Page 98 of Smith

Suddenly, Smith was on his feet. Then just as suddenly, he was across the room yanking me to his chest. I had yet to recover from my cheek hitting his pectoral when his arms went around me and he was squeezing the air out of my lungs.

“I can’t stop,” he whispered to the top of my head.

“Can’t stop what?” I wheezed.

“Blaming myself.”

“Smith—”

“If I do, I have to admit I couldn’t save her.”

And there it was—my dad was once again right.

“And admitting you couldn’t save her means what?” I managed to get out even though his arms around me were so tight I was surviving on minimal oxygen.

“I don’t know.”

I believed he didn’t know. He’d lived so long blaming himself, that the thought he wasn’t responsible was probably too foreign a concept to comprehend.

“You need to give the blame to its rightful owner—Valerie’s father. He’s to blame. He took her from you, Smith. He took her mother from her.”

“Fuck,” he snarled.

I felt a tremor roll through his body.

I wrapped my arms around him and held on.

“Fuck.” This time a rasp that chilled me to the bone.

I held on tighter.

“I’m not good enough for you, baby.”

Baby.

The relief that swept over me would’ve taken me to my knees if Smith wasn’t holding me up.

You’re more than good enough for me.

I didn’t say that. Instead I said, “How about you let me decide that.”

We stood like that for a long time. Smith didn’t share his thoughts but sometimes his arms would tense for a second, get super tight, then the tension would ebb back to tight.

I had no idea if it was mission success but I had a feeling I’d won this battle. That wasn’t to say there wouldn’t be more. I figured with a man who loved as deeply as Smith did, who had taken on what he had at a young age, who had held on to the pain and regret of his perceived failure for many years, this wouldn’t be the last battle I’d have on my hands.

It wasn’t until my stomach rumbled that Smith spoke.

Six words that gave me hope.

“I need to feed my girl.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

We were lying in Aria’s bed, her head resting on my chest, her arm diagonal across me with her hand on my lat, her legs tangled with mine. And for the first time that day I felt like I could breathe.

It was after the pizza I’d ordered was delivered, and we’d sat at her bar in her kickass kitchen and devoured the whole thing. As was Aria’s way, she’d guided the conversation away from the heavy and told me how she’d planned on salvaging her bottom line. She didn’t wheedle or pick apart my relationship with Rie or demand to know where my head was at. Instead, she gave me time to digest—and there was a fuckton absorb.

Aria was not the first person to confront my self-imposed blame. She wasn’t even the second or third. But she was the first person who’d asked a question I never thought to ask myself.

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