Page 38 of All Your Pucking Secrets

“Ryan,” I decide. “If I need support, I’ll call Ryan.”

“And you’ll explain why?” she asks.

“If it’s necessary.”

She arches an eyebrow, obviously doubtful.

“I promise,” I add. “I value my mental health.”

“Good. We’ll set a few things for you to work on before our next appointment, but before we do that, I’m giving you advance warning that next time we see each other, I’ll be asking you whether there’s anything you want from Tyler. Okay?”

I tear off the page I’ve been doodling on and scrunch it up. “Okay.”

I don’t want to want anything from Tyler, but I know she’s right to advise me to think about it.

We agree on a few tasks for me to complete prior to our upcoming appointment and then I leave through the back exit, which opens onto the parking lot.

The sun shines overhead, but it doesn’t warm me. My fingers have been cold ever since Dr. Rodriguez asked me about Tyler, and now that my nerves are scraped so raw, the chill is settling into my chest.

I scan the lot, trying to recall where I parked, and freeze.

Standing beside my battered Ford is Tyler Kinsey.

TYLER

I straighten and put my hands in my pockets when Echo appears, framed by the exit. She stares straight at me for a long moment, and I wonder whether she’s thinking about running. In the end, she must decide it would be too inconvenient because she approaches warily.

As she draws nearer, I notice that her eyes are rimmed with red, and slightly puffy. Her cheeks are blotchy and the tip of her nose is pink. My heart grows heavy. She’s been crying.

“What are you doing here?” she demands, holding her chin high even though her lower lip is wobbling.

If I was a better person, perhaps I’d leave. But I never claimed to be anything other than an asshole.

“Waiting for you,” I admit.

She thrusts her shoulders back, but it’s clearly just for show. I ache to pull her into my arms and hug the shit out of her, but stealing an embrace is a line I won’t cross. Not from someone who’s already had too much taken from her.

“Can you move away from my car?” she asks.

I glance at the Ford and scowl. It’s a real crap heap. If I had my way, I’d drive her to the dealership and buy her a shiny new BMW right now, but she wouldn’t accept that from anyone, let alone me.

“I’m glad you’re getting therapy,” I say.

Something haunted flickers in her gaze. She folds her arms over her chest defensively. “How do you know that’s what I’m here for?”

I gesture at the sign above the clinic, which proclaims it to be a Mental Wellbeing Clinic. “Educated guess. Does it help?”

She clutches her arms tighter around herself. “What would help is if you’d stop following me.”

“I can’t.” It’s a weakness. Maybe it makes me a bad person, but I can’t let her go.

Going without speaking to her for three years was hell. Sure, I kept tabs on her, but it isn’t the same. I can’t go back to that.

It must be the wrong thing to say because she unravels her arms and puts her hands on her hips, her puffy eyes narrowing. Suddenly, she’s nothing like a cornered mouse. She has teeth and claws, and looks ready to rip my throat out.

“Yes, you fucking can.” She takes a step forward and rolls her shoulders. “It’s as easy as dropping a class you have no purpose for and living your goddamn life instead of trailing me around like some kind of stalker.”

I press my lips together. If she knew how much I’d involved myself in her life over the past three years, she’d probably try to run me over. Death by rusty Ford.

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