Page 41 of Whirlwind
“I know that, now. Or maybe I did, then, too,” she says. “It was confusing.”
“Who?” The single word scrapes my throat, my hands wanting to be gentle on her skin, yet violent on his.
“My father’s coworker. He was around a lot, watching sports with my dad. Drinking beer, eating pizza. It was their chosen pastime. When my dad would get belligerent, Derik would step in. I felt…obligated.”
She means he made her believe she owed him. She’s not saying the words, but I hear them, all the same. A thousand questions and every negative emotion rush through me. I’ve never felt murderous in my life—until now.
“Nobody owes that. I’m sorry you were made to feel you did. I hate that for you,” I tell her, pressing my forehead to hers, not breaking eye contact, forcing my voice to stay soft.
“I tried to hold it off. I was so close to leaving—moving away. It was only weeks away, but he was so persistent. Always there. It became his mission, and I thought…”
“It would be easier to give in,” I finish for her.
“It wasn’t, though,” she says, another tear spilling over. Her fist tightens in my shirt. She’s anchoring herself—to me.
I hope to be worthy of such heavy weight.
10
Kit
Tyson doesn’t say anything to that. Instead, he wraps the blanket tighter around me, picks me up with an impossible ease, and settles us both on the couch. Me, cradled like a wounded animal on his lap.
Normally, that would bother me. Being seen as delicate, or a thing to wrap in cotton fluff. I am a capable woman. Yet, I’m liking his care. The touch meant to ease my frayed edges; I could get used to it.
A terrifying thought.
Comfort wasn’t offered to me as a child. Being a single parent, my father didn’t adopt any maternal instincts. Hell, he didn’t have any fatherly ones, either. My grandmother did her best, but if she showed too much affection toward me, my father scolded her. I never knew my grandfather, but I have the sense he was a cold man who berated her. My father learned from him and took up the mantle when my grandfather passed. Even when freed from being a battered wife, she couldn’t stop being a battered woman.
It always struck me as sad, but when I got away from it, I swore I’d put an end to the generational trauma of the Ashcroft family.
Although I like the way Tyson rubs his chin against the crown of my head, and the tingle of calm it sends through me, the thoughts still swirl.
Can I trust him with my vulnerability? Is this a mistake?
If it is, it shouldn’t feel this nice. That would be a cruel trick of the world. But it wouldn’t be the only one—after all, the best-tasting foods are the worst for you.
Is that what Tyson is? My bacon-topped maple bar? My turtle cheesecake? My rocky road ice cream?
I laugh out loud, and his arms tighten around me.
“What are you thinking?”
“That you might be what gives me cellulite,” I say, burying my face in his chest. He can’t hide his bemusement when he asks me to explain. “Oddly, I’m more comfortable with you than I am with most people. I like when you touch me. I want you to. I even crave it—sort of like I crave chocolate when I’m on my period.”
“Oh. So I’m like a sugar rush, or comfort food.”
“I guess so. Does that freak you out?”
“Not at all.”
“It does me,” I admit.
“I’m guessing you haven’t had many people you could count on,” he says after a pause. “Whatever happens between us, I will be that for you. You don’t owe me anything in return—you don’t have to be or do anything for me. You understand?”
“No, but I’m trying to,” I answer. “You’re right, I didn’t have anyone I could count on to always put my best interests first. Not until I became friends with Willa. I don’t trust easily. I’ve never had reason to think I could.”
“I’ll prove that you can trust me, and I’ll understand while you learn to. Deal?”
