Page 47 of Regards, Mia

“Thanks,” I say, backing away.

“Sure. No problem.”

I hurry back to Mia’s house and knock on the door. “It’s me. Open up.”

Mia pulls the door open, stepping back a few inches to let me in. She slams the door behind me and locks it.

“No need for that.” I nod at the gun in her right hand.

She relaxes her grip on the gun and points the barrel at the ground. “Who was it?”

I pull the envelope from the waistband of my pants and examine it. Mia’s name is printed on the front in large block letters. “A delivery.”

Mia places her gun on the coffee table and reaches for the envelope.

“Wait.” I pull the envelope out of her reach. “This is evidence. Do you have any gloves?”

Mia goes into the kitchen and comes back with a pair of yellow gloves covering her hands. “This is the best I can do.”

I hand her the package, my heart in my throat as she lifts the flap. She spills the contents onto the coffee table, and relief spreads through me when I see it’s only newspaper clippings.

Mia makes a choked noise. I get a glimpse of the headline—Sex, Lies, and LAX—before she shoves everything back inside and clutches it with a death grip.

“What is it?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer. Her face is deathly pale, and I know her well enough to see she’s on the brink of tears.

Without wasting any more time, I pull her into my arms. At first she’s limp, but after a moment, she wraps her arms around me and holds on.

“It’s okay.” I smooth my hands up and down her back. “It’s just an old newspaper article. It can’t hurt you.”

She trembles. “I know I need to quit smoking,” she says. “But I could really use a smoke.”

I’m not about to tell Mia what she can or can’t do. Although I’m not a fan of cigarettes, now isn’t the time to take a stand. It’s clear whatever was in the article broke through the walls she’d erected to protect herself.

“You’ll quit tomorrow.” I take her gloved hand and lead the way upstairs to her balcony.

CHAPTER 19

Your Turn

Jay waits patiently while I pull off my gloves and shake a cigarette from the pack. I hold it to my lips, but I’m trembling so badly, I can’t light it.

He grabs the lighter from my fingers and flicks the button, holding it up to the tip of my cigarette. I inhale deeply, then blow out a stream of smoke. It doesn’t make me feel any better.

I know I need to quit, but it never seems like a good time. There’s always a crisis that makes me crave the brief calm provided by the nicotine.

Memories of that horrible night crash over me. I know I’m safe, but I feel helpless just like I did that night nearly fifteen years ago.

Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back. I can’t cry in front of Jay. It was humiliating enough to break down in his arms and let him witness my weaknesses.

“I was assaulted in college,” I say, keeping my explanation simple. Jay doesn’t need to know the details about how I was nearly raped at a frat party by my own boyfriend.

He grits his teeth. “I’m sorry.”

I’d been sorry for a long time, too. Then I’d snapped out of itand used my anger to direct my future. “Don’t be,” I say. “It made me who I am today.”

I take a long drag off my cigarette and pace to the railing. Blowing a stream of smoke into the air, I close my eyes and block out the image from the newspaper article. But it does no good. I can still see those boys with their neat haircuts and smirking faces. My boyfriend with his guy-next-door good looks and the cocky angle of his chin.

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