CHAPTER 20

FALLING IN

POPPY

“I need details. Lots of them. All of them.” April takes a hefty swig of her margarita.

“You’re not getting all the details.”

“Oh my God, he looked like he wanted to eat you. And you’re seeing him again tonight? Sweet lord, I can’t even…” She fans her face. “Did you sleep with him? You slept with him, right?”

“Can you keep your voice down?” I look around the pub. It’s busy, and no one is paying attention, but I checked out the pictures of me and Lance on the ride over here, so now I’m paranoid.

There are a lot of them, with plenty of kissing and touching. Luckily everything is tasteful, but it’s far more attention than I’ve ever had, apart from the few images that circulated last year when I ended up back at his place. Those pictures didn’t focus on me, though, and they weren’t very clear, so I never worried about them.

These are much different. I am the central focus of every image. And I am very clearly Lance’s primary focus. It’s as flattering as it is unnerving.

“Sorry, sorry. So did you?” April leans in close.

I try to hide behind my Shirley Temple. “Yes.”

“Oh my God! I knew it!” She slaps the table.

I grimace, along with all the other people she’s scared the crap out of.

She makes one of her faces and lowers her voice. “How was he? Is he, you know, well equipped?”

“He was really sweet, and yes.”

“Come on, Poppy, you have to give me more than that.”

“What do you want me to say?” I’m not really one to talk about my sex life, although I’ve also never been with someone whose dinner date ends up being fodder for social media gossip.

“I don’t know, based on that conversation back at the clinic, you didn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night. Does that mean he kept you up aaaaall niiiiiggght long?” She sings it while making thrusting motions and wags her brows.

“I didn’t get a lot of sleep, no.”

“You’re blushing so hard right now. It must’ve been amazing. I bet he can fuck like a god.”

“Can we change the subject please?”

She purses her lips, clearly annoyed that I won’t share more. “So he’s coming over again tonight? What’s that about?”

I fiddle with my straw. “He wants to see me again.”

“I got that. So are you dating? Are you, like, his girlfriend?”

“I don’t know. I guess we’re seeing each other? There’s no label on it. He wants to see where this goes.”

“So he’s not going to see other people?”

“We haven’t talked about that.”

“Doesn’t he have an away series coming up? Are you going to talk about it before he goes?” April looks concerned.

“If it comes up, I guess.”

I don’t like this turn in the conversation. I can totally understand why April is asking, though. I’ve always been a relationship kind of girl. I never did the hook-up thing, even in college. When I date someone, it’s only ever that one person.

Lance seems to be the exact opposite. As much as I’d like to believe he’s not going to be sleeping with other women while he’s away, I won’t know unless I ask. And I’m not sure exactly how to do that, because if the answer isn’t one I like it’s going to hurt.

···

It’s the middle of the week, and I should probably already be in bed, but Lance is currently stretched out on my couch—one leg on the floor, one propped up on the back of the seat—so I’m inclined to stay up. He’s wearing boxers, and only boxers. The position highlights the outline of his somewhat-hard penis. We’ve already had sex once. After I gave him a massage.

Well, I made it about halfway through the massage before he decided there were particular parts of his body that required my attention.

He was pretty excited when I offered my services in exchange for orgasms. I haven’t actually made it through a full-body massage since we struck that deal a few days ago, but he’s also far less tense, so he won’t have to see the team therapist as much, and that’s a positive.

In the ten days since he took me out for dinner, Lance has become sort of a fixture in my house. He’s spent nearly every night here. In my bed. He missed two nights while he was off on the away series, but when he’s had games here in Chicago, he shows up afterward. I’ve had a lot of orgasms and not a lot of sleep.

Tomorrow he’s leaving again for another away series. We still haven’t had a relationship-defining talk, which made those nights he was away somewhat stressful. But he messaged every day he was gone, and no party photos showed up on social media, so that helped a little. I need to address it before he leaves tomorrow though, because I don’t think I can handle that level of anxiety again, especially not for five days rather than just two.

As much as I’m not excited about the separation, my girl parts could use a few days off from all the attention. I’ve never been with someone who has such a high sex drive. Being wanted this much is as thrilling as it is overwhelming.

I approach the couch with my hands behind my back. “I have a surprise.”

