Page 346 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
My dad’s words are long gone, scattered somewhere behind me, already swallowed by the noise of the festival. But the truth of them hangs in my chest like a lead weight.
“You put that pain on Hart. That pain and fear you’ve lived with. When you almost killed his daddy, he felt all of it, but worse. Because you meant to do it. You pushed him. He witnessed it. And he took all those feelings and used them to protect the people he loves. To protect me.”
Then the blood in my ears rushes, and the space around me spins just slightly.
I press my palms to my face. “Oh my God,” I whisper. “I accused him of lying. I laughed—I laughed when he said you pushed Mr. Wilde off the loft.” I struggle to catch my breath.
“Jade, breathe.” My daddy’s hands grip my arms.
“And the worst part was the look on his face.” My eyes meet my daddy’s. “He was in so much pain. Telling me about you hurt him.”
My stomach twists.
“In and out, Jade. Slow your breathing.”
But I can’t. The words tumble out. My breath ragged and so hard to grasp.
“He wasn’t lashing out. He wasn’t being cruel or vindictive.”
He told me the story like someone who had carried it too long.
Quietly.
Carefully.
Trusting me with something so raw and only half-healed.
And I flinched away like it was poison.
“I feel sick.”
I drop onto the grass, knees folding under me, because standing is too much.
The music pulses in the distance. People are cheering, laughing, and dancing while I’m here, fists balled into the dirt, trying to remember exactly what I said to him. Trying to count every moment, I twisted the knife a little deeper.
You don’t know what you’re talking about.
My dad would never do something like that.
You’re a liar.
I rub my eyes hard, but it doesn’t stop the sting. Doesn’t stop the heat crawling up my throat, or the way guilt sits like a bruise behind my ribs.
I pushed him away. The one person who would do anything to protect me, not cage me.
He loves me.
That’s it.
As I am.
Not as someone he could change, or claim, or bend to fit beside him.
And I was so scared of losing myself, of becoming his wife, his shadow, that I didn’t see it. He’s never asked me to be anything but me. He’s just there.
Steady.
Open.
