Page 73 of Concerted Chaos

“I don’t know if you saw the news, Tanner, but your girlfriend was behind it all. She used your press pass to smuggle the bomb into the venue.” What is wrong with me? He’s giving me the opportunity to apologize for everything and repair our relationship, but I can’t stop being defensive.

“You set me up with her! And you gave us the tickets!”

“So now this is my fault?” Admittedly, I’ve been thinking that myself.

“That’s enough, Cassidy, I’m not going to keep arguing with the back of your head. Turn around!”

So much for his promise not to yell. He grabs me by the shoulder and swivels my stool to face him. His eyes immediately widen and his jaw drops. Yeah, I know, I look awful.

I try to rotate back to the counter but he blocks me. I’m getting awfully tired of men trying to control me, but at least his actions come from a place of concern, unlike Silas.

“It’s nothing,” I say, but obviously he’s not a moron and doesn’t believe me.

“Cassidy,” he whispers, and his fingers come close to grazing my injured cheek. His eyes flicker from my face to the marks on my neck, the discolored bruises left by Silas’ massive hands. When I bring up my own hand to self-consciously cover them, he spies the bruising on my wrist. “Are those ligature marks? What happened? I thought Mike...”

“Mike’s arrival was not as timely as I would have liked,” I reply, making the understatement of the year. “Silas was... violent.” Another massive understatement.

Tanner stares at me, his expression a mix of horror and sadness. Then he steps forward and carefully wraps me in an embrace, holding me comfortingly against his chest. Until this moment, I didn’t realize how much I craved physical contact. Everybody else has been so careful to avoid brushing up against me. Even my mom, who worries that I’m developing PTSD, doesn’t want to touch me. She’s been treating me like I’m made of glass and might shatter in her hands. I’m glad Tanner has no such qualms.

I find myself relaxing for perhaps the first time since this nightmare started. I sag against him and allow the steady rhythm of his heartbeat to soothe me. His familiar cinnamon scent—maybe it’s cologne?—gives me a sense of safety, of stability. This is exactly what I need right now.

When we eventually separate, Tanner rests his forehead against mine. Tears rim his lashes.

“Cassidy, I spent the past week waiting for you to apologize to me. Every day that passed without a phone call made me so angry, and this morning I finally got up the nerve to come over here to confront you. I know you don’t like to admit when you’re wrong, and I thought maybe you were embarrassed about accusing me. I was all set to yell at you, and demand an apology, and make you grovel. And this whole time you’ve ... you’ve been suffering and in pain. I can’t imagine what you went through.”

“It was no big deal,” I say, because I like to compartmentalize. I’ve already set the attack aside, locking the trauma deep down in a box, next to Jace and my father.

“Can you tell me ... do you want to talk about it?” He takes a half step back, still looking intently into my eyes.

“I’d rather not.”

“I’m a good listener. But if this is about your trust issues...”

That stings. I don’t have trust issues; I simply maintain strict criteria for people I trust. There’s a difference. But that’s not my reason anyway.

“No, it’s not about trust. I just can’t ... I can’t keep repeating it. I need a break.” I must have described my ordeal a hundred times, to FBI agents, police officers, Mike, Brix, my parents. Eventually I’ll have to rehash the nightmare all over again, at a deposition, maybe at a trial.

“I understand,” he says gravely, and I believe he does. He’s probably the only one who would. He’s not in his exploitative photographer mode, he’s showing me the friend he’s always tried to be. He gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Maybe I should go.”

“Wait!” I grab his arm. “You were right. I owe you an apology. I’m sorry, Tanner. You were my friend and I didn’t even pause to consider whether you were guilty or not, I just jumped to conclusions. I’ve lived so much of my life not trusting anybody, so I always have this expectation that people will let me down. I’m really, truly sorry.”

“Did that hurt?” The corner of his mouth twitches, and that adorable-yet-sometimes-infuriating dimple makes its first appearance of the morning.

I touch my cheek softly, probing the small patches where the nerves aren’t healed and sensation hasn’t returned yet. “Not too badly.”

“I didn’t mean your face, I meant your pride.”

“Maybe a little. But I’m not finished. It’s not only setting up your arrest that I’m sorry for. I should have called you when I got out of the hospital or when I got home. I should have checked on you and made sure you were okay. You went through an ordeal too, one I knew about. I owed you a call, at the very least.”

“True.” He pulls out the stool next to mine and sits. “You know, your apology would go over much better with coffee.”

“Didn’t you claim to be the perfect modern man? Make it yourself.” I tease as I gesture toward the espresso machine.

His lips quirk in amusement. “I don’t think you understand how apology coffee works, Cass.”

I do, I do understand. I understand that in this moment, I am forgiven, and he is making an attempt at lightening the mood and working toward rebuilding our friendship. Because yes, that’s what it was, friendship. A real one. I didn’t realize how much I enjoyed his company, how much I’ve come to trust him, until he hugged me today and reminded me.

So yeah, I’m going to make him coffee.

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