“Oh yeah?” Lance tears his eyes away from the TV. He’s watching hockey, which is normal. I’ve also discovered he’s a huge fan of Sudoku. When the commercials come on, if he’s not looking to make out, he’ll have me help him with them. Not that he needs the help. He’s far more math minded than I am. But I secretly find it sexy. Or not so secretly.

I hold up a bag of Jelly Babies. They’re a British treat my grandmother used to send me every Christmas. I recently found a store close by that sells them, and I know Lance loves them almost as much as he loves gummy bears. And sex.

He grabs for the bottom of my shirt—which is really his shirt—but I jump out of reach. “You have to share.”

“What if I don’t want to share?”

“Then I guess you don’t get any.”

He considers this for a few seconds. “Fine, I’ll share. Now come here.” He pats his chest, and I climb up on the couch and stretch out on top of him. His half-hard-on twitches against my stomach.

I expect him to steal the bag from me, but he doesn’t. Instead he folds one arm behind his head, thick bicep flexing. He traces the contour of my face with the fingers of his free hand and tugs the end of my ponytail while I tear the bag open. I pop a jelly in my mouth before I offer one to him. He bites it out of my fingers and mmmmmms his candy enjoyment.

“I have nae had these in years.” The hint of Scot creeps in.

“They were always my favorite. My nana used to send me a package every year at Christmas and my birthday. What’s your favorite flavor?”

“The blackberry ones.”

I dig around in the bag, searching for one. If I let him have the bag, he’ll snarf them all down, like he does with gummy bears.

I find one and hold it up. He takes it carefully in his teeth and watches me while he chews.

Things have been intense. We haven’t gone out at all. It’s just been Lance showing up at my house after work and staying the night. On the plus side, I haven’t had to cook since Lance always brings takeout. He also likes to bring me flowers, and sometimes treats. There are bouquets strategically placed all over the main floor.

We talk, we have sex, we watch a lot of hockey on TV, but I haven’t been invited to his games. Not that I’d expect an invitation to the away games, but maybe a home one would be nice. He hasn’t asked to take me out on another date, either. Technically he owes me a coffee.

“What’s your favorite flavor?” He tries to stick his hand in the bag, but I clutch it in my fist. “You know I can take that from you if I really want to.”

I give him a look. “I like the orange ones.”

“Of course you do.”

The next time I try to feed him one, he grabs the bag.

“Hey!”

He holds it over his head, far enough away that I have to sit up. He winds an arm around my waist and flips us over so he’s on top. “You’ll never win, precious.”

He proceeds to dump a hefty portion of the bag into his mouth, as predicted. Then he digs for an orange one. He doesn’t offer it to me directly, though. Instead he finishes chewing his massive mouthful and puts the orange one between his lips.

I try to take it with my fingers, but he pulls back and shakes his head. “Take it wif yer teef.”

I roll my eyes but lean up as he leans down. Before I can take it, he flips it into his mouth, then sticks his tongue out. “Geb it now,” he urges.

“Ew! No. It’s covered in your spit.”

He removes it from his tongue. “That spit thing again? I have my tongue in your mouth all the time and you don’t seem to mind at all.”

“Your tongue in my mouth is different than eating candy you’ve slobbered all over.”

“Suit yourself, but that was the last orange one.” He chomps down on it, groaning his fake pleasure.

“What? Come on! I didn’t even get one!” I try to get the bag back from him, but he won’t let me have it.

He pulls out a blackberry one and presses it against my lips. I suck the whole thing in and chew furiously, putting my hand over my mouth when he makes a move. Lance tries to pry my hand away, but I swallow before he overpowers me. Then his mouth is on mine. His tongue strokes, aggressive and searching, and when he comes up empty, he pulls back and frowns.

“You ate it.”

“You put it in my mouth. Isn’t that what I was supposed to do?”

“You were supposed to share.”

He pops another one into his mouth and chews thoughtfully, then sits back on his heels between my legs. He’s fully hard now, the head pushing against the elastic waist of his boxers. He digs through the bag and produces another orange one, eyes lit up with mischief.

“Want it?”

“Not if you expect me to share it, no.”

“What if I hide it?”

“Your mouth is not a hiding spot,” I shoot back.

