“Eat.”

I glance at the plate of food Justice sets on the table, but stay slumped in the lounge chair on the balcony overlooking the ocean. The balcony we shared for the years this was my home, too.

“Not hungry.” I close my eyes without looking at Justice, begging the balmy night air to lull me to sleep, the only state where I don’t have to feel.

“It’s Grams’ chicken salad,” he says.

“No, it’s not.” I puff my lips in a bitchy pout. “It’s yours.”

“Well it’s Grams’ recipe.”

Even with my eyes closed, I know exactly what Justice’s face must look like. The forced patience I’ve heard in his voice for the last month is probably wearing pretty thin. I need it to wear out soon. Wear out so he’ll give up and leave me to waste away.

“I used pecans and cranberries,” he adds.

“Not. Hungry. Would you leave me alone?”

In the silence, I hear his patience snap.

“No, I won’t leave you alone, Fi. You’ve barely eaten for the last month.”

I manage a shrug, but can’t muster much else. It takes effort just to breathe, and even that feels like a waste of my time.

“You’ll make yourself sick,” he continues.

“And you care because?”

“What the hell does that mean?” he asks, irritation sharpening his response.

I give something that’s half grunt, half laugh, and all sarcasm.

“You will open your eyes and you will answer me, dammit,” Justice bites out.

If I could make my eyes more closed than they already are, I would.

“Make me.”

“You’re being childish.”

“And you’re being a pain in my ass,” I reply, eyes still sealed shut.

“Oh, you want a pain in the ass?”

And before I can respond, Justice lifts me from my don’t-bother-me splay across the lounge chair. He sits on the edge and lays me across his lap. I twist against the muscled strength pressing me down, holding me hostage.

“Let me up!” I squirm without success and screech at the first slap on my butt. His hand feels like a two-by-four back there. “What the…are you crazy?”

“You said I was a pain in your ass. I’m showing you what a real pain in the ass feels like.” He wallops me again, one hand across my back and the other punishing my tender rear end.

I glare at him over my shoulder and flap around like a land-locked fish.

“You’re gonna pay for this, Kenner,” I growl.

“Anger,” he says with a grim nod. “That’s a healthy emotion. How about more of that?”

He slaps my left buttock with enough force to bring tears to my eyes.

“Justice, stop! It hurts.” I want to swipe the tear rolling down my cheek, but he has my arms pinned between my body and his lap.

“It’s supposed to hurt.” He leans down to whisper to me, his warm breath brushing my ear. “Fi, it’s supposed to hurt.”

He isn’t talking about the spanking. I go completely still, letting my head drop forward until my hair falls, hiding my face and drifting down to the redwood planks of the balcony.

It’s supposed to hurt, but I haven’t let it. I haven’t cried once since the funeral. I haven’t cleaned out Mama’s apartment because I’m afraid to crack open that Pandora’s Box of pain and grief. I’ve barely even spoken to anyone, except to turn away whatever food Justice tries to force on me every day.

I raise my head and look over my shoulder. Justice is waiting for me, eyes steady and patient. This has been his plan all along. To push me until I crack, and emotion – any emotion, even anger – breaks through the wall of ice I’ve shrouded myself in. Keeping me numb. Keeping me sane.

“Justice?” My voice breaks in half under the weight of the desolation I’ve ignored the last four weeks.

Justice flips me over like something light and sweet that might fall apart if handled too roughly. He pulls me up beside him on the lounge chair, tucking me into his side. I lay my head in the crook of his shoulder, burrowing into that scent that has always meant safety. Has always meant home.

And I cry.

The tears gush out, strangling my words into choked whimpers and gurgling gasps that leave no room for words. The tears drown my dignity, leaving me a snotty-nosed, moaning heap of pain. A pitiful spill that Justice, even with his sweet assurances and soft words, can’t clean up. My heart is a sponge in the grip and twist of a pain that keeps squeezing out more tears, more tears, more tears. Until there’s nothing but the “shhhhs” Justice murmurs in my ear and the kisses he leaves in my hair.

“I’m okay.” I strangle the words out.

“You’re not,” he insists, his voice firm and concerned.

I squeeze my eyes shut, hating the tears determined to streak down my face.

“I’m trying really hard to be.”

“You don’t have to be okay,” he says. “I’m not afraid to be with you when you’re not okay.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way.” I leave my words at just above a whisper, knowing he’ll lean in to hear. I want, I need him that close.

“My mom was supposed to see me graduate. See me play volleyball overseas. See me walk down the aisle.” I gulp back the emotion scalding the inside of my throat and flooding my eyes with too many tears to blink away. They said Mama died of the same heart condition that killed Grams. They figure her life choices accelerated the process. One more reason to hate the addiction that stole so much from us.

“She was supposed to see her grandchildren,” I say. “She had already missed so much. We were supposed to have more time.”

“I know.” He pushes the hair away from my face to watch me closely.

“And I’m just…I’m so mad about it.” I grip Justice’s hand and pray he won’t let go. I’ve given him every reason to let go, but I pray he won’t.

“Fi, it’s okay to be mad. It’s normal.”

“Yeah?” I glance up at his profile, the lines softer than I’ve seen since he came back to Merryn Bay. I bundle deeper into Justice’s neck, happy to have even this small patch of him back. I know he was supposed to leave weeks ago. I know he’s only still here because he thinks I need him.

He’s right. I do.

“You know there’s more where that came from, right?” Justice asks, rubbing several strands of my hair between his fingers, turning his mouth down at the corners. “All that emotion. That was just the tip of the iceberg.”

“Hmmm.” That’s all I can manage.

“I want you to see a grief counselor.”

“Justice—”

“No excuses. I’ve already called someone and made an appointment for tomorrow.”

I search for anger or resentment or outrage at his highhandedness. It’s nowhere to be found. This is exactly what I need. He is exactly what I need.

He always has been.