Her smile didn’t fool me.

When I picked Brooke up at the airport, my relief at seeing her—god, I’d missed her—was dampened by the look in her eyes. She smiled. Said things had gone well. She’d missed me and it was good to be home. But her eyes told a different story.

The haunted look was back.

I took her home and although she invited me in, something wasn’t right. Olivia was with Charlie, so we had the place to ourselves. And we hadn’t seen each other in almost a week. But she didn’t seem interested in any sort of passionate reunion. She asked about my finals, but I’d already told her how they’d gone. There wasn’t much more to say. I wanted to talk about what she’d done in Phoenix—and what she’d learned about her mom—but she only gave me vague answers. I could tell she didn’t want to talk about it.

When she said she was exhausted and just wanted to go to bed, I didn’t argue. I wasn’t tired, but I crawled into bed with her. It was enough to hold her—wrap myself around her and feel her soft body against me. I inhaled her scent, and she smelled good. Like Brooke. But something was different. It was subtle, and I couldn’t explain what it was. A hint of something I didn’t recognize.

Whatever had happened in Phoenix had left a mark. As I held her beneath the sheets, I wanted to kick myself for letting her talk me into staying here. I’d known it was a bad idea. Every instinct had told me to go with her. I should have let her be mad, and gone anyway. She’d needed me, and I hadn’t been there.

Fuck.

I just hoped she’d feel better after she got some rest, and she’d open up about what had happened.

* * *

Brooke didn’t open up.

Not the next day, or the day after. Not when she’d been back for a week. Not after two. Christmas came and went. We celebrated with Olivia and Charlie. I called my parents, but didn’t go home to see them. Things were still too tense.

We went out for New Year’s Eve to a bar with some friends. Charlie and Olivia were there, and some other people we knew. Brooke had a glass of champagne, and I didn’t think anything of it. Even I indulged in a glass. She had another and drank it so fast, I almost didn’t realize the third glass was new. By midnight, she was laughing at everything and too drunk to walk straight.

The next morning, she brushed it off. New Year’s Eve only comes once a year. It had been a party, and she’d had a little too much fun. She’d nurse her hangover with coffee and a big breakfast, and everything would be fine.

But it wasn’t fine.

Over the next couple of weeks, I started checking her house for alcohol or bottles of pills. I felt shitty for doing it, like it meant I didn’t trust her. But it wasn’t about trust. I could feel her drifting away from me, little by little. I only found something once—an open bottle of wine in her fridge. She told me she bought it for cooking. I chose to believe her. After all, it was out in the open. She wasn’t trying to hide it.

But whether or not she was drinking, I could feel the change in her. Could see it in her eyes. We still went out. I took her on dates, and we hung out together at home. We double-dated with Charlie and Olivia. She went to work, and I went to class. I brought up the possibility of transferring to another school, and she enthusiastically told me to go for it.

And I told myself that maybe things were normal. Maybe it was just my imagination. I’d been so concerned about how she would handle her mother’s death, I’d assumed the worst. I kept expecting her to crash. But maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe I’d done enough to love her through it, and she’d be fine.

By the end of January, she and Olivia were busy getting ready for the bookstore’s first event. Olivia had opened the café counter after the first of the year, and things seemed to be going well. Olivia was happy, at least.

She and Charlie were as serious as ever. Their relationship had moved so fast in the beginning, I’d been a little worried. But I’d never seen Charlie this crazy about anyone. They got into it sometimes, but nothing like he and Kimmie had. And Olivia was a spitfire. I figured the occasional outburst—and unfortunately for me, loud makeup sex—was simply part of the deal with her. She wasn’t bitchy or malicious—just a little intense. And I could tell she loved Charlie just as much as he loved her. I was happy for them.

I got out of class one Friday afternoon and texted Brooke to see when she was off work. I figured I could head over to the bookstore and pick her up if she wasn’t going to be there late.

Brooke: I’m not at work. Don’t feel well.

Sebastian: I’m sorry, baby. What can I bring you?

Brooke: No, don’t come over. I can’t get you sick.

I looked at her message, frustrated. I did have to be careful about exposure to illnesses. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t really sick. That she was having a bad day, and she’d made up an excuse so she didn’t have to go anywhere.

Instead of texting her back, I stopped at a deli to pick up hot chicken soup, and went to her house. She answered the door dressed in a rumpled t-shirt and leggings, with thick socks and a big blanket draped around her shoulders. She hadn’t complained about the Iowa winter nearly as much as I’d thought she would, but she did have a growing collection of blankets that she wore like some girls wore jewelry.

She peered at me through the partially open door. “Hey. I told you not to come over. I don’t want to get you sick.”

Instead of hesitating on her front step, I used my size. I crowded up close and gently pushed until she had no choice but to let me in.

