Page 130 of Brazen Mistakes

The light from outside shifts to the cool white of a winter morning, and I watch it, not able to relax, to process, to do much of anything besides hold Clara like she’s my personal teddy bear.

Thankfully, she falls asleep, and eventually I join her, the dark stealing the painful light from my mind.

I wake to night, my bed empty. Scrambling upright, Clara rushes to me, placing one hand gently on mine.

“You stayed,” I say.

“You asked.”

I’m pulling her to me, probably too tight, but she stayed.

No one’s ever stayed before, not that I’ve asked since I was little, but God. I pull her even tighter to me but loosenmy hold as soon as she makes a little squeak of discomfort. “Sorry.”

Her dark eyes are concerned as she peeks up at me. “How are you?”

She stayed. She didn’t leave; she didn’t beg me to say anything; she didn’t give up, telling herself that she’d deal with me tomorrow. “Better. Not good, but better. What time is it?”

“Five-ish. Do you want something to eat? I think Walker’s been stress-cooking.” My lips twist up, just a bit, and Clara relaxes, pressing her palms against my chest. “You scared me,” she whispers.

“But you stayed.”

“Of course, RJ. Are you okay? I mean, I know you’re not okay, but—”

“Clara, I’ll be okay. I just don’t think I’ve ever been that scared before. I needed to know I was in a safe place. And I was. With you.”

It’s her turn to squeeze me, both of us taking pleasure in the presence of the other.

Eventually, she pulls back. “I’ll text Walker, have him bring food. Unless you want to go downstairs?”

A shudder rocks through me, unwelcome in its strength. “Not yet. Get food, but I think I just, I don’t know, need to lie here with you. Just for a while.”

She perches beside me, waiting to see how I want her to lie. Because I totally manhandled her last night. Shit.

I end up just opening my arms, and she crawls into them, resting her head on my chest. “Food can wait,” she says, and I mumble an agreement. I click on my lamp, ready for some light again.

Clara’s fingers trace the letters on my T-shirt, and the weight of her across my chest has me sighing in comfort.

Right. This is right.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“No.”

She makes a little huff noise. “It sucks being on the other end of that answer.”

“Yup.”

She stops tracing the letters, smoothing my shirt against my chest. “Guns scare me.”

They scare me too.

Non sequitur, but okay. I rest my cheek against the top of her head, the curls soft against my skin, even as they catch a little on my stubble.

“I’ve never had one pointed at me. But once, after Bryce got mad at me for something and I’d begged for forgiveness, he’d said it was fine. That I was forgiven. Then he described in vivid detail the way he felt when he’d go deer hunting. How he’d wait for a buck to show, how time stilled before he’d fire the gun, the mixture of pride and disgust he felt for taking a life. Then he looked at me, like he’d feel the same level of disappointment at my demise as a deer. Like, if it were necessary, if it was what was best for him, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.” She drapes her leg over me, and I stroke her back. “Sometimes that’s what wakes me up in the middle of the night. I see Bryce with a shotgun over his shoulder, a calm, sad smile on his face as he steps toward me.”

That monster deserves so much worse than he’s gotten. My guts twist, knowing she’s worried about that for years. Worried that one day her partner might just shoot her in thehead with the same level of concern he’d feel for taking out a twelve-point buck. “He’s a monster. Both in real life and dreams.”

“Yeah. I just wish I’d noticed earlier.”

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