30. SARA

“Welcome to my castle,” I say as I turn on the light in the entry. The old sconce on the wall illuminates my stylish closet with the plastic accordion door, as well as the fabulous vintage shag carpeting that’s stylishly worn threadbare in several spots.

“Nice,” Chance says. “Looks like you’ve got everything you need.”

I sigh as I finally get to kick off my pumps and feel the floor against my bare feet.

“That’s sweet of you to say.”

“It’s true. I like this place.”

I lead him past the two bedrooms - one for my bed, the other for my workspace – and my one bathroom, into the combination kitchen-living room space at the back. It’s tiny, but there’s a huge window that has a great view of the building across the street.

“The location is good, anyway,” I sigh. “Only a few blocks from our office. Grace’s basement suite is less than half a mile, too.”

“Like I said, everything you need.”

I rummage through the fridge and discover, much to my surprise, a can of Coors for Chance in one of the crispers at the bottom. The bottle of cold pinot grigio that hasn’t started to smell like vinegar yet is good enough for me.

We take a seat on my old IKEA sofa and each kick back a good, long shot of our drinks. We’re obviously both still a bit on edge from our fun earlier in the evening.

“You really should be proud of this,” he says. “It’s not a palace, but it’s clean and it’s yours. And I’m betting you live here because the low rent lets you do more work for clients who need you but can’t afford to pay. Right?”

I raise my glass. “Spot on. There have been a couple of girls who ran away from homes that had money, but they’re few and far between.”

“And you can’t say no to someone just because they can’t pay you.”

I wince. “I really should learn how to.”

“No, you shouldn’t. And you shouldn’t feel guilty for having to work with Quentin Pearce, either. If that helps you to help other people, I’m all for it.”

“What I do is nothing compared to what Atlas does,” I say.

He surprises me by frowning.

“I wish you’d stop that,” he says.

“Stop what?”

“Comparing yourself to others. You’re wonderful, Sara. Not ‘wonderful relative to somebody else.’ Just wonderful. Get it?”

I smile shyly. “Did the Marines teach you to think like that?”

“No,” he says. “You did.”

My stomach jumps. “What are you talking about?”

Chance shakes his head and slides closer to me until our hands are touching, making my insides flutter even more.

“I spent so much of my life feeling like I was less than other people,” he says softly. “Because I didn’t have parents, or money, or a regular home like everybody else. But you taught me that everybody felt like that, in one way or another. So I actually was like other people.”

I swallow hard. Chance was always there to let me know that things would be all right when the rest of the world was dark and crazy. He was like the beacon at the top of the lighthouse for me when my dad would hurt me or make me feel small, or when Mom was in one of her manic stages and I couldn’t deal with it. He was always there to show me the path away from the stormy seas to the safety of the shore.

To think that I did the same for him – it’s an incredible feeling.

He takes my hand in both of his. “So enough of putting yourself down,” he says. “That’s an order.”

I smile and squeeze his hand. “Yes, sir.”

“Besides, I’m not some kind of hero. I’ve done things in my life that I’m not proud of. Plenty of things.”

“You mean like shoplifting when you were a kid?” I ask. “Big deal. Kids do it every day.”

“Not that. I was involved in some other stuff that I never told you about. Drugs. Breaking-and-entering. Other things.”

I stare at him for a few moments, processing. I never knew that about him. He had a life outside of me, of course. I guess I just thought he used to tell me everything.

“Still,” I say. “Look at your circumstances. You had a really hard life, Chance.”

“So did you,” he says. “You stayed on the straight and narrow.”

“Time to take your own advice, Marine. That’s an order.”

He gives me a half-smile, but I can tell he doesn’t feel it.

“There’s other stuff,” he says. “Things that happen in the heat of battle. Decisions you make in impossible situations that haunt you afterwards because people get hurt. Decisions that leave you with scars like the ones you saw the other night.”

The pain in his eyes is heartbreaking. I can’t imagine what he’s seen, what he’s been through. I doubt anyone who’s never been in a war zone could possibly know what it’s like. There’s nothing I can do to take that pain away.

But what he said about decisions that hurt other people… that leave you with scars…

Suddenly, I’m filled with a certainty I’ve never felt before: it’s time to tell him the truth. I can’t go back in time and do it then, but I can do it now and maybe start us on a path that will actually lead somewhere.

“Chance,” I say, steeling myself for what’s to come. “There’s something you need to know.”