Page 76 of After We Fall

“That’s fine.” I tap a foot on the acid-washed concrete. “I’m sure I can train Alexa to make me a list.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” He chuckles, his sparkling gaze of affection almost too much to take in. “Wouldn’t surprise me at all if you whipped Alexa into shape.”

The pressure comes back to my chest. My heart asking—pushing—to increase its capacity. But I find all of this very difficult to accept.

Luke takes hold of my elbow again and reaches for the door, but I pull back. “Why are you doing this?”

He studies my face. “Doing what?”

“This.” I throw my hand in the direction of the office elevators. “And these.” I thrust my pointer finger toward the new sunglasses. “All of it.”

“I’m taking care of you.”

“For how long?”

“As long as you need it.”

Which means I’m another box to check. He might leave when I no longer need help. “I don’t need you to take care of me.”

“I get it, Penelope.” He nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “We all get it. You don’t need anyone to take care of you. Ninety-nine percent of the time, that’s true. You’re this unbelievable machine with an iron-clad checklist. I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you, but you need help right now. You may have been able to fool that bizarre adoptive family of yours who left town last night, but you don’t fool me. You need help.”

They did. They left.

The senator, his wife. Even Jason.

In the dark of my room while trying to fall asleep, I tried to reconcile why they came. Why they left. I do think on some level Phillip and Cynthia love me. Unfortunately, they can’t separate that from their self-absorption and personal goals. The limelight of politics stirs up the murky waters of family. Yes, if I had agreed to leave with them, they absolutely would have taken care of my needs. But it would have been the kind of help that included strings that would wind around my life and tether me to theirs.

Even Jason’s ties are complicated. He has always cared for me. But we both missed out on that typical season of burgeoning independence during adolescence. Distinguishing who we were as individuals wasn’t a priority. Instead, we spent those years trying to figure out who we could attach ourselves to.

I think that’s why Jason’s bond to me is a bit unhealthy. Why it makes me want to open a window to gasp for oxygen.

As I watched them all walk out the door last night, I couldn’t ignore the deep sense of loss. Not the loss of the actual people. They needed to leave. And I did not want to go with them. But the loss of not having anyone safe enough who loves me enough, knows me well enough, that they wouldn’t walk out that door. Someone who understands me so well that, without my having to say it, they see I’m just a bit nervous and I might need just a bit of help.

I shift my gaze to the man in front of me. He raises his eyebrows, not quite in question, but waiting for my response to his annoyingly intuitive proclamation that I need help.

I want so badly for Luke to be that person I can trust. The struggle against the ingrained inclination to believe that he’ll leave just like the three people who did last night is exhausting.

I cross my healthy arm over my injured one. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? A job in Montana? A well to dig in Guatemala with Robert? I seem to remember a man who left my hospital room with no plans to return—”

He jerks back. “No plans to return?”

“But suddenly you’ve created this . . . this care plan and want to be my chauffeur, all while buying ridiculously thoughtful things for me.”

Blood rushes to my head and pounds. This pain came out of nowhere. I close my eyes and let out a small moan.

“Penelope?” Luke slides his arm around my waist and walks with me a few steps. “Hang on. Let’s find a place to sit down.”

I peer out of the slits in my eyelids and catch sight of the wrought-iron table and chairs. No, no. The light from the nearby floor-to-ceiling windows strikes through the slats of the window treatments and pierces my retinas. “Can’t.” I swallow. “Light.”

“Sorry.” He steers me to the opposite wall, his powerful legs slowing to a protective crawl, and settles us onto a green polyester–covered bench.

Breathing in a deep inhale, I open my eyes all the way. The pain lessens with my slowing pulse.

“What happened just now?” he asks.

You, I want to say.

I glance over his shoulder at the list of businesses posted on the wall next to their suite numbers. My need for Dr. Ridding is becoming glaringly clear.