Chapter 18
Tabitha marched her sweaty, exhausted self up Miles’s sidewalk at almost nine p.m.
She shouldn’t be here. She’d tried going up to her apartment after her conversation with Kat, but as she’d been climbing the stairs, the stabbing pain in her chest from what Kat told her had intensified. Turned into a burning sensation, one that had flared brighter and hotter with every step.
Every remembered word.
The next thing she knew, she’d raced up to her apartment, grabbed her keys and purse, and got into her car.
And had ended up parked in Miles’s driveway.
She pounded on his front door.
Like the first time she’d been here, his house was dark. But the garage door was open and his car was parked inside.
He was home.
Still pounding on the door with her left hand, she pressed the doorbell with her other one.
He didn’t answer.
The coward. He thought he could wait her out. That she’d give in and scurry away like a frightened mouse.
Like the girl she used to be.
Shoulders set in determination, she marched herself back down the sidewalk, sweatier and more exhausted than before. Plus, now her hand was sore from all that knocking.
She stormed past his car only to stop when she realized that, while the ignition was off, his headlights were on and illuminating the back of the garage, and the driver’s side door was open. Frowning, she leaned into the car to shut off the lights, then closed the door.
The door leading to his kitchen was open, too.
Something wasn’t right.
Miles was too thorough to forget to turn off his headlights or shut his car door. Was too cautious to leave his garage door open at night. To not shut the door to his house.
Was too stubborn, arrogant, and prideful to back down from a challenge.
Like answering her knock on his door.
She climbed the steps to the kitchen. Rapped her knuckle on the door frame.
No response.
She pushed the door open. The room was dimly lit, the twilight barely cutting through the shadows, which was why she had to sweep her gaze around the room twice before spottting him.
And when she did, her breath locked in her chest.
He was on the floor, his back against the end of the island, his forehead resting on his bent knees, his arms wrapped around his head. Like he was trying to physically hold himself together.
“Miles?” she said softly. He didn’t move. She tried again, slightly louder. “Miles?”
His head rose slowly and when his gaze found her, he blinked as if coming out of a dream. He swallowed, his face drawn, complexion gray. Their eyes met, his filled with pain. Fear.
And the briefest, quickest flash of relief.
But then he laid his forehead back onto his knees as if he knew exactly how much she’d seen and wanted to make sure he didn’t give anything else away.
“I’m coming in,” she said, still in that quiet tone. Stepping inside, she shut the door behind her, kicked off her flip flops, and crossed to the island.
She lowered to the ground next to him, the corner separating them. Sat cross-legged under the island’s eating bar, keeping enough space between them that they weren’t touching, but were still close enough that she could reach him if he needed her.
They stayed that way for one minute, sitting side-by-side on the floor. Then two. His breathing was quick, but it was even. His body was trembling but not shaking uncontrollably. Another minute passed and he lifted his head again, this time leaning it back against the island, eyes closed, as he let go of his knees and straightened his legs.
“I’ll get you some water,” she said, starting to rise.
“No,” he said, stopping her, his voice low and hoarse. “Could… could you talk to me? It helped. The last time.”
She settled back. Realized she was rubbing the scar on her chin. Remembered his question from earlier.
Who hurt you, baby?
Her throat grew tight, like fingers squeezing, trying to hold back her answer to that question. Wanting her to hold onto her past. Keep it tucked away where it couldn’t hurt her.
Where no one could use it against her.
The truth didn’t set people like her free.
The past had its hooks dug too deep in her for that.
But she could wiggle a few of them loose. For him. For herself.
Even if they did rip her to shreds in the process.
Curling her fingers into her palm, she lowered her hand. Kept it fisted there, pressed against her stomach like an anchor, holding her in place, keeping her from bolting.
“When I was little,” she said, forcing the words past the increasing tightness in her throat, “there was an empty space in the kitchen in our apartment between the cupboards and the refrigerator, but covered by the counter. I used to hide there. It wasn’t very wide, maybe a foot and a half? But if I wiggled in backwards, I could fit. I’d slide all the way to the back and hug my knees to my chest, making myself as small as possible.”
She sensed Miles tense. Heard him shift, then sit up. He was listening.
But he kept silent.
It helped. That silence. His patience.
Knowing he was going to let her tell this without poking and prodding for more than she was ready to give him.
“This reminds me of that,” she continued. “My back pressed against the wall. The counter overhead. I thought if I stayed still enough, silent enough, if I was small enough, no one would be able to reach me. I was wrong. So I eventually learned to hide in other places. Places where I wouldn’t be cornered. Where I couldn’t be so easily caught. Under the kitchen table or beside the bushes next to the porch.”
“Or near a window?” he asked softly, obviously remembering what she’d told him and Reed about wanting her bed by the window.