He grins and pushes down the waistband of his boxers so the head of his erection peeks out. He places the candy on the tip.

“You know, if you want a blow job, you can just ask for one.”

“I’m not asking for a blow job. Just a kiss for a candy.”

Minutes later I’m naked and under Lance on the couch again.

Afterward I lie on his chest again, half asleep, and his phone starts buzzing on the table. The arm around me tightens as we look at the glowing screen. DO NOT FUCKING REPLY has messaged him once while he’s been with me since our dinner date. And just like at dinner, he shuts off his phone.

Mum comes up this time, but that doesn’t ease his tension at all.

“Do you want to get that?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

“I don’t want to talk to her. We don’t get along that well.”

“Oh.” He said his mother wasn’t a good person before, but I never pushed. I’ve always gotten along well with my parents, even during my teen years when hormones made rational thought difficult. I think no matter how much attitude I copped, it didn’t come close to what my sister dished out, so I was still the angel.

Lance watches the phone until it stops ringing.

“Can I ask why you don’t get along?” Conversations about his family have been relatively limited, and his reaction to that phone call makes me question even more all the things he hides.

Lance regards me for a long while before he finally replies. “She has a mean streak.”

I cock my head to the side. “What kind of mean streak?”

He fingers a lock of my hair. “Before we moved to the States, she and my dad used to get into it a lot. Well—” Derision darkens his features. “My mum used to get into it with my dad. She’d get all pissed off and go at him, just fucking lose her shit. He used to laugh. I mean, she was a little thing. Not much taller than you, but she would just blow her lid. He never hit her back, though. Not once. Not that I saw, anyway.”

My stomach dips, thinking about how that would look to the child version of the man in front of me.

“But she wasn’t always like that. She had pills she’d take sometimes, and then she was a lot better, not so angry all the time—nicer but just kind of vacant. It was hard. I don’t know why my dad put up with it, or let her go off the meds or whatever, but he did. She had a lot of issues. Bad childhood and all that shit. Anyway, eventually she turned that mean streak on me.”

I put my fingers to my mouth. “She hit you?”

His eyes are sad. “It wasn’t like she could really hurt me, you know? Not after I got a little older. The words are the things that stick, though.”

When I put my hand on his chest, he picks it up and plays with my fingers.

“I had a younger brother. His name was Quinn.”

I frown at the past tense.

“He was eight when he died.”

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

He shakes his head, eyes still on my fingers. “I think it broke her mind. She kind of snapped and was never the same. That’s when she really started to go at me, after Quinn died.”

I want to ask what happened, but I don’t dare interrupt him.

“We came to the States to get away from the memories for her. Or at least that’s what my dad made it seem like we were doing. I think he’d had enough. He left us here, but she didn’t want to go back to the UK. My playing hockey was a good enough reason for her to stay in Chicago.”

He’s silent for a while, maybe lost in a memory.

“I thought it might stop when we moved in with my aunt, and it did for a little while, but she’d get so pissed when I fucked up at practice. After a while it was expected. It didn’t matter how hard I tried, something would set her off.”

My heart aches for him. “Did you tell anyone?”

“What was I gonna say? My mum beats the shit out of me? It was my fault—” He chokes on the words.

“What was your fault?”

He shakes his head taps his temple. “She messed with my head all the time, my mum did. That night I met you for the first time, I wasn’t supposed to be at that party. I’d snuck out of the house through my bedroom window, like teenagers do. Or like I did, anyway. There was some big tryout the next morning for the top league in the city—on my birthday, right? My mum kept telling me she knew I was going to fail, and then we’d have to go back to Scotland. She said I better not dare do that to her.

“I figured what was the point? I was going to screw it up anyway, like I did everything else, so I went out, got drunk, and ended up in that closet with you.” He smiles a little and brushes my fingertips over his lips.

“When I got home, my mum was waiting for me in the garage. She was so pissed. And she was wasted, or high—or both maybe. Like, so fucked up. That was the night my aunt found out what was going on. She walked into the garage right when my mom was in the middle of her smackdown. She had boxing gloves on so she didn’t mess up her nails. Usually she’d keep to areas that weren’t visible, but not that night.”

