Worth It

Holy...



Wow, he looked good these days. Even better than eighteen-year-old Knox.



My jaw sagged. I think there were muscles sprouting from his muscles. And scars. I barely noticed them at first. But a white slash marred his ribcage while the one higher on the right side of his chest, almost to his shoulder, looked more like a healed puncture wound. I had to swallow, wondering how the hell he’d gotten so many scars. For some reason, I’d foolishly thought the one on his face was the only one he’d gotten in the past six years. But what if he had even more, more I couldn’t see?



What if—



Gah, I had to stop driving myself crazy with all these thoughts. He obviously wasn’t going to open up to me and share a single detail about his imprisonment, so I should just stop thinking about it.



Good mantra. Not that it worked. The curiosity killed me, but at least I tried to play it off. Offering him a wave and hopefully what looked like a cheerful smile, I greeted, “Good morning,” as I swept toward the coffee machine.



I kept my back to him as I gathered my supplies. Finally, he went back to fixing his own breakfast, and I heard him pull his bread from the toaster and slather on some butter and jelly. Meanwhile, I managed to keep myself busy until my coffee was ready.



Once I had a fortifying mugful in hand, I finally turned around. He hadn’t moved to the table to sit. He leaned against the counter on the other side of the kitchen as he chewed his toast and watched me with a leery squint.



Since he didn’t sit, I didn’t feel as if I could either, so I leaned against my counter as well, and took a big gulp. My steamy brew didn’t fill me with the courage I’d hoped it would, but I acted as if it had, anyway, and let out a refreshed sigh.



“You were up early,” I said.



Knox nodded but didn’t tell me where he’d gone, which kind of stung. He couldn’t even open up enough to tell me he’d only been working out. I hated that.



Once upon a time, we’d told each other everything, from banal to important. We’d always been so open and honest with each other. I think I missed just sharing my life with him most of all.



I began to wonder if he could read my thoughts because of the sad way he watched me, like he missed that most of all too. So I said, “What?” hoping he’d finally share...something.



But he shook his head and glanced away as if to tell me he hadn’t been thinking anything worth noting. Then he said, “You drink coffee now.”



I glanced down at my cup in shock as if, wow, I did drink coffee now. He was right; I hadn’t done that when I’d known him before. Granted, I’d only been sixteen, but still... I used to complain about how my father made himself look so important whenever he drank his morning dose. Yet, here I was, drinking it now too.



Knox had noticed the change. It gave me a moment of petty satisfaction, not just because he’d actually noticed, but because he seemed sad about it.



I’d done nothing but see all his differences since he’d gotten out. They’d been shoved in my face repeatedly, screaming at me how he was not the same guy he’d been six years ago. It only seemed fitting that he’d finally see something different in me, and missed the loss of who I’d been.



I shrugged. “Yeah. The first roommate I had after leaving home was a big coffee drinker. She got me into the habit.”



His gaze sharpened. “Pick told me you left your family as soon as you turned eighteen. You don’t have anything to do with them now.”



A part of me wanted to be bitter and snap back, “I thought you didn’t want to talk,” but a bigger part of me was just so freaking glad he finally was.



Acting as casual as possible, I said, “That’s right,” as I took a sip of my drink.



“Why?” he said quietly, his eyes filling with confusion. “Why in God’s name did you disassociate yourself from them?”



I almost spit my coffee out I sputtered so hard from the shock. But really, why did he even need to ask me that? The Bainbridge clan had destroyed any loyalty or compassion I’d ever had for them the night they’d sent Knox to jail. I had begged each family member, cajoled and cried, reasoned and screamed at them. But not one of them had showed him any kind of mercy. Whatever had happened to him these past six years—every single scar on his body—was on their hands.



And so I’d escaped them as soon as it had been legally possible.



“Because they weren’t any kind of family to me,” I said. “When I needed them the most, they weren’t there for me.”



He shook his head. “But—”