Page 105 of Fight for You

There’s so much unsaid between us, things I couldn’t say last week. I wish I could have explained, could have told him that I was drowning, but in that moment, I didn’t want to be saved.

Is it too late to say them now?

"He loves you," Mariah whispers as if reading my mind. She reaches out to squeeze my fingers.

I bob my head in the semblance of a nod, fighting the urge to cry. She's right. I know she is. But I think Cade and I both have things we need to work through…things we need to face before we stand a chance of making this thing between us work.

And I do want to make it work. That hasn't changed, not once since I was a little girl. I've loved him through every important moment of my life. I'll keep on loving him through the rest of them.

But I need to focus on fixing me right now, so maybe it's a good thing he's keeping his distance. Maybe.

It still sucks, though.

"Are you sure you-?"

"Yes," I say before she can ask for the sixteenth time if I'm sure I'll be okay here. Even if it hurts, I will be okay. I know that now.

Eventually, Mariah caves and leaves me to my own devices, promising to call me later. I stand where I am, watching out of the corner of my eye when Cade hops out of his friend's truck and jogs up the steps toward Ma Lucia's house—his house. He keeps his head down, not looking in my direction.

Once he gets inside and the door closes behind him, I turn to look at the truck still idling on the curb. I frown when I notice the driver. He's big, like giant big, with dark hair and incredible hazel eyes. He's watching me, his eyes narrowed like he's deep in thought.

I've seen him around here before. He's been driving through the area for the last few years, keeping an eye on things, but I don't know who he is. A cop, I think. He certainly has that badass vibe to him like Cade does…like they're both more than capable of handling business.

Did Cade send him around to keep an eye on me?

The giant cop tips his head up in a nod, his lips curving up in an amused smile when my eyes narrow on him. I'm not even sure why I'm glaring at him. It's not like I don't appreciate him watching out for me or whatever he's been doing for longer than I honestly remember, but it would have been nice to know he was doing it.

He lifts two fingers in a wave and then pulls away.

I grab my overnight bag off the ground and head inside. The alarm beeps when I get inside and I have to drop my bag to disarm it. Cade never gave me the code, but he gave it to Mariah the night he sent her over here to check on me. I think it's supposed to be a random number—2793—but there's nothing random in what Cade does, so I'm sure it has some significance I don't yet understand.

Once the alarm is disarmed and the front door locked, I glance around the house. Everything is exactly where I left it…exactly where it's been for most of my life. Aside from replacing the television when it went out and the sofa when a piece of wire started poking through and jabbing me when I sat down, I've changed nothing.

Pictures of me, my mom, and Titan are scattered around shelves and hanging on the walls. Seeing them always makes my heart ache, but they also made me feel close to Titan and mom over the years…made me feel less alone.

I miss them so much.

Tears well in my eyes as my gaze tracks slowly over each photograph. A few tears slip down my cheeks, but I don't try to fight them off. I didn't cry for years. Even when we buried them, I didn't cry. I refused to let myself feel anything because I knew I wouldn't make it through the day if I acknowledged the abyss of grief waiting to swallow me whole. I've cried a lot since Cade came back into my life. Seeing him ripped off the blinders, allowing that grief and pain to start slipping out between cracks in the walls I erected.

For once, I don't mind them. They don't make me feel weak. They make me feel human.

"I saw Cade the day before yesterday," I tell Dr. Jenner early on Friday morning, curling my feet up underneath me in the oversized armchair in her office. The room seems less like a doctor's office and more like someone's living room. The walls are a dark wood. She doesn't have a desk, but sits in a turquoise armchair that matches mine. A white rug rests on the hardwood floor, giving the place a soft, welcoming feel. The only art on the wall is a colorful abstract painting of a black tree on a vivid backdrop. It's gorgeous.

"How did that go?" Dr. Jenner asks. Like me, she's got her feet curled up in the chair beneath her, her skirt tucked primly around her legs. With her grayish-black hair up in a ponytail and a pair of chunky glasses on her face, she reminds me more of a soccer mom than a psychiatrist. Her smile is kind and inviting, the crow's feet around her eyes making it apparent that she smiles a lot.

I genuinely like her. She's not judgmental and doesn't make me feel like crap no matter what awful thoughts and feelings I confess to her. She just listens quietly, letting me purge myself of all the painful things that have been brewing for far too long.

"I'm not sure," I confess, rubbing a finger across the soft fabric of the chair. "We were both getting home at the same time. He didn't say anything to me. He seemed tired, like he hasn't been sleeping."

"Have you been sleeping?"

"A little. Better since I got home." I thought being home would be harder, but it's honestly been more comforting than anything. "I like knowing he's close to me," I whisper. "Even if he's next door, I like knowing he's there."

"He hasn't been there in a long time."

I nod.

"You said he's a DEA agent. That must be tough for him."