He pauses, lost within himself for a moment. “Things got real messy after that for a while. And I shut out every single memory I could. All the good ones, all the bad ones. Everything. I buried it all.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It is what it is. I can’t change it now, so I try not to think about it too much. But stuff like that, it doesn’t ever really go away. Even when you try to put it in a box, it finds a way out.” He releases a long, slow breath, his expression pained as he touches my face with shaky fingertips. “I probably shouldn’t have told you any of that.”

I cover his hand with mine and turn my face into his palm to kiss it. “I’m glad you felt safe enough to share that with me.”

“I’m fucked up, Poppy.”

“We all have demons. It makes us human, not fucked up.”

“I tried to have a girlfriend my sophomore year of high school. It didn’t go so well.”

“Why not?”

“I discovered how much I don’t like being touched.”

His aversion makes more sense now. “I touch you.”

“It’s different with you. I don’t know if it’s ’cause of our history or what, but this…closeness, how I am with you, this isn’t how it usually is.”

“And how is it usually?” My stomach knots. The things I want to hide from are too close.

Lance closes his eyes, and his jaw clenches. When he looks back at me, he seems as scared as I feel right now. “I don’t really wanna answer that question.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause then you’ll know exactly how fucked up I am.”

I reach up and touch his cheek. He gathers both of my hands in his and clasps them together, bowing his head and pressing his lips to my exposed knuckles, almost like a prayer. “I don’t deserve this. You. I don’t deserve this kind of goodness. I shouldn’t be here, taking all these things from you when they shouldn’t be mine.”

“Lance.”

He looks up at me through narrowed eyes, and his fear vibrates through him.

“You’re not taking. I’m giving. Our pasts are part of who we are. They may shape us, but they don’t govern our future paths if we don’t want them to.”

“What we’re doing here is different than what I know.”

“Do you want it to be different than it is?”

“No, I want this, but the last time I tried it backfired really bad.”

We’re talking in a circle, skirting the parts of this that could hurt us both. “Because of something you did?”

“Yeah. No. Sort of.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Remember how I told you about that girl I was seeing last year and how it didn’t end well?”

I nod.

“It was a complicated situation. I wanted something she didn’t.”

“Which was what?”

“For it just to be us. Her and me. But she wasn’t interested in that.”

“What did she want?”

“To mess with my head.”

“I won’t play head games. I’m not like that.”

“You don’t strike me as the type.” His smile is almost shy. “I won’t do that to you, either. That’s definitely not what I want.”

“What do you want?” There’s a lot riding on this. I’m already past the point of no return where my heart is concerned, so I have to protect myself as best I can.

“Just you.”

It seems to be a common phrase with him. I have to get clarity. “What does that mean exactly?”

Panic flares behind his eyes, and I can see he’s struggling with words. In this moment I realize how much damage has been done to him. Prolonged, sustained physical and emotional abuse has a lasting impact.

So much finally makes sense now as I filter back to the first time he was on my table—and further back, to the night at the bar, where he was edgy and stressed over the way people kept bumping into him, and to the kiss in the closet when he wrapped my arms around his neck and told me to keep them there. That that was the real him.

I have the real him right here with me now, too. I have a broken boy who’s become a broken man, and as stupid and naïve as it may be, I want to be part of what heals him.

“I want this. You and me. Us.” He skims my side with his hand, then wraps an arm around my waist.

God. Of all the relationship conversations I’ve had, this one has to be the most difficult. “So you want be exclusive?”

He swallows hard. “I don’t want there to be anyone else.”

“So when you’re away, you don’t want me to see other people?” I won’t take anything for granted.

His eyes flash with something dark. “Are you seeing anyone else right now?”

“No. And I don’t plan to. That’s not how I work.”

He swallows thickly. “Okay. That’s good.”

“But what about you?” At his questioning gaze I press. “What about the girls who hang out after the games?”

“The bunnies?” Lance asks, looking almost horrified.

“Yes. The bunnies.”

“They’re just there for hook ups.”

“And will you do that? Have you done that? Hooked up with them?”

Lance frowns. “No. Not since we’ve been together. Do you want me to?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay. Good. ’Cause I don’t want that. Not at all anymore.”

His relief and mine match. “I’m glad.”

“Miller, Randy, Waters, and Westinghouse all have girlfriends. Well, Violet’s married to Waters, and I don’t know what the fuck is going on with Westinghouse and his girl, but I hang out with them, so I can avoid the bunnies.”

