CHAPTER 17
Reed
T he first thing I notice when Lila comes back to the park is that she’s not wearing her hoodie, but the visibly calmer girl next to her is.
Two emotions tug at my heart at once—complete admiration for how she handled Melody’s panic over her period and raw concern when she gets close enough for me to see the goose bumps on her bare arms.
“You’re cold,” I point out just as she asks, “Where’s Cameron?”
“With his friends,” I tell her quickly, my eyes zeroing in on her skin. “Why is Melody wearing your hoodie?”
“She had a bloodstain on her leggings and didn’t want anyone to see. She was only wearing a T-shirt under her jacket, so I gave her my hoodie so she wouldn’t get cold. Did you tell Cameron what was going on?”
“Yeah. He made a face when I told him she’d just gotten her period, so I had to explain to him why periods aren’t gross and why it’s important that he makes his sister feel comfortable.” The wind picks up, and I don’t miss her body’s reaction to it. “You’re going to get sick.”
She waves me off. “I’m fine. We’re leaving in less than an hour, anyway.”
I don’t stop to ponder why the thought of Lila getting sick makes me more worried than it should; I shrug off my jacket and drape it over her shoulders. “Now you’re fine.”
She blinks up at me. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Like hell I didn’t.”
“You’ll be the one getting sick now, Professor Bossy.” The annoyance in her voice doesn’t match the blush on her cheeks.
“Don’t care.” I resist the urge to tighten the jacket around her. Instead, I turn toward the park. “How’s Melody dealing with it?”
As if she has just read my mind, Lila tightens my jacket around her frame. The sight of her in my clothes makes my cock jump, and I internally curse myself for it.
“I was silently thanking her teacher for explaining periods to them at school,” she says with a sigh. “Sexual education wasn’t really a thing when I was Melody’s age. I’m lucky that my mom taught me about those things and I wasn’t embarrassed to ask her, but it’s ridiculous out there. Periods should be discussed normally. No wonder young girls freak out about it. And let’s not even tackle boys. Why do they keep making fun of us or calling us gross for something we can’t control? I hate the educational system sometimes. I feel like it’s failing us in that regard. That’s why I want to contribute with my thesis, even if it’s just a little bit.”
It’s the words she says and how she says them that make a light bulb go on in my head.
“What will your thesis cover, exactly?” I carefully slide my gaze toward her. She’s such a beautiful sight, clad in my leather jacket.
“I want to highlight the importance of bibliotherapy in children’s sexual education,” she explains. “My mom used to read these books to me when I was little. Not necessarily books she wrote, just in general. But they really helped me understand things, like how my body belonged to me and no one had the right to touch it or why Mom has two dads instead of a mom and a dad. She didn’t whip out a book every time I asked a difficult question, but they really complemented my learning. Stories made it fun for me and helped me see that I wasn’t alone.”
How do you tell someone that you’re falling in love with their mind without freaking them out?
Not only with her mind.
The urge to tell her that she’s the most fascinating, down-to-earth, smart, passionate, fucking beautiful woman I’ve ever met dies in my throat.
I don’t have a right to say those words, knowing I don’t deserve her.
Instead, I ask, “What kind of books did you find most useful growing up?”
I confirm I’m going insane when she shivers and all I can think about is pulling her into my arms.
She hesitates. “I’m not sure how much you know about my mom’s past.”
“I know what you’re referring to,” I tell her, my voice somber.
Grace has never hidden from me the fact that she’s a sexual assault survivor. I’ve known for years, but the reminder of that conversation is never easy. She knows about my past, too. Things I’ve never repeated out loud since I talked to her.
Lila eyes me skeptically. “You do?”
My nod is stiff. “We worked on a book about abuse. She told me then.”
“Right.” Her gaze lowers to the grass. “Because of what happened to her, my parents always made sure I protected myself. From a very early age, they taught me that ‘no’ is a full sentence, that nobody has the right to touch me in certain ways—kids or adults—and things like that. Books helped too. My mom has always been very open about periods, consent, sexual health… All those things. I could always go to her with a question and never felt embarrassed. We’re really close.”
“And you want to help normalize that among children,” I finish her train of thought.
“Exactly. It always baffled me when I talked to my friends about sex, and they just… knew nothing,” she continues. “And when I asked them why they’d never asked their moms, they looked at me like I was crazy. Said that it was embarrassing, and they’d rather die than talk to their moms about that.”
“Die? And I thought you were dramatic,” I mutter, smirking.
I get an eye roll for that.
She keeps going. “The thing is, I soon realized people my age didn’t really talk about those things with anyone. Well, we talked about sex and periods with one another, but it isn’t smart to get sex advice from your friends. Not when you’re young, anyway. We ended up hurting one another more than anything else. Not physically but, like, standards-wise. Most people only had TV shows to teach them, and they don’t always set the best examples.”
I hum my agreement. “So, what you’re saying is that there’s a lack of professional sex education at schools.”
“For sure. I’m glad it’s changing now, at least in some schools, but it’s not enough.”
When I glance down at her, she’s frowning, biting her lower lip with a worried expression on her face. She looks like such a fragile thing right now, but I know she’s strong and sharp underneath her insecurities. I’m mesmerized by her—all of her.
“Would you like to run a sexual education workshop at the youth center?”
Her head twirls toward me. “Are you serious?”
I can’t tell if she sounds more excited or freaked out. Knowing her, it’s probably both.
“I’d have to review it and supervise it, and we’d have to get signed approval from the parents, but I think the kids could benefit a lot from it. Haniyah would agree.”
“I…” She hesitates. “Do you really think I could run a workshop on my own?”
I arch a skeptical eyebrow. “You’ve just calmly walked a crying preteen through her first period, and you don’t think you can run your own workshop?”
