Page 6 of The Promises We Broke
The professional in me cataloged his injuries with clinical detachment. The way he favored his left side, the careful positioning of his leg, the barely perceptible tightness around his eyes that spoke of pain he was trying to hide. But the woman in me, the girl who'd once believed in forever, was drowning in the reality of him. The way his hands gripped the arms of the chair like he was fighting the urge to reach for me. The way his breath seemed to catch when our eyes met. The way he was looking at me like I was the answer to every prayer he'd never dared to speak.
And that's when it hit me. The devastating realization that crashed over me like a wave, threatening to pull me under. This feeling, this bone-deep, soul-destroying love that had shaped every relationship I'd had since he left, this wasn't enough. It had never been enough. Because if it had been, he wouldn't have left. If I had been enough, he would have stayed. He would have fought for us instead of disappearing into the night like a coward.
I'd spent eleven years carrying a torch for a man who'd chosen to walk away rather than fight for what we had. Eleven years measuring every potential relationship against the memory of a boy who'd ultimately decided I wasn't worth the effort. Eleven years of wondering what was wrong with me, what I'd lacked, what I could have done differently.
But standing here now, looking at him, at this beautiful, broken man who'd rather destroy us both than believe he deserved to be loved, I finally understood. It wasn't about me notbeing enough. It was about him being too much of a coward to try.
The knowledge should have been freeing. Instead, it felt like dying.
He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. Swallowed hard. Then tried again.
"Billie," he said finally, and my name on his lips sounded like a prayer and a plea and an apology all rolled into one. "I… Thank you. For agreeing to help. You didn't have to…"
"Yes, I did," I interrupted, because if I let him finish that sentence, if I let him start apologizing for existing in my world again, I might lose what little composure I'd managed to maintain. "You're hurt, and I'm a physical therapist. It's what I do."
He nodded, but his eyes never left mine. In them, I could see echoes of the boy I'd loved. Vulnerable, grateful, trying so hard to be strong that he'd forgotten it was okay to be weak sometimes.
And despite every wall I'd built, every defense I'd constructed, every promise I'd made to myself about keeping this professional, I felt something fundamental shift inside me. Not my heart cracking open. That would have been a mercy. Instead, it was something harder, more final. Like a door slamming shut on the girl I'd been, the one who'd believed that love conquered all.
Because some loves, I was beginning to realize, were never meant to survive.
Some loves were just beautiful mistakes we made when we were too young to know better.
Chapter 2
Gage
I'd forgotten how suffocating love could feel.
That was my first conscious thought as I woke up in what used to be Booker's guest room, surrounded by the kind of careful attention that made my skin crawl. Someone had left a glass of water on the nightstand, along with my pain medication and a note in Xander's handwriting. Take these. Don't be a hero. We'll talk when you're ready.
Don't be a hero. Christ, if they only knew how far from heroic I actually was.
The clock on the wall read just past noon, which meant I'd slept for nearly fourteen hours. The pain medication was doing its job. The sharp edge of agony in my leg had dulled to a manageable throb, and my shoulder felt more stiff than excruciating. But nothing could touch the weight sitting on my chest, the certainty that I didn't belong in this room, in this house, in this family that had somehow convinced themselves they wanted me here.
Voices drifted up from downstairs. Booker's low rumble, Xander's occasional laugh, what sounded like Reece maybe talking to them both. Normal family sounds. The kind I'd given up the right to be part of the night I helped Regina destroy Trace's happiness.
Xander had told me in the hospital and again during the endless car ride from the hospital. Told me that they knew the truth about what Regina had done, how she'd manipulated me into hiding Delaney's pregnancy and getting Trace out of the way so she could force Delaney out of town. He said they didn't blame me, that they'd been looking for me for years to bring me home and explain that I'd been as much a victim as anyone.
I'd wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. Victim. As if being a stupid fifteen-year-old so desperate for approval that I'd do something like that would somehow absolve me of the choice I'd made. As if Regina holding the threat of my family's ruin over my head meant I hadn't chosen to betray my brother anyway.
They didn't understand. They couldn't. They saw what they wanted to see. Their brother led astray by a master manipulator. They couldn't see the truth. That somewhere deep down, I'd known exactly what I was doing when I lifted Trace’s mobile phone out of his bag, when I'd rushed into that room and pretended that I couldn't possibly believe that my baby brother wouldn't try something on with his girlfriend's best friend. That he wouldn't take no for an answer. I'd known it would hurt Trace, and I'd done it anyway because I was weak and scared. But most of all, I was selfish. Because if Regina was willing to hurt Trace in this way, then maybe that meant I wasn't the worse son.
Because I'd wanted Regina to finally see me as worthy of the Farrington name.
A soft knock on the door interrupted my self-recrimination. "Come in," I called, trying to push myself up to sitting without jarring my leg too much.
Xander appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray with what looked like enough food to feed a small army. His face was carefully neutral, but I could see the concern in his eyes. The same concern that had been there when he'd found me in that Portland hospital, when he'd insisted on bringing me home despite my protests.
"Figured you might be hungry," he said, setting the tray on the bed beside me. "Reece made chicken soup, and Blake contributed approximately seventeen different types of bread. I think they're competing to see who can mother you more effectively."
The tray held soup, three different kinds of bread, fresh fruit, and what looked like homemade cookies. Enough food for three people, all of it prepared with the kind of care that made my throat tight.
"You didn't have to…" I started.
"Shut up," Xander said, but there was no heat in it. He settled into the chair beside the bed, and I was struck by how much older he looked than when I'd left. There were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before, a gravity to his expression that spoke of hard-won wisdom. "We're family. This is what family does."
Family. The word sat between us like a loaded weapon. I picked up the spoon and forced myself to take a bite of soup, partly because I was actually hungry and partly because it gave me something to do with my hands. Who knows. If I'm lucky enough, maybe Reece poisoned it. She'd seemed nice when I met her yesterday, but hopefully she was hiding a dark secret psychopathy that could be my ticket out of this.