“I’ll be fine. If you’re really that sick, I’ll just wash my hands a lot and keep it G-rated.” I kissed her forehead. “I brought soup.”

I grabbed a spoon from the kitchen and brought her soup into the living room. She sank down onto the couch and curled up in the far corner.

She took it and smiled. “Thanks.”

“You bet,” I said. “Gotta take care of my girl.”

“You shouldn’t stay, though,” she said. “I’d feel awful if you got sick because of me. You know you can’t mess around with that.”

“I know. Do you have a cold or something?” I asked. She didn’t sound congested.

“Something like that.” She blew on a spoonful of soup and took a sip.

I watched her for a moment. She was a little pale, but still so goddamn beautiful. Even with her dark hair in a messy bun, disheveled clothes, wrapped up in a blanket. But she was fading, the light in her eyes growing dim.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” I said. “About anything.”

“Yeah, of course,” she said.

“Are you going to tell me what else is going on?” I asked.

She looked up. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not just sick,” I said. “Do you think I can’t tell when something is bothering you?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m just feeling a little under the weather. It’s that time of year; it happens. I’ve got people sneezing all over shit in the store. I’m surprised I didn’t catch something sooner.”

“Okay,” I said. “But I still feel like you’re not telling me something.”

“Do you think I’m lying to you?” she asked. “What are you implying?”

“Nothing,” I said. “It’s just that ever since you went to Phoenix, you’ve seemed… off. Like there’s a lot going on in your head that you aren’t talking about.”

“I told you what happened in Phoenix,” she said. “My mom died. Her boyfriend told me she’d been sober for a while, but relapsed. It was really sad, and I felt bad for him too. That’s about it.”

“Did you open the box of stuff he gave you?” I asked.

She hesitated, looking down at her soup. “No. Not yet.”

“Are you afraid of what you’ll find?” I asked, my voice gentle.

“I think so,” she said, and for a second, I thought her protective barrier was coming down. “But, honestly, it’s not that big of a deal. It’s probably just a bunch of useless crap anyway. She kept weird stuff sometimes.”

God, why wouldn’t she just talk to me?

“What has your therapist said about all this?” I asked. “Has she been helping?”

“I haven’t really been to see her in a while,” she said.

“What?” I asked. “I thought you went every week.”

“Well, I was going every week, but I had to cancel when I went to Phoenix. And you know, stuff gets in the way. I just haven’t rescheduled.”

“Brooke, don’t you think you should?”

“I will,” she said. Her flippant tone was pissing me off. “It’s just hard to fit in with work and everything.”

“Yeah, but you need to make that a priority,” I said. “Especially now.”

“What do you mean, especially now?”

“I mean, you lost your mom. And then the holidays and everything. Those can be hard for anyone. I can see it in your eyes. There’s something there, and you’re not talking about it. If you won’t talk to me, at least go talk to her.”

“I don’t have anything to talk about.” She moved her blanket off her shoulders and stood. “I’m fine.”

She walked into the kitchen and put her soup away in the fridge. When she came back, she settled on the couch next to me. I wrapped an arm around her and she tucked herself against me.

“Don’t worry so much about me,” she said.

“Brooke, I love you,” I said. “Of course I’m going to worry about you.”

She took a deep breath. “I love you, too. And I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. Everything.”

I set my chin on her head and held her close. I hated feeling so helpless. No matter what she said, I knew she wasn’t okay. Depression was serious. I’d been doing everything I could to coax her out of it. To love her through it. But she still held back. Kept it to herself. It was like she didn’t want to burden me with her problems. But I wanted to help her carry them. And I’d told her that. Tried to show her. I was here for her. I could help.

But if she didn’t want help, what else could I do?

I felt her slipping down a slope and if something didn’t catch her, she was going to crash. I could see it coming. The last time, I’d called in the big guns, as she’d said. Olivia coming to Iowa, and giving her the chance to reconnect with the Harpers, had been good for her. It had helped. For a while, she’d been doing so well.

But who could I turn to this time? What was my plan B if she didn’t come around? There wasn’t anything more Olivia could do for her. I’d hoped her therapist would make a difference, but if she wasn’t going to her appointments, that didn’t do any good. Short of driving her there and watching her go in—which I was seriously considering—I couldn’t force her to go. And if I made her go to therapy, would it help? Would she open up?

I knew what it was to struggle. To have circumstances beyond your control threaten to take you down. It was serious shit, and it could be hard as hell to deal with.

The heart that had loved Brooke had saved me. I wanted to return the favor. I wanted to save her. Not just for her, or for me. For Liam Harper, too. For the man who would have loved her through dark times if he had lived, and I had died.

I just didn’t know if I could.