It takes every ounce of strength I can muster to peel myself from the bag and walk toward the front door. As I’m walking past Harper, I signal my head toward the door. “Come on, Sugar.”

Her face softens at the term of endearment. Fuck. I’m fucking it up again, and I can’t even stop myself. I didn’t mean to speak to her the way I did. I couldn’t hold in the rage and hostility any longer.

Those three words are all I say to her before walking out of the gym. I slow my pace until I hear her footsteps. She peppers me with a few questions on the way home, but I remain silent. I can’t talk. The words won’t come. I depleted my body with physical exercise and now that the anger’s gone, there’s nothing left inside of me at the moment. Harper stops her line of questioning, turning toward the window and staying silent.

I wish I could reach out to her, but I can’t. Everything inside of me is gone. We walk in the house, and I don’t bother flipping on the lights as I make my way down the hallway toward the bathroom. I stand in the dark room waiting for the water to heat enough to step inside. When the steam starts billowing out of the shower curtain, I strip and step in, leaning my forearms against the wall and allowing the water to pound against my back.

The hot water stings as it splashes against the cuts along my knuckles. I welcome the pain. I welcome any feeling. Anything at all. Anything to take away from the emptiness inside of me.

Harper steps in behind me, pressing her naked body to my back and wrapping her arms around my middle. She hugs me close for a solid five minutes, neither one of speaking or moving until she lets go of me. I wonder if she’s getting out, sick of my attitude. I lean my head against the wall, wishing my voice would work so I could ask her to stay.

My body jolts in surprise when the scratchy loofah hits my skin. Harper washes my body, taking care of every inch of skin, paying close attention to my busted knuckles. She lays a soft kiss on each cut, slowly healing my soul and making me feel anything but empty.

After she washes my body, she puts shampoo in her hands, washing my hair, massaging my scalp. Tension slowly fades from my shoulders as I relax, letting her take care of me. She doesn’t say a word or ask anything of me, she’s just here, showing me more love than I’ve received in a lifetime.

We stay silent in the shower until the water runs cold. Harper reaches around me, turning off the spray, before she grabs the towel from the rack, drying me before she dries herself. A fresh pair of boxer briefs are sitting on the counter, and she grabs them, handing them to me. I put them on, following her out of the bathroom. While I toss on my briefs, she throws on a nightie.

The crumbled letter isn’t on the floor anymore. I wonder if she read it. I hope not. If she did, did she get farther than me? Harper pulls back the covers on my side, silently urging me to get in. She moves over to her side, climbing in. Neither one of us reaches for the other, and we both stay silent.

Minutes or hours or maybe even seconds later, I close my eyes, needing to feel her. I listen for the sound of her breathing; she’s not asleep yet. A deep sigh of relief escapes my body when I wrap her tightly in a hug.

“Did you read it?”

“No,” she says softly. “I put it away in case you ever need it.”

“He’s my father,” I admit in the dark.

Her tracing fingers stop moving on my chest. “Who?” she asks softly.

“Santiago.”

Her body stiffens in my arms. “How? What?”

“I didn’t read the whole thing.”

“Why not?”

“I read enough. He’s my father.”

“Wow,” Harper whispers.

“That means that Rafael is my brother.”

“Oh, my God,” she breathes, her arm moving around my middle to hug me tight.

“I thought I had no one. Turns out I have a brother. A blood brother.”

Harper stays silent, allowing me the space to process as quickly or slowly as I need.

“Fate is a cruel bitch. Not ever giving me a family until you and our baby, and in walks a long-lost brother who appears to be psychotic. I have a family member, something I’ve always wanted. The only blood relative I knew was my junkie mom. This blood relative wants to hurt my girl. Fuck. Cruel fucking fate.”

“If he was your father, why wasn’t he around? If he knew he had you as a son, why would he ignore that fact? Why help you later in life, but not tell you who he is?”

“Not a clue, Harp.” I say dejectedly, feeling like a knife is stabbing me in the heart as the world laughs.

“Maybe it’s in the letter,” she whispers so softly, I know she’s scared to offend me.

“I’m not reading it and I don’t want you to read it, either.”

“I won’t,” she promises.

We lapse into silence again. My arm is still wrapped around her, but I feel like a shell. Just a husk of a being. Santiago is my father. Rafael is my brother. Does he know? Could that be why he’s doing this?

I close my eyes, realizing the five million was from my father. I want to throw it all out the window now, letting it land anywhere, letting anyone pick it up off the street. Understanding washes over me. This is what Harper was feeling earlier when she said she didn’t want the money. It doesn’t matter the luxuries it could bring, it’s not worth the struggle happening in our minds.

Being the bastard that I am, I haven’t asked Harper about her letter, and now it’s too late. She’s fallen asleep. I listen to her deep breathing, allowing her rhythmic breaths to lull me into a restful state where hopefully I can fall asleep.

Tomorrow, I will be better. It’s been an intense few days. As much as I’ve tried to give Harper, I’ve failed her just as much. Maybe she’s better off without a bastard like me. Son of a junkie and a drug dealing cartel king. Isn’t that just fucking rich.