“That’s good.”

“I won’t do anything to hurt you, Poppy. Okay?”

“Okay.” I hope he means it. My heart is making big plans for this man, even though my head is telling me to slow down.

“Can I take you up to bed now? I’m not gonna get to have your hands on me for almost a week, and I’m not gonna like that very much.”

“Then we should definitely go to bed.”

The hockey season moves into full swing, and in no time it’s mid-November. Lance is still a constant in my bed and on my couch. But those are really the only places I spend time with him.

In the weeks we’ve been seeing each other, he has yet to invite me to a game, or to his house, or out with his friends. We did go out for coffee once, at the same little dessert café we went to before. I wasn’t allowed to get tea because then it technically wouldn’t have counted as the second date I’d agreed to.

I try not to dwell on what all the seclusion means or doesn’t mean because I like having him around, and he continues to be sweet and doting. Meals and flowers have continued to arrive on a regular basis. And one day I left work to find new snow tires on my car because there was a ten-percent possibility of snow.

This is obviously a lot of thoughtfulness, but I’m starting to wonder about the parameters of this relationship. Have I become a secret he’s hiding? And if so, from who? DO NOT FUCKING REPLY hasn’t messaged again, at least not while I’ve been with him, and past relationships haven’t come up again when we talk.

Then someone else calls a few days before he’s scheduled for another away series, with unknown as the contact.

He doesn’t answer, but it makes him act sketchy. Just like when DNFR called before, he powers down his phone and distracts me with sex.

But I don’t forget how anxious that incoming call made him, despite how focused on my needs he becomes, zeroed in on what makes me feel good. When I put my hands on him, his groan is almost pained, and he holds my palms against his skin, as if he could fuse me to his body.

One night he shows up at my place with the makings of a black eye after a home game. I have an early morning, but he’s exceptionally needy in a way I haven’t experienced before. I’m almost scared of what it might mean.

We’re lying in my bed, me sprawled across his chest, because that’s where he seems to like me best after sex. Really any time we’re alone and prone, he prefers me to be tucked into his side or on top of him.

His breathing is even, but there’s tension in his body. His phone buzzes on the nightstand beside mine. I feel his head turn, but he doesn’t make a move to get it.

“Lance?”

He makes a sound, acknowledging me.

“Are you okay?”

A long pause follows before he finally says, “Aye.” But his tone belies the word.

I lift my head and find him staring at the ceiling. I skim his lips with my fingertips, and he turns toward me.

I keep my eyes on his as I kiss his shoulder. “What’s wrong, baby?”

The pet name is one I’ve used only a couple of times before, and only when it seems like something’s on his mind. Like now. His hand comes up to cover mine, and his eyes fall closed as he kisses my fingertips.

“Tomorrow would’ve been my brother’s twenty-first birthday,” he whispers.

His intensity and introspection make sense now. “I’m so sorry.”

“Me, too.” He plays with my fingers, sweeping them back and forth across his lips.

“Lance?”

“Mmm.”

“Can I ask what happened to him?”

He tenses for a moment, and his hand tightens around mine. But eventually he releases a breath, along with my fingers.

“I don’t like to talk about it all that much.”

“It must’ve been awful with him being so young. Was he sick?”

Lance shakes his head. “I killed him.”

It’s my turn to tense, but I don’t take my hand away, because I’m aware his words are intended to shock and make me withdraw. “What do you mean?”

“The last time I told someone about this, she used it to manipulate me.”

“You mean the complicated relationship?”

I get a small nod in reply.

“Manipulate you how?”

“She would use it against me. She made it worse.”

“She made what worse?” I don’t understand where he’s going with this, and I have all sorts of scenarios running through my head that don’t add up to the man taking up space in my bed and my heart.

“The guilt.” He eyes me warily. “It’s my fault he’s dead.”

Though I haven’t been to see him play in person, I’ve seen Lance on the ice. The TV does a great job showcasing the aggression he works hard to contain most of the time. I’ve also seen the lid pop off and all the pent-up anger explode out of him. It results in things like the black eye he’s currently sporting. I can spin my own ideas about what could’ve happened, but knowing Lance, his perception on this might be skewed.

