Ethan wanted nothing more than to lean over and pull her into his arms. Hold her. Never let her go.

That was the last thing he could do. Not because he was driving—because he was afraid simply touching Cindy would make her bolt from the car. She was huddled in the seat, her arms still wrapped tightly around her middle, her head turned to the side as she stared out the window. Street lights whizzed by, casting her face in alternating shadows and harsh light. Was it just the light that made her look pale? No. Her face had been pale when he'd seen her sitting in that booth at The Maypole.

Alone. Lost.

Part of him—a large part—was still surprised she had agreed to let him drive her home. Maggie had argued with him, adamant that she be the one to take Cindy home.

In the end, it had been Cindy who made the final decision, her voice quiet and strained, totally void of the life it usually contained. What had happened?

He didn't know. And he was afraid to ask.

"I'm sorry."

The words were soft, just above a whisper. If they hadn't been stopped at a light, Ethan wasn't sure he would have even heard them. He glanced over, squeezed the steering wheel tight in his hand, and tried to smile.

"For what?"

She looked over, her face carefully blank. But her eyes, those deep beautiful green eyes that he saw every night in his dreams, held a sadness that was suffocating. He gripped the steering wheel even tighter so he wouldn't reach over and take her hand.

"For tonight. I should have let Maggie take me home. You should have stayed with your friends."

"Not a big deal. I offered, didn't I?"

But she didn't hear him. Or she did and chose to ignore him. "And for this summer. For…"

Her voice trailed off and she looked away. Ethan frowned, glanced around, then pulled through the intersection and maneuvered the car into the parking lot of a convenience store. He cut the engine then turned in the seat, careful to keep his hands in his lap. Silence filled the car. He strained his ears and listened to her breathing. Deep, slow breaths, like she was doing some kind of deep breathing exercises.

He took a deep breath of his own and forced a smile to his face, hoping it came through in his voice. "You don't have to apologize."

"I do. I—" She paused, took another three deep breaths. "I think I knew something was wrong then. I think I even knew months before then. I just…I didn't…"

She hesitated again. Or maybe she couldn't say anything else. She unfolded her arms and placed her hands, palm down, against her thighs then started rubbing her legs. Back and forth. Back and forth. Ethan saw the way her fingers trembled, saw the way she drew her shoulders up. Tense. Uncertain.

He curled his own fingers into a loose fist so he wouldn't reach for her. "Can you—do you want to talk about it?"

She laughed, the sound small and sharp and bitter. "All I do is talk about it. Once a week with my psychotherapist."

Ethan wasn't sure what to say to that. Psychotherapist? What had happened? But Cindy was taking another deep breath, her mouth forming over different words, all of them silent.

"I'm not crazy. Not really."

"I didn't think you were."

She laughed again but the sound was empty, humorless. She looked over at him, those sad eyes meeting his for several long seconds before she looked away. "You should. Everyone else does. Sometimes even me."

"I don't." Ethan wondered if it was true, even as he repeated the words. No, Cindy wasn't crazy. He was sure of it. But how could he be? He didn't know, just knew that whatever was going on, it wasn't that.

Again he was seized by the overwhelming need to hold her. To pull her into his arms and hold her tight, whisper words of reassurance into her ear. He lifted his hand, let it hover over her shoulder, dropped it back into his lap. How could he touch her, when he wasn't sure how she would react?

"Can you tell me what happened?"

She laughed again, that short, brittle sound. Then she was quiet. Long seconds went by, enough that Ethan didn't think she'd answer. Then she took another deep breath and curled her hands against her legs. "Can I? Yeah. Do I want to? I'm not…I don't know."

Ethan took his own deep breath, did his best to school his face into a mask of indifference. Her words shouldn't hurt. They weren't meant to hurt.

"Fair enough." He tried to smile as he shifted in the seat and reached for the keys in the ignition. "But I'm here if—"

"Wait."

Ethan froze, but not because of her desperate command. No, it was the touch of her hand on his arm that made him freeze. He glanced down, something twisting in his gut as he stared at the small hand, so pale and fragile, resting against his forearm. He didn't move, not even to look at her, afraid any movement would scare her, make her draw her hand away. Did she even realize she was touching him?

"Did Maggie…did she tell you anything?"

"No. Not really. Just that you'd been sick. And that you were, um, going through some things."

"Sick. Yeah. Maybe." Her hand tightened, just a brief squeeze. But it stayed where it was. "Not really. I, uh, I was diagnosed with MDD."

Ethan remained still; at least, his body did. His mind raced ahead. MDD? He didn't know what it was, had never heard of it. Cindy had been sick. Was MDD a disease of some kind? Would she get better? A hundred different questions collided in his racing mind—and he couldn't ask any of them.

Could Cindy sense his confusion, his worry? Or was she seeing something else as she stared at the dashboard? Was her mind focused inward, unaware of her surroundings?

"MDD is major depression disorder. It's…well, it covers a lot, I guess. Explains a lot." She took a deep breath, her voice flattening as she spoke, almost like she was reading from a list. "It's clinical depression. It affects mood and behavior. Appetite. Sleeping. Hopelessness. Loss of interest in…everything."

