without giving a shit about the path of destruction he leaves in his wake.

But that’s not who I am.

I’ve never been that guy.

Never really wanted to be.

Being with Henley, then and now, showed me that. Showed me that I was more. That being who I really am is okay. That I don’t have to pretend to be something I’m not.

That’s why she’s dangerous.

Because she makes me want things I can’t have. Be someone I can’t be.

Not without her.

As soon as she feels my weight shift beside her on the mattress, her arm tightens around my waist and she raises her head from my chest, frowning slightly. “Con—”

“Thirsty,” I say, letting her pull me closer, angling my head to catch her mouth with mine, ignoring the twinge in my chest when she sighs against it when we part. “You need anything?”

She shakes her head, letting it fall against the pillow we were sharing, her eyes slipping closed. “Just you.”

Fuck.

She doesn’t know what she’s saying.

She doesn’t mean it.

Remember that, genius.

Finding my pants, I pull them on, zipping up on my way out the door. Shutting it softly behind me, I take a quick trip to the bathroom before hitting the back stairs that feed directly into the kitchen. The light is on. Seeing it slows my stride. Sticks me in place. Brings back memories.

“If you come down here, I can’t promise you it won’t be awkward.” My mom’s voice floats up the stairs to meet me, making me smile. “But I can promise I won’t give you the talk.”

Laughing softly, I take the rest of the stairs, landing in the kitchen to find her at the table in her bathrobe, looking up at me, a mug of tea sitting in front of her. “Why are you awake?” I say, dropping a kiss on top of her head as I head to the cabinet to pull out a mug of my own.

“You’re awake. I’m awake.” It’s what she used to say to me when I was little, and she caught me sneaking around the house in the middle of the night.

You’re awake. I’m awake.

She’d make me chamomile tea. Sit with me. Talk to me. Let me tell her what was on my mind, even when what was on my mind was well beyond her comprehension. Even though what came out of my mouth probably scared the shit out of her and confused her half the time.

She was my best friend—until I realized that it wasn’t normal for a twelve-year-old boy to call his mom his best friend. That’s when I settled on Ryan. He was around my age. The other kids liked him. He was reasonably intelligent. Loyal. Liked baseball. Being around him didn’t make me want to shove a screwdriver in my ear. As far as I was concerned, he was perfect best friend material.

“I’m not a kid anymore.” I fish a tea bag out of the box and drown it with hot water from the kettle on the stove. “You don’t have to get up and take care of me.”

“It was never a have to,” she says, watching me slide into the seat across from her. “And you’re right. You’re not a kid. You’re my kid and you’re under my roof.” The corner of her mouth kicks up, showing me the dimples she passed down to me and my brother. “So, drink your tea and tell me what’s on your mind.”

I tell her everything. Or, a PG-rated version of everything. That Henley came back to Boston looking for me. That she’s leaving again in a few weeks. That she’s getting married and why.

That I love her.

That she says she loves me.

That she’s never going to choose me and that I know it’s going to destroy me when she leaves.

“Lydia did a real number on her,” my mom says before taking a sip of her tea. “Ryan too.”

Lydia. I’ve always known that it was Henley’s mom’s name, but I’ve never heard it said out loud. “I didn’t know you knew her that well.” I knew she and Tess’s mom were close, but I’ve never heard her talk about Henley’s mom before. Not even to gossip about her like the other neighborhood moms.

“Lydia, Sophie, and I were inseparable in college.” She looks up at me, her blue eyes heavy and sad. “She latched onto Jack right away. He was a few years older. Here on a baseball scholarship. Already being scouted by the major leagues. He got an offer from the Dodgers in the middle of his junior year and Lydia talked him into quitting school and taking it. Taking her with him. She saw him as her way out.” She sets her mug down, and sighs. “I’m almost positive she got pregnant with Ryan on purpose.” Her lip curls in disgust. “She came back to visit once when he was little. She called him her little insurance policy,” she says, her mouth tight, eyes narrowed. “Three months later, Jack blew out his arm and they were back, living with her mother.” She takes a drink from her mug before setting it down again. “Their relationship was always volatile but after it became obvious Jack was never going to recover, things went from bad to worse.”

I think about Jack O’Connell, the only father Henley has ever known. The shroud of bitterness he lives under. Her mother. How cold she was when I knew her. How calculating. Her children, nothing more than burdens to be dragged around. Leverage to be applied. Never wanted. Never loved.

Not really.

“I think Henley loves you, son—I do.”

I look up to find my mom watching me, the expression on her face caught somewhere between fear and sadness. “I’m just don’t think anyone’s ever showed her how.”