Page 77 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

I swallow back the lump in my throat. “Trust me. It’s theonlything I’m sure of these days.”

“And you’re not embarrassed by me?”

With a frown, I murmur, “Are you asking me this because I told you they might be offended by your tattoos?”

His grunt in response tugs at my guilt as he pulls into the parking lot and puts his car into park.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach over the center console and squeeze his hand. “If I’m embarrassed by anyone, it’s them. Not you. They simply don’t get it. And I’m not sure they ever will. But thank you. For your patience. And for coming with me, even though it definitely isn’t what you signed up for.” I bite my lip. “None of this is what you signed up for. Me. Penny. My crappy parents.”

I don’t deserve him.

I need to tell him the truth.

“Listen…,” I start, but I can’t make the stupid words come out of my mouth. My stomach rolls, and I rub beneath my nose with the back of my hand. “I, uh…” I drop my chin to my chest. Unable to look at him. Unable to even look at myself.

Breathe, Mads.

“Sh…,” Milo croons as he tugs on my wrist and pulls me into his chest. The center console separates us from a really nice, much-needed hug, barely allowing my face to be pressed against his chest, let alone the rest of me. Still, I’ll take what I can get, even when I know I don’t deserve it.

I close my eyes and soak up his warmth. His woodsy scent. The feel of his strong heart beating beneath my cheek, terrified it’ll be the last time. It’s funny. If I could create the perfect concoction to bring me a sense of serenity, it would be this. The smell of him. The feel of him. His heat. His quiet promises to keep me safe. To look out for me.

But it isn’t his job.

Not when I’m hiding so much from him.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my words nothing but a breath against his crisp shirt.

“Sh…” His chest rumbles while he rubs his hand up and down my back.

“I don’t deserve you,” I admit as if my confession can wash away the tangled web of lies I’ve created, even when I know it’s impossible. “As a friend. As Penny’s father. I’m so sorry––”

“Stop apologizing.”

I burrow deeper against him. “It’s true, though.”

“You’re used to being the strong one, Mads. But you don’t have to be,” he murmurs against the crown of my head, his warm breath tickling the wisps of hair lying across my forehead as he reads my thoughts for the thousandth time. “Not with me.”

Bullshit, I want to scream.

It’s not how this works.

If I didn’t have to be the strong one around Milo, I could tell him about Marty. I could tell him I still love him, and he wouldn’t throw it back in my face. I could let myself fall for him without crashing to the ground. I could tell him Penny might not be his blood, but I still want him to be her dad.

I could do and say a lot of things if I didn’t have to be the strong one.

But I can’t.

And I’m slowly crumbling from the weight of it all.

And this dinner? It might be the final load pushing me over the edge.

But I’m not about to tell Milo.

Hell, Ican’ttell Milo.

Isn’t that the problem, though?

Later.

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