She paused, took a deep breath and ran her free hand across her eyes. Then she turned, the hand on his arm tightening. "It's not just the MDD. I have anxiety, too. I…sometimes I don't feel. And sometimes, I'm afraid to be touched. I don't know why."

Ethan swallowed, glanced down at the small pale hand then looked back up. "You're touching me now."

Fuck. Why had he said anything? Panic crossed her face and she jerked her hand away with a soft gasp of surprise. Coldness seeped into him, an emptiness he didn't understand. It took all of his willpower not to move, not to pull her into his arms and comfort her.

"You seemed fine this summer." Even before the words left his mouth, he wished he could take them back. They sounded cold, uncaring. Almost accusatory. But if Cindy noticed, she didn't do anything, just sat there and shrugged, her hands clasped tightly together in her lap.

"I think…I think it was starting last year. Just small things. A day here, a day there. It got worse when I got back. Real bad. I—" She shuddered then pursed her lips together. Did she regret telling him that much? Was there more she wasn't telling him? He thought so, but he didn't want to push, didn't know how to ask.

"But you're getting better, right?"

She turned toward him, the sadness in her eyes even deeper. "I'm on medication. I see a psychotherapist."

"And that helps, right?"

She shrugged, her eyes taking on a faraway look. "She says I'm getting better. She says I might even be normal one day."

Ethan reached out to brush the hair away from her face then dropped his hand before he touched her. "They say normal is overrated anyway, right?"

Cindy laughed, the sound hollow. Another shudder went through her and the choked laughter turned to sobs. She turned away, her shoulders shaking, her tears quiet. Something sharp twisted inside Ethan and this time he did reach out. He couldn't let her sit there, so alone when he was right here.

He rested his hand on her shoulder, the gentle touch hesitant. She stiffened and Ethan cursed under his breath, calling himself a fool. But before he could move, she was turning toward him, her hands reaching blindly for him, her frail arms wrapping around his neck. Ethan held himself still as she cried against his shoulder. Then he slowly, gently, eased his arms around her.

Holding her. Comforting her with mindless words as she sobbed.

Time slowed, seconds stretching to long minutes, broken only by the sound of Cindy crying. Her sobs finally eased, turning into short gasps as she caught her breath, the short gasps turning into regular breathing as she curled against him.

He eased his hold on her, afraid of upsetting her now that she seemed to have calmed. But her arms tightened around him, holding him in place.

"Don't. Please." Her voice was quiet, subdued, the words a rush of warm air against the skin of his neck. "I—I'm not afraid of your touch, Ethan. I'm not afraid of you."

His heart slammed into his chest as his arms instinctively tightened around her. She couldn't be comfortable, not with the way she was stretched across the console. But he didn't move. He'd stay there all night, holding her just like this, if it helped.

Cindy was the one who finally pulled away. She sat back in the seat with a deep breath, ran her hands down her face. Ethan reached into the center console, rummaged through the junk that had accumulated there until he found a wad of napkins from some fast-food place. He held them out to her, his heart tripping at the sight of the small smile wavering on her lips.

She wiped her eyes and blew her nose then crumpled the napkins in her fist. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

She shrugged, not quite looking at him. Color filled her face, turning her pale cheeks a delicate pink. "For…everything. Not calling you. Falling apart."

"It doesn't sound like you were ready to talk. To anyone."

She shrugged again. Ethan leaned back in the seat, his arm resting against the console—not touching her, but there if she needed the support. "Did crying make you feel better?"

"I…I'm not sure. I…things get so jumbled sometimes." She was quiet for a long moment, long enough that Ethan thought maybe it was time to take her home. But she shifted in the leather seat, slid a sideways glance at him then released a long sigh filled with pain and sorrow.

The confession echoed around the interior of the small car, the words hitting him with the force of a physical blow. He opened his mouth, snapped it closed when he realized he didn't know what to say.

"He was bi-polar. And, uh, there were other things going on, I guess. I could never understand why he did it but now I do. I think that's why my mom can't look at me anymore. I think she's afraid I'm going to…that I'm going to be like my father."

Ethan pushed the fear the words caused to the back of his mind. He couldn't think of them now. "What do you think?"

She looked at him, her eyes oddly clear. "Have I thought about it? Yes, but not like that. Not yet. I remember what his death did to my mother. What it did to me. I think that was the main reason I wanted to study psychology—because I didn't understand it, why he did it. Not then."

"But you do now?"

She looked away and nodded, her fingers busy twisting the discarded napkins. "I do. And I'm afraid."

Ethan reached over, rested his hand lightly on her arm. He could feel the muscle tense under his palm, felt the tremors running through her. But she didn't panic, didn't pull away. "Why are you afraid, Cindy?"

She finally looked over at him, fear and understanding clear in her eyes. "Because I think it would be too easy to step over that line. Because I'm broken, Ethan. And I don't want to live life as a broken shell."