Page 67 of Knotted Laces

Keep flowing.

“My dad wasn’t any better,” I admit.

“That doesn’t mean that you’re a bad person.”

“You knew my upbringing was troubled,” I say. “But it’s one thing to know and another to experience.”

“And yet,” he says again, “That doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.”

I exhale, want to shake my head and disagree, just on principle, but with his arms around me, I’m able to…

I don’t know, just sit in the moment.

Think that maybe…he’s right.

“Enough, cupcake,” he says gently. “Don’t waste your energy coming up with an excuse to fight that fact.” He strokes a hand up and down my back, holding me tightly against his hard chest. “Just let me hold you.”

So…

I do.

For long moments, I sit in this fantasy and let him hold me.

And pretend my mom isn’t my mom, that my dad wasn’t my dad.

And that I’m good.

That I’m not damaged and frozen over and destined to fuck up every wonderful thing in my life.

I just…let him hold me.

Eventually, though, I start getting antsy and slip out of his embrace. “I could use some whisky.”

His mouth twitches, but his eyes tell me that he knows precisely what he thinks of my avoidance—it’s bullshit.

“Kudos on letting me hold you for”—a glance at his watch—“four minutes and twenty-two seconds.” A beat. “And we’re out of whisky.”

I scowl.

“Damn,” I mutter.

“But wedohave more—” His arms tighten around me, and he doesn’t let me escape as he walks us backward and reaches for?—

I hear a crinkle.

“—gummy worms.”

I still.

He leans back enough to meet my eyes while holding up the bag. “Want to get your frustrations out on these tiny, innocent faces?”

My heart thudshard.

Because he noticed that?

Then my pulse settles, my panic fades.

Because…of course he had.

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