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Instead, it was comforting.

Deeplycomforting.

Johnny took his time to process what I had told him. He didn’t bombard me with questions. He juststayedright there beside me, asking one question at a time and then giving himself time to process my response and me time to process my life.

“All I remember is the constant shouting and fear of pain,” I replied several hours later, when Johnny asked about my early childhood. Dawn was breaking outside, illuminating the room in an eerie grayish hue, and neither of us had closed an eye. The light gradually pouring through the enormous windows helped me to see the freckles on his forearm, the scars on his knuckles, and the veins that seemed to just bulge from his taut, sun-kissed skin.

“And that feeling in the pit of my stomach, the dread—it’s the most familiar feeling I have. I almost feel like I’m not okay when I’m not worried. I’m not okay with feeling okay.” I sighed heavily and concentrated on his fingers. He had long fingers with rough and callused fingertips, and I couldn’t stop touching them. “I’m constantly on edge, all the time, waiting for the sadness because that’s what I’m used to—what I’m programed to feel, expect, and live with.” Grimacing, I trailed my finger over the pad of his thumb and added, “Well, at least that’s what Patricia and Carmel say.”

“Patricia, the social worker,” Johnny said, remembering her name from one of his earlier questions, as he captured my hand in his and entwined our fingers,steadyingme. “And Carmel is the…”

“Counselor from the hospital,” I filled in, stroking my nose against his arm. “Although I’ve only met her twice and I’m not going back.”

The hand he had been trailing up and down my rib cage stilled. “Why not?”

“Because I’m supposed to trust someone who is only there because she’s beingpaidto listen to me? Someone who, once 5:00 p.m. rolls by, doesn’t give a damn about me or my brothers?” I shook my head. “No, no way.”

Johnny sighed and resumed his finger trailing. He was quiet for a long time before saying, “I think you should talk to someone about what happened in that house.”

“I just did,” I whispered.

“No, Shan, not me,” he replied sadly. “A professional with the credentials to make a difference in your life.”

“There’s no point,” I whispered.

“I think there is.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

“What about Joey?” Johnny asked then, switching things up.

I froze for a moment before twisting around to face him. “What did you say?”

“I said what about Joey? Who’s helping him?” Johnny asked, brushing his thumb over my cheek. “You said the kids are in counseling and doing play therapy. Your ma’s in her own trauma counseling and doing some fucked parenting course. Darren’s doing whatever Darren does, and your piece-of-shit da is on the run. But what about Joey? Is he seeing someone? If he is, then they need to find the lad a new therapist because he was all kinds of fucked up earlier.”

What about Joey.

He asked about Joey!

Three words that meant more to me than anything else he could have said in that moment.

Pulling myself up on my elbow, I leaned over and pressed my lips to his. “Thank you,” I whispered, pulling back to look at him.

Johnny frowned in confusion. “For what?”

“Asking the right questions.”

“Uh, no problem.”

Something sparked to life in my head then, a question that had been torturing me for days. Rolling back onto my side, I resumed my holding of his arm while I fought to wrangle the courage to ask it. “Can I ask you another question?” I could hear the tremor in my voice, but I forced myself to not backpedal.

“Of course.” I heard him yawn behind me, felt the heat of his breath on my neck as he tightened his arms around me, snuggling into my back. “Ask away.”

Here it goes…“Why do you like me?”

Johnny stiffened behind me. “Why do I…what?”

“Like me,” I filled in, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Why?”

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