I wrapped both hands around the cup and sipped the warm, over-steeped tea.  We were both tired, Zach more than me. He hadn't said a word since his friends—and I guess, mine now too—left.  I understood why.  He was afraid.  So was I.  I wasn't going to deny it.  I feared for my life.  That moment when I couldn't breathe, when he had his hand around my throat, when I thought he was going to kill me, I feared him then.  But right now, I was more afraid of what would be left unsaid if I didn't at least hear him out.

I knew plenty of people who'd run as fast as they could away from this situation.  Maybe it was the smart thing to do.  But also, maybe not.  When I came out of the bathroom, what first drew me in were his eyes.  Fear.  Desperation.  Loneliness.  They were all there. 

I heard his whispers from the other side of the bathroom door.  He said he loved me.  I believed it.  I believed it then, when I couldn't see him, when I could feel the hurt through the wooden door.  I felt his pain.  I didn't know what it was.  Maybe it was our uncanny connection.  We always had it, Zach and me.

His shuffling in the kitchen caught my attention, but I hid behind my thick curls, waiting for the right words to come. That could take years. Or never. The words didn't have to be perfect, they just had to be honest. He opened the fridge door and slammed it closed about five times, then he would turn and wash his hands. Whatever he was looking for he wouldn't find it in the fridge. Whatever he was washing off was there before the incident happened. His shoulders stooped when he gripped the edge of the countertop. Then he knocked his forehead on the granite top.

I calmly put my cup down on the coffee table and unfolded my legs. I pulled on the waistband of his sweatpants that Bailey got me to wear and tightened the drawstrings. The tremble translated into my hand when I reached out for him. Zach didn't look up. Still bent at the waist, he circled his large arms around my waist, bringing me much closer to him. Zach lifted me and sat me on the countertop. His hands pressed down on the granite by my thighs. His forehead pressed on mine. His eyes tightly shut. Dark circles surrounded them. A dark cloud loomed over him.

"I'm sorry, Maggie. I'm so sorry." His voice shook. Soft and weak. Helpless.

I ran fingers over his hands, tracing angry veins under his skin, all the way up his shoulders, and ending under his tensed jaw. "Open your eyes." I wanted to see...him.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. There was hesitation in his movements. I kissed both his eyelids. He squeezed his eyes tighter before slowly giving into my request. There it was again. Fear. It was clear in his eyes.

"Tell me." I rubbed the pad of my thumb over the seal of his lips, and he kissed it. "I'm here to listen." I reached up to place a kiss on the tiny white scar on his forehead.

He inched away from me, but he took my hands in his and placed one on top of the other over his chest before covering them with his own. "I was sixteen when Ma's condition started getting worse. She was working three jobs just to keep food on the table, and to keep us out of the street. I was already getting into underground fights by that time. Lied to the people who ran them about my age. Not that they cared. I looked eighteen, and I was willing to bleed for a couple hundred dollars. I won a lot, and that got someone's attention."

"Rick?"

He shook his head. "He didn't find me until almost a year later. The guys he used to train would come to the fights, and they'd practice on us. It was brutal. But I kept beating his best guys." He chuckled drily, and it rumbled under my hands. Although the sadness remained in his eyes. "He didn't want to recruit me. Said I was too angry, which was true. Little did I know he was doing his homework and asked about me. Long story short, he was willing to work on me if I worked on my anger management.

"Rick was the one who pointed out that there was something going on with Ma. I mean, what the hell did I know? I was just a stupid kid. I didn't know anything about Alzheimer's. I thought Ma was just working too much, you know? But Rick got concerned, so he got Ma tested."

He paused to squeeze my hands and lift them to his lips then placing them back over his heart again. His heartbeat was mad, furious, fast, but his breathing was controlled. There was so much struggle within him. I kept my mouth shut, silently urging him to continue.  Zach stroked my cheeks while he talked.

"It was my eighteenth birthday when we received the initial results.  Her symptoms had been caused by years of abuse."  His fingers paused, hovering over my skin yet the current of his touch continued to electrify me. I couldn't move. I could barely breathe at the heaviness of his words. "I went crazy.  My...father...well, I knew where he lived by that time. I kept him under my radar to make sure he didn't come close to Ma. She never knew I figured out how to find him.  I was so angry, Maggie."  His voice caught.

Zach leaned forward and burrowed his nose in my hair. He spoke in a low, hushed voice full of despair.  "I went to him. He didn't have a family. He didn't have anybody, but he lived in a nice neighborhood, in a big house, with a fucking pricey car on the driveway. He was living a good life, and we were...  We'd lived in a car for almost a year. Ma and I lived on the streets, in shelters. We struggled to survive. He had everything. He recognized me right away even though we hadn't seen each other for years. I couldn't help myself. I attacked him. I beat him to a pulp."

By this time, hot tears uncontrollably rolled down my cheeks. I didn't bother wiping them away. I kept my hands on Zach. His chest rumbled, as though his heart was shattering into pieces. He had suffered too much, burdened by his own father.

"He begged me to stop. He pleaded. My father, the once and mighty, cruel King of his own palace, pleaded for his life. What did I do? I gave him the chance to live." Zach stopped. Then Zach took one of my hands and ran it over the curve of his left ribs, stopping over a large black rose tattoo. Using his thumbs, he dried my tears. But when I felt it—the scars on his skin, hidden by the ink—I began crying again. "I shouldn't have. He managed to grab hold of a knife, and as I turned away, he stabbed me.  That's how much of a coward he is." I continued to outline the scars with my fingers.  I counted two lines the length of my thumbs.  "My lung collapsed. I nearly died that night. But I was lucky that Rick had suspected I was going to do something and he...well, he found me.  Even when that bastard of a father tried to sue me for assault and battery, Rick made him drop the charges, and made me claim self-defense.  Rick had saved my life far too many times.  He'd become my father more than my own ever had."

His words pulled at my heartstrings. I grabbed his arms and wrapped them around me and brought him closer to me. I cried on his shoulder. I kissed the scars on his side. I breathed him in. He could have been lost, gone that night he saw his father. This moment with him wouldn't have been possible if he didn't live... If it wasn't for Rick's help.

"Maggie, I'm sorry for what I did. My shrink..." He swallowed the lump in his throat. "My shrink said that I suffer from PTSD. Just my luck, when I feel like my life is at its highest point, it hits me. The fear of what I could have lost, the fear of not having been able to see Ma anymore...it breaks me. It turns me into...him. But I'm not him, Maggie. I am not my father. I didn't mean to hurt you."

With my hands cupping his jaw, I pulled him toward me. For that moment, it wasn't enough for me to say I forgave him. It was more important that I let him know I was there for him. That he had me. That he could depend on me. That during whatever he was going through and whatever he needed to do, I would be by his side.

"I love you," was all I could say and at that moment, I hoped that it was enough for him.