Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Nysa
The fire crackles low in the hearth, the soft glow casting long shadows across the living room. The weight of Hopper’s words hangs in the space between us, thick and unrelenting. None of what he said is what I expected to hear.
I study him, the way his fingers curl around his wine glass, the way his jaw is set like he’s bracing for something. He looks so put together from the outside—this man who runs a ranch rehabilitating horses, a life for his daughter that’s loving and safe. But inside? I can now see the cracks. How he’s barely holding everything together, including his soul.
I know what that feels like. Feeling like you failed those who left, that maybe you should’ve gone along with them.
“Did Cynthia have family?” I ask.
He nods but doesn’t look at me. “Yeah, but they’re not the best people to be around. I wouldn’t want my child to grow up with them.”
The way he says my child , like Maddie is one hundred percent his even when her origin story is complicated. Is this trauma? Is that why he’s holding onto her? I open my mouth to say something—to tell him that it’s not his decision to make—but he speaks before I can.
“She stopped speaking to them when she left home for college,” he pauses, “Cynthia. That’s the one thing we had in common, how we bonded. I didn’t want to come back ever again—fuck my parents.”
The anger in his words resonates through the room.
“I thought you had a good relationship with your mom.”
He shakes his head as he lets out a loud exhale. “It was . . . difficult at times.”
I watch the way he grips the glass a little tighter, his fingers white at the knuckles. “The thing you have to know about my mother is that she never stopped my father. She looked the other way when he beat the shit out of us.”
The words hit like a punch. Because of Atlas I knew the problems at home. How their father treated them almost like animals. All of them except Atlas, who for some reason had immunity. Probably because, like he said, he was the bastard. A kid born from one of their father’s affairs. His mother had died when he was very little and he dragged him to live with his wife and children.
They hated him, while his father ignored him. It’s like he didn’t exist.
These poor boys. I’ll never understand why people said they were terrible, when in fact, they were nice. I want to grab his hand. I want to say something, anything to make him feel better. But what the hell do you say to that?
This man who seems to have his life together is all broken on the inside.
“When my parents died,” I start, my voice quiet, “I lived with the guilt for a long time. While I was grieving, I was dealing with survivor’s guilt. I mean, my entire family died and there I was, enjoying life with my favorite grandparents.”
His eyes flicker up to mine, something raw in his gaze. “Why not me?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why them and not me? They had children. I had . . . nothing.”
I swallow hard. I know that question too well.
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ve gone to therapy, talked through my suicidal ideation in depth. It’s something I had since I was young. The times I imagined how it’d be easier if I wasn’t around anymore. The times I begged for it to end so my father would stop beating me.”
A shiver runs down my spine.
I don’t think. I move.
I set my glass down and cross the space between us, lowering myself onto the couch beside him. He stiffens slightly, but he doesn’t pull away when I reach for his hand.
For a moment, he just stares at our joined fingers like he doesn’t know what to do with the contact. Then, slowly, his shoulders sag.
“I used to pray for it to be over,” he admits, his voice hoarse. “I remember lying in bed as a kid, staring at the ceiling, thinking if I just disappeared, maybe this would stop.”
My fingers tighten around his.
I know that feeling too.
“When I was fourteen, after the accident . . . I wanted to die.” The words fall out before I can stop them, but I don’t try to take them back. “The guilt was unbearable. I felt like I had no right to still be here when they weren’t.”
Hopper nods, like he understands. Maybe because he does.
“I get that,” he murmurs.
I turn my body toward him fully, my knee brushing his. “I spent years running. I thought if I kept moving, if I never stopped long enough to let anything catch up to me, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much.”
“And now?” he asks, watching me carefully.
I scoff. “I tried to stop, to settle down, and those men ran me out of town. It feels like people like me just can’t get a break. They can’t get love. And by now, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”
His lips twitch slightly. “Same, but I have Maddie and that’s what keeps me going.”
We sit in silence, his hand still in mine.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, but it’s comfortable in a way I didn’t expect. Like neither of us has to fill the silence.
He turns his hand slightly, his thumb grazing my palm, and a small shiver runs up my arm. I don’t know if it’s the heat of the fire or the warmth of his touch, but suddenly, the room feels smaller.
“You’re good at this,” he says after a long moment.
I arch an eyebrow. “At what?”
He shrugs. “Not making me feel like I should be ashamed of it.”
I give him a soft smile. “You shouldn’t be.”
His gaze lingers on me, something unreadable in his expression.
And just like that, the air shifts.
I see it in the way his eyes drop briefly to my mouth, the way his hand flexes slightly in mine like he’s thinking about something he shouldn’t be thinking about.
And I feel it too.
It would be easy—too easy—to close the space between us. To lean in. To let this turn into something neither one of us is ready for.
But instead, I let out a slow breath and squeeze his hand one last time before pulling away.
Hopper notices, but he doesn’t say anything.
And neither do I.
Because this?
This is dangerous.
This is me getting too comfortable.
And that’s exactly what I can’t let happen.