Page 28 of Challenged By the Ex-Military Lumberjack
"There's nothing to tell," I say.
She doesn't believe me. I can see it in her eyes. But she doesn't push.
"Okay," she says.
We sit in silence again, but it feels different now. Heavier. Like there's something between us that wasn't there before, something I put there by almost opening up and then slamming the door shut.
Fuck.
I run a hand over my face, feeling the exhaustion settle into my bones. This is exactly why I don't do this. Why I don't let people in. Because it's messy and complicated and it always ends with someone getting hurt.
But then I look at her again, and she's not hurt. She's not angry or frustrated or any of the things people usually are. She's just there. Still present. Still comfortable in my space like she belongs here.
Like maybe she's the missing piece.
The thought hits me out of nowhere, and I hate it immediately.
Because what if she is? What if she's the one person who could actually understand, who could actually help me carry all this weight I've been dragging around for years?
And what if I open up and she's not?
What if I let her in and she leaves?
That would break me for good. I can't risk it. Can't risk her. Can't risk this fragile thing that's starting to form between us, whatever the hell it is.
Better to keep the walls up. Better to stay alone.
But I don't want to be alone right now. I want her to stay. Want her to keep asking questions. Want to pretend that I don't want to answer them while secretly hoping she never stops asking.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Ridge gets up and moves to Jade, putting his head on her lap. She scratches behind his ears, and he makes that sound, the one that's half-groan, half-sigh, pure contentment.
"Traitor," I mutter.
"He's not a traitor," Jade says, smiling. "He's just a good judge of character."
"He likes everyone."
"Does he?"
I think about it. "No. Actually, he doesn't."
"See? Told you. Good judge of character." She looks at me, and there's something playful in her expression now. "He likes me, and he loves you. That says something."
"Says he's got low standards."
"You're really hard on yourself," she says.
"I'm realistic."
"There's a difference between realistic and punishing yourself for things that aren't your fault."
My whole body goes rigid. "You don't know what is or isn't my fault."
"You're right. I don't." She's still looking at me, still calm, still open. "But I know what grief looks like. And I know what it looks like when someone's carrying more than they should."
"Your mother," I say, remembering what she told me earlier.
