Page 28 of When We Are Falling

I go quiet. David stares at me for a long moment as the silence stretches. My mind races with what to say next—he’s a man in every respect, but all I can see is that skinny ten-year-old who vowed to stay by my side, to protect me. I shrug and shake my head, a gesture so slight I’m ninety-percent sure no one saw it.

But before I can think of something to reassure him, through his drug-addled haze, he sees the truth: I don’t remember. The anger in his eyes dims to a dull ache.

I reach out a hand, trying to take David’s in my own, but just as my fingers skim his, he yanks his hand out of reach, a look on his face like he’s been burned.

Then he spins and turns, tripping over a chair before righting himself and sprinting out of the Tavern.

Chapter 13

Blake

The door slamsshut behind David, leaving me alone with Ethan and Bandit in the dimly lit bar, the echo of the door closing reverberating through the quiet space even when it finally fades away. David’s gone again. He’s gone, and in even worse shape than before.

Ethan steps forward, his eyes fixed on me, the movement breaking through my worry, pulling me from the thoughts that continue to spiral. “What’s going on?”

My first instinct is to brush him off, waving a hand dismissively even as I pull out my cell and fire off a text to David, telling him to call me urgently. Phone away, a smile pushed into place. “It’s nothing. Just… family stuff. I’ll lock up and we can go.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “No, it’s not nothing. That guy shows up here, unstable as hell, tries to break into the bar—”

“I don’t think he was trying to break in. I think he was looking for me.”

Ethan just stares at me, arms still folded, not buying what I’m selling. At his feet, Bandit looks at me too, head cocked to one side, ears pricked, both of them remaining silent, waiting. I sigh, the secrets I’ve kept buried for so long clawing their way back into the light.

For so long I’ve been Blake Summerton, daughter of Trudy and Charlotte, thecool chick. I know how the others talk about me, how the boys all supposedly want me, the girls wanting to be like me.

I think it’s bullshit, personally, but it’s suited me to have a reputation like that, one where people find me a little unavailable, where my business remains my business, no one probing or trying to get under my skin. Keeping things fun and friendly.

Standing in the bar, staring at Ethan, it hits me that I’ve been Blake Summerton for longer than I was ever Blake Taylor. I’m twenty-nine in a few months. Twelve years a Taylor, and almost seventeen a Summerton.

It’s been so long since I’ve had to confront my past. The memories I’ve locked away, the identity I’ve left behind. But now, it’s come to an unavoidable collision point, the past crashing spectacularly into the here and now.

And who would have ever guessed it was Ethan Carter who was here for it all, unearthing things meant to stay hidden, digging in places no one was supposed to dig. I glance at him, his gaze unwavering, and the pressure builds.

“Look, I—” The words catch in my throat.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches me with those intense gray eyes, urging me silently to continue.

“You’re not going to let this go?”

“No.”

“Fine.” I sink onto one of the bar stools, staring at a half-empty bottle of bourbon against the back wall, resigned to tellinghim the truth. Well, part of the truth. No one needs all the dark and awful details. “I don’t usually talk about this, but… I used to be in foster care before I was adopted.”

The words are out there now, seeping around the room, uncontainable as the oil seeping over our beautiful coastline. Danny knew some of what I’d been through, and my parents, to a lesser extent. But Ethan is honestly the very last person I’d have expected to talk to about this.

My gaze flicks to him, and his expression doesn’t change, no hint of the usual pity people tend to show when they hear those words. Instead, his expression stays steady, attentive, the gray of his eyes boring into mine, offering a quiet promise of support.

It’s that lack of pity that spurs me to keep talking. The way he’s simply listening, without judgment. It makes me feel…safe. Safe to expose those parts of me that no one usually sees.

“I was in a lot of different homes when I was a kid.” A swallow, the way those simple words can’t even go close to encapsulating the complexity of moving from place to place, figuring out the world owed me nothing, and that there were only my own two feet to stand on.

“And that’s where you met David?”

“That’s right. I met him in the last home I was placed in, when I was nine. The woman, my foster mother, Sylvia, she was awful. Actually, awful is too kind. She was cold, manipulative. She acted like she cared when there was a caseworker over or a bio parent having a visitation, but it was all a front.”

“Sounds rough.”

“I was twelve when I finally got adopted by my moms, but David stayed with her until he aged out of foster care.”

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