“I mean, I’d have to come up with activities and worksheets, as well as an outline for the talk. Make it interactive and not weird.” She worries her bottom lip between her teeth again. “But what if I—”
“Lila. Listen to me.”
Before I know what I’m doing, and not caring that we’re not standing that far away from everyone else, I grasp her chin, tilting it upward until our eyes meet.
“I’ve never met a more brilliant yet insecure person in my entire life,” I tell her, my eyes not leaving hers. I’m gentle as I pinch her chin with my fingers, earning me a shiver. “Tell me what I have to do to bring back that self-confidence I know you have in you, and I’ll do it.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” she mutters, and her breath hitches.
It takes me a moment to realize I’m not breathing normally, either.
But it takes me even longer to remember we’re not alone; we’re supposed to be working.
I drop my hand. “Listen to your gut. If it’s telling you to do this workshop, go ahead with it and fuck everything else—including your own self-destructive thoughts.”
She pulls my jacket closer around her torso. “I hate it when you’re right.”
“So, all the time?”
“All right, Professor Presumptuous.”
“I’m shaking in my boots, little criminal.”
When she smacks my arm, I let out a loud chuckle that turns several heads in our direction. Lila retreats, a furious blush on her face.
I nudge her arm with mine. “If you keep blushing when I tease you, I’m just going to keep doing it.”
Her lips part. I’m dying to hear her comeback, but I don’t get the chance.
“Reed!”
Cameron .
“Reed! Lila! Come here!”
I turn to the sound of Cameron’s urgent voice and find him waving at us from a nearby bush. Melody, Vera, and Santiago are crouched beside it, their backs to us.
“What’s going on?” Lila frowns, but we’re already moving toward them.
“No clue,” I mutter, frantically trying to see if anyone’s hurt.
Cameron rushes to meet us in the middle. “You have to come. Quickly,” he urges, dragging me by my arm.
“Is anyone hurt?” I ask him.
The answer I get is cryptic enough to make my worry reach unhealthy levels. “No. Well, we aren’t. But there’s a problem.”
“What kind of problem?” Lila asks.
“Cam, did you get—” Melody breaks out in a smile when she spots us. “You have to see this. Hurry!”
All three kids are crouching around the bush, making the narrow space even narrower. I place a guiding hand on Lila’s arm as she walks ahead of me, watching out for loose branches she might trip over.
Her back collides with my front as she comes to a halt, a hand flying to cover her mouth. “Oh my God…”
My heart races. “What is it?”
I’m still holding on to her as I peer over her head at the children at our feet.
And I spot a tiny ball of golden fur hiding under the prickly bush.
“It’s a puppy.” Melody beams at us before her expression turns somber. “It isn’t moving, though. We think it may be hurt.”
Not moving? Fucking hell. The last thing we need is for the kids to have found a dead puppy.
“Let me see.” Lila takes a step forward, reaching to grab my hand for support as she lowers herself to the grass. I ignore the way my heart skips a beat. She wants me to keep her saf e. “Hi, sweet baby. Are you lost? Where’s your mommy?”
I take it that the puppy isn’t dead. Good.
“It’s here all alone,” Santiago explains. “No other dogs came looking for it.”
“Careful,” I tell Lila as she crouches lower and into the bush.
“Don’t worry about me,” she says.
Like that’s possible.
Her hand disappears under the bush, trying to reach the dog, and I finally lose it when she hisses as she pricks her hand.
“That’s enough.” I kneel on the grass behind her. “You’re getting hurt. Let me do it.”
“Almost there,” she stammers, reaching farther.
When she hisses again, I see red. “Lila.”
“Got it!”
Her scratched hand comes into view, holding a tiny dog. It’s not a newborn—I’d assume it’s at least six or seven months old—but it’s still too small and bony, like it hasn’t been fed for a while.
The kids all gape at the puppy, wanting to pet it, but Lila is quick to say, “It’s probably very scared right now. Let us take a look, and you’ll give him or her all the cuddles later, all right?”
They nod, understanding.
I move my hands to her arms, helping her up to her feet. She keeps the dog pressed against her chest while I shield it from the cold with my body.
“Reed,” she whispers, her eyes never leaving the puppy. “This dog is missing a little leg.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
Lila shifts the dog just slightly, and I see it then—its front legs kick around, but one of its back legs is completely missing.
I spot the blood on its tail at the same time Lila does. It’s not much, probably not an open wound, but my stomach still sinks.
“The puppy is hurt,” she whispers, not wanting the kids to hear. “What should we do?”
The puppy glances up at me as if awaiting my answer, and the words get stuck in my throat.
It’s such a little thing, so fragile. Why is she asking me what to do next? Doesn’t she know I’ll only hurt the poor thing? That’s what I do—I hurt everyone. I ruin them.
I send them to jail and kill them.
It’s your fault we’re not a happy family anymore, Reed.
“Reed?”
Lila’s voice breaks through the fog in my brain, and so does the whimper coming from the golden ball of fur in her arms. I don’t recognize the breed; it’s probably a mutt. It has short, light brown fur and floppy ears that aren’t too small or too big.
“Should we call a vet?” she asks next.
It’s her voice, laced with pure worry, that snaps me into action.
Think of this dog as one of the kids, and you’ll be fine.
“Right. Yeah.” I reach for my phone in my back pocket. “Guys, let’s go back to the park.”
“But what about the dog?” Vera asks, peering over Lila’s arm to look at it. All three other kids do the same.
“We’re going to call a vet and see if it’s hurt or if it belongs to someone,” I tell them. “It will be fine, don’t worry.”
“Promise?” Melody pouts.
I glance down at the puppy in Lila’s bloodied hand, protectiveness sinking its claws into me. “I promise.”