“Can you explain that, please?” I ask.

Another long silence follows, and his breathing grows more anxious with every passing moment. I press my lips against his shoulder and shift so I can touch them to his neck, his cheek, his chin, and finally his lips.

“I just want to understand, Lance. I don’t want to use the information to cause you pain.”

He can’t look me in the eye, and I don’t push for it, knowing whatever he’s about to tell me must be hard.

“When I was a kid I used to play ball hockey with some guys after school. I always told my mum my brother and I had stayed for the after-school tutoring or math stuff or whatever, and she never checked, ’cause math was my thing.

“One afternoon I got a little caught up and didn’t realize how late it was, or maybe I ignored how tight time was getting. My mum was going through a bad phase—not sleeping all that well, probably drinking too much, maybe not taking the pills the doctors gave her. Plus, my dad was away on another business trip, so she was on us more. On me more.”

He pauses, eyes still glued to the ceiling.

“Being late meant bad things. Not for Quinn. He was a good kid. Always did what he was asked, followed the rules, didn’t give anyone a hard time. We lived in a nice part of town. We had a big house and nice clothes. My parents drove expensive cars, and we had private education with uniforms. I took it for granted a lot; I still do. But there was an area close to where we lived that wasn’t so nice, a lot of poverty there. That’s where some of the gang kids came from. Sometimes they’d graffiti our school walls, hang out and threaten some of the mouthy kids, stuff like that.”

Lance pauses again. He picks up my fingers, studying them, and I wait, because the end of this story is devastating. It marks a loss that I’m positive changed this man in a lot of ways, and will fill in so many missing pieces of the puzzle that is Lance.

When it seems like he’s struggling to continue, I finally ask, “Did you get mouthy with them?”

He shakes his head.

“What happened, then?”

I get another headshake, more playing with my fingertips. His voice cracks when he finally speaks again.

“We were gonna be late ’cause I’d played hockey too long. Quinn, he’d just sit there watching, ’cause he was good like that. Real patient. He’d read a book sometimes if he was bored, but that day he told me more than once that we needed to go, and I ignored him, told him five more minutes. I just wanted to beat the other guys, and I did.”

He swallows hard. “By the time we left, we only had fifteen minutes to get home. It usually took at least twenty, and that was keeping a good pace. Quinn had asthma, so he wasn’t great at running, and he had puffers. I said we should take the shortcut. He didn’t want to at first, ’cause my mum said never to go that way. But then I reminded him we’d be late, and I’d get in trouble. He knew what that meant when Mum was having one of her bad spells.”

“So you took the shortcut?” I ask.

Lance looks out into the darkness as he nods. His glassy eyes are glued to a spot on the wall, and his throat bobs.

“There was this alley we had to go down; once we were through there, it wasn’t so bad. There were stores and stuff. But that alley, it was dark. I’d gone a couple times with some friends, but never my brother. We got about halfway before we were swarmed.”

He sounds so tortured. “Back home they make their own weapons.”

My heart lurches.

“They’ll take off their socks and fill them with rocks. Then they beat you with them. Usually you come out with bruises and shit, but it fucking hurts like hell. They tried to take Quinn’s bag, and he knew if he came home without it we’d get in real shit with Mum, so he tried to hold on to it, and they went at him. Hit him right in the temple. One second he was screaming, and the next he was just…gone.”

Lance’s haunted gaze finally lifts to mine, fear and regret making his eyes shine. “It’s my fault he’s dead. I took him away from her. I broke her.”

The her he’s referring to can only be his mother. I see clearly that the blame has become a blackness inside that he can’t erase.

I curve my palm around his cheek, his sadness my own. “Oh, baby, that’s not your fault.”

“I took him there. I was the reason we were late.”

“You were a child.”

“I knew better than to go that way. I should’ve just dealt with the beating I’d get, but I didn’t want to, and then they fucking killed him, and I lost everything.” A choked sound leaves him, and he closes his eyes, fists clenching as he tries to control the shudder that passes through him. When his eyes open, there’s a vast emptiness that makes my heart ache. “I shouldn’t have told you any of this.”

