Page 37 of Hold on Tight

“I don’t want to rehash anything that happened between us. I get that it’s not a good idea. I totally agree that we need to keep things as simple as possible between you and me.”

Was thatdisappointmenthe was feeling? She’d let him off the hook. Given him permission not to do something impossibly self-destructive. And once again, his stupid dick was trying to take the reins.

She’d goaded him into kissing her again. He’d gotten hard fifty times since then, thinking about it.Youcanget it up. I can definitely attest to that.

Down, boy. She wants totalk.

“It’s not about that. It’s about Sam. He said something last night. And, okay, what he said was, ‘Do you think my father is like Jake?’ ”

Once, before the accident that had taken his leg, he had been within the percussion zone of a big explosion. Not close enough to be injured, not close enough to take shrapnel, not close enough to lose an eardrum, but close enough to feel the air hit his body like a blow. Her revelation felt like that. He said, “Shit. That must’ve freaked you out.”

“Kinda. I didn’t know what to say. I said, ‘Yeah, he’s a lot like Jake.’ But it felt like a lie. And it made me feel awful. I know, I know—” She waved his protest away. “I realize it doesn’t seem like a very big lie after the whole sperm donor thing …”

Jake shook his head. “I’ve kind of gotten used to the sperm donor idea—I mean to the idea of it as an explanation. It’s clever. And you’re right, what else can you tell a little kid?”

“Right, it felt different then, but now he’s old enough to understand the truth, or a version of it, and I’m lying about someone who’s in his life—” She stopped, and met his eyes. “Sorry. See, that’s the thing: I don’t know if you are or aren’t. Or if I want you to be or not. Or—I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m making this really complicated.”

“No, don’t apologize,” he said. “Itiscomplicated.”

“And I don’t want what happened between us to affect—I mean, I want you and Sam to be able to have a relationship without it getting all mucked with—”

She gestured vaguely, but it didn’t keep him from manufacturing his own vivid images. The way it had felt to pin her against the wall, how soft she was but how passionately she’d responded, how intensely she’d kissed him back and given herself over. The whole length of her pressed against him.

“This can be whatever we want it to be,” he said.

“What if I want it to be you and Sam? For now?”

“It could be that.” But he couldn’t suppress his regret, and maybe she saw it, because for a moment, he thought he saw it echoed on her face, too. Regret and longing. That hadn’t been an ordinary kiss. It had been like the kisses all those years ago, packed full of things they both needed and wanted to say but couldn’t get out in words. Old mistakes and new cravings and bad ideas that didn’t feel bad. Crazy shit he’d seen, stupid stuff he’d done, people he’d let down.

Situations where emotions—where love, specifically—had clouded his judgment.

He turned away from her and watched Sam climb higher on the structure.

“That’s high enough, Sam,” Mira called.

God, he wished she wouldn’t do that. The kid was seven years old and a monkey. He could handle a child’s play structure.

What did Mira want from him?

What did he want from her?

And how did Sam fit in? How could they make sure that no matter what happened between them, Sam wouldn’t get hurt?

That one day when Jake had babysat Sam, when they’d finished running, Jake had plopped down on the front stoop and Sam had collapsed in his lap, a heap of sweaty little kid, warm and panting. Totally trusting. And Jake had thought:

You don’t want to put your eggs in this basket, kid. I’ve made some really bad decisions. The kind of bad where people died.

Every once in a while, it was there. Clear as day. Irrefutable.

“I meant everything I said. I’m not good for much. I’m not good for you, and I’m not good for him.”

She crossed her arms. “You’re wrong. He was really down before that day you sat. And he’s been—a different kid since. Cheerful and energetic and full of himself.”

“That was what I was hoping. He was so proud of what he did that day we ran. I’m glad it carried over.”

He eyed Sam, now descending the play structure far more cautiously than he’d scrambled up it. She’d put her own fear in him, and she didn’t even realize what she was doing. That must be the toughest thing about being a single parent: having to be brave enough for two so your own fear wouldn’t become infectious.

Maybe he could help. He could be a buffer. For both of them.

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