Page 135 of How to Prevent a Fumble

My publicist asking me to call her back.

About ten times.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I can’t help the “fuck!” that comes out of my mouth.

“What did that dickhead say to you?” I growl, my hands on either side of her legs as I readjust myself so I can keep kneeling in front of her without my ankle killing me.

She shakes her head, looking away again.

“Briar,” I tell her, tightening my grip.

She bites her lip, her hands trembling in her lap. “He said that he knows it’s not real, and that if I don’t break up with you he’ll leak fake stories to the press about me. About me being a bad mom. Said he’ll ruin your reputation and mine.”

“And he’d try to get Elara back,” I say, filling in the blanks.

She nods, a sob breaking free as she doubles over, burying her face in her hands.

Taking a deep breath, I rise, scooping her up in my arms. To my surprise she doesn’t struggle, instead looping her arms around my neck for security.

Nudging the door open, I make my way down the hall until we’re in her room, and I lay her in bed, climbing in next to her.

And I just hold her.

We stay like that for what feels like hours, her face buried into my chest, my shirt matted to me with tears.

My fingers make their way through her hair, grazing her scalp as I go. When her sobs finally subside, I rest my cheek on the crown of her head.

I’ve never been good with emotions. Never been good at showing them and never been good at dealing with them, no matter how hard I’ve tried.

I’m a firm believer that men should be able to show emotion, but living by that is a whole other thing.

When my sister first got her heart broken as a teenager she was a mess for a couple of days. I had offered to beat the kid up if she wanted me to. I promised I would. But I had no idea how to deal with the tears.

What can I say to make someone feel better? I know when I’ve been upset, there’s nothing anyone has ever said or done that has made anything any better. Not even a little bit.

When I had gone off to college my mother was a complete mess, and I felt awful that I had hugged her and practically ran away.

There had been other times that people would cry in front of me, and I’ve never known the right thing to say.

But here with Briar, soothing her in my arms, I feel confident that saying nothing at all is the right choice.

Sometimes someone just needs to cry it out without anyone trying to make it better.

Sometimes things are bad. Terrible even. Sometimes life kicks you down with all its might, stomping all over us. We’re allowed to cry about it. We’re allowed to feel it.

We don’t always have to numb ourselves with positivity.

When Briar’s body relaxes in mine, her breath slowing, I kiss her temple, sliding out from under her.

She watches me as I head to the bathroom, grabbing some soap and pumping it into the tub before turning on the faucet.

I know women love a bath hotter than the devils asshole, but I test it, making sure it’s not too bad. I’d rather her have to add hot water than be burned and upset.

When it’s hotter than I’d like, but still not scorching, I let it fill a bit, exiting the room and finding Briar’s open book on her bedside table. I grab it, saying nothing as I feel her gaze on my back.

Dimming the light, I grab the candles in the closet and light them, placing them around the bathroom.

When I’m finally satisfied, I head back out of the room, making my way to the bed.

---