I don’t ask why. I already know. It’s same thing he said the last time he gave me insight into his past. He thinks I’ll do what it seems like everyone else in his life has. I push up so I can look at him, even though he’s focused elsewhere. I touch his cheek, and he turns toward my hand.

“I’m so sorry the people who should’ve helped you through this weren’t able to cope with the loss. I’m so sorry they made you feel like it was yours to own.”

“It is mine.”

“Lance, look at me.”

His eyes shift, wary and afraid.

“How old were you?”

“Eleven.”

If my heart wasn’t breaking before, it certainly is now. To watch someone you love die, helpless to stop it, would be devastating to such a young child. To have your family fall apart and leave you believing it was your fault would be emotionally crippling. That Lance is as well adjusted as he is seems to be a miracle. I imagine his aunt is the reason for it.

“Oh, baby.” I push his hair back from his forehead.

He brushes tears away from my eyes, frowning at the dampness on his fingertips. “Why’re you crying?”

“Because I’m so sad that someone took your innocence from you like that, and that you believe it to be your fault when it was a horribly unfortunate situation out of your control.”

“I made a mistake, and it cost me my brother.”

“You made a mistake out of self-preservation. I’m sorry your mum didn’t know how to love you without hurting you.”

He traces the contour of my face. “I’m messed up, Poppy. I think there are parts of me that can’t be fixed.”

Loving this man isn’t going to be easy, but I still want to try. “I don’t need to fix you, Lance. I’ll take you as you are. I just want you to be happy.”

He kisses me, and I can almost taste his fear. He wants to believe me, but I can’t blame him for being afraid. All the people in his life who were supposed to stand by him have abandoned him in some way. I don’t want to be another.

The night before Lance’s next away series I wake at four in the morning to an empty bed. He was here a few hours ago when I fell asleep on his chest, so I assume he’s gone in search of a snack. He seems to have the same nightly pattern, which explains why I don’t ever get a full night’s sleep.

I pull his T-shirt over my head and pad out into the hall, sure I’ll find him scarfing down a bag of gummy bears in the kitchen. He stocks my cupboards something fierce. Lance eats a lot of candy despite it not being on his meal plan.

When I reach the landing, I can hear his voice, low and aggravated. I descend a few steps and pause again.

“No. That’s not happening. I don’t want to see you. There’s nothing to talk about.”

There’s a pause, and I can see him pacing the length of living room. “I’ll block this number like I did the last one… No—I will never fucking forgive you if you—why can’t you let me have this? Why do you want to fuck this up for me?”

He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Stop fucking with my head. I told you I was done.”

He drops down into a crouch, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Goddamn it. You made it this way. Not me. You. Stop calling and stay away from me.”

He hangs up the phone and drops it on the floor. It starts buzzing again almost immediately. He makes a low, deep sound in his throat and grabs his hair with both hands, pulling hard. It can’t feel good.

I take another step down the stairs, hitting the one that creaks on purpose. He drops his hand and unfurls from his crouch, spinning around to face me.

“Who’s calling in the middle of the night?” I look to his phone, lighting up on the floor.

“Fucking telemarketers,” he lies. He snatches it up off the floor and powers it down, then tosses it roughly on the coffee table. I wonder if it was DO NOT FUCKING REPLY. I should ask, but I’m afraid to know.

“I thought maybe you went looking for gummy bears.” I try to make my smile even. I’m not sure how successful I am.

“I’m not hungry for gummies any more.” His hands ball into fists and then open as he stalks up the stairs.

His eyes are full of pain and fear. I feel it cracking open my heart.

“I need to be in you. I need you to let me get inside you.”

“Are you okay?” I should demand the truth, make him open up and give me more, but I’m also scared of pushing him too far when he’s like this.

“I want to be.”

I run my hands up his bare chest, giving in to him, though I know that may not be my wisest move. “And I’ll make it better?”

He cups my cheeks in his palms, kisses me tenderly and rests his forehead against mine. “Yes.”

As much as I want to know more, I want this, too. His need for me is heady.

“Then you should take me back to bed so I can do that for you.”

He picks me up, wrapping my legs around his waist, and carries me up the stairs. Shortly thereafter, he makes me come three times. He tells me he needs me, this, us.

And I want to believe him—I think he’s telling the truth—but I’m so scared.

Because I’ve fallen now, and someone else seems to have a hold on him.