She glanced at him and, when she found he was watching her, forced herself to hold his gaze as she nodded. “Or near a window. And when I hid, I stayed hidden for as long as possible. I didn’t run unless I had to. And I didn’t come out until it was safe.” She pressed her forefinger against her chin in the exact same way he’d done earlier on the sidewalk. “Except for once. One time I forgot all the lessons I’d learned.” She lowered her hand. “And was reminded of what happens when you let your guard down.”
“How old were you?” he asked after a moment. “When you were reminded of that?”
“Six.” Bending her legs, she pulled her knees to her chest, sitting like Miles had been when she’d first arrived. “My mother and her boyfriend at the time were fighting…”
But that wasn’t right. And while it wasn’t quite a lie, it also wasn’t the truth.
“They weren’t fighting,” she corrected, staring at the kitchen door. “He was beating her. She’d stolen some of his supply and when he confronted her, she denied it.”
“He was a dealer?”
“Most of her boyfriends were.”
Because her mother was an addict.
To the pills and, it seemed, to dangerous, abusive men.
“She didn’t fight back. She never fought back. She just kept crying, saying how much she loved him and how she’d never steal from him. But even as a six-year-old, I knew she was lying. Even as a child, I knew what was about to happen to her. Mainly because I’d seen it so many times before. They were in the kitchen, right in front of my hiding spot, so I shut my eyes, and I covered my ears, but I could still hear everything. Mom crying. The sounds of her getting punched. Kicked. Her boyfriend… Todd or Tim or something starting with a T… screaming at her. Diesel, his German Shepherd, barking.”
“I shut my eyes,” she repeated, this time on a whisper, “and I kept my ears covered and I stayed hidden, just like I’d done all the other times. Until he threatened to kill her.”
Miles shifted again, this time scooting closer to the corner edge of the island.
Closer to her.
Close enough to gently press the side of his hip against hers.
“By the time I wiggled out of my hiding space, he was dragging her by the hair into the living room. I chased after them, crying for my mom, but I got too close, and Diesel snapped at me. Caught me on the chin.”
She once again lifted her fingers to her scar.
Todd or Tim or whatever the bastard’s name was had dragged the dog into the bedroom or it might have been much, much worse than a single bite.
“It wouldn’t stop bleeding,” she continued softly, so caught up in the memory, it was as if she could feel the sticky wetness of her blood between her trembling fingers. She lowered her hand. Tried to rub the sensation away on the top of her thigh. Up and down. Up and down.
Until Miles touched the back of her hand with his fingertips, stopping her.
They stayed that way for a moment. Hips touching, heads close and bent over, as they stared down at his hand on hers, his fingertips cool against her skin.
He slowly slid his fingers under her palm, giving her plenty of time to withdraw her hand.
She didn’t. Couldn’t have even if she’d wanted to.
She needed him.
More than that, she needed to be brave enough, strong enough to let him know that.
She turned her hand and curled her fingers around his palm.
And she held on tight.
“It wouldn’t stop bleeding,” she said again, steadier this time, “so Mom paid the woman across the hall to take me to the E.R. and say she’d been babysitting me.”
Head still bent, gaze still on their hands, he rubbed the pad of his thumb across her inner wrist. “Your mom didn’t want anyone to see her bruises.”
She nodded. “There would have been too many questions. She told me to tell anyone who asked that I fell and hit my chin on the corner of a coffee table. She said if I told them the truth, they’d kill Diesel, and that they’d take my mom away from me. It wasn’t until I was an adult and realized how manipulative she’d been that I recognized she’d chosen her words to make me feel responsible for what had happened. To let me know that by telling the truth, I’d be doing something wrong and would end up alone as punishment. So, I lied. I lied to the man who admitted me to the E.R. I lied to the nurse. I lied to the doctor who did my stitches. I lied to the social worker who visited me before I could leave. And I just… kept lying.” She paused. Stared at the top of his head. “Until now.”
Until you.
“What happened to the boyfriend?” he asked.
“When I got home from the E.R., both he and Diesel were gone. They never came back. My mother blamed me for it, but within a week, there was another loser boyfriend who took his place. And another after him. And another and another. So many men came in and out of my mom’s life and, because of that, mine.”
“What about your father?”
“Mom didn’t know who my father was. It was just her and me.”
Until it wasn’t.
But that was a story for another day.
“Tabitha,” Miles murmured, searching her eyes. “Why are you here? Why are you telling me this now?”
After everything she’d done, all the lies she’d told him, the secrets she’d kept from him, he had every right to ask her that. To be suspicious of her motives.
She knew that. She did.
Just as she knew it was stupid to be so disappointed by his suspicion. His doubts.
To be so hurt by them when she’d yet to earn his trust.
But he kept forgetting one very important fact.
He hadn’t earned hers yet, either.
***
Tabitha slid her hand out from under his.
Miles immediately missed the contact.
He scowled as she scooted out from under the counter and stood. He didn’t like that. Didn’t like that he wanted to snatch her hand back, link his fingers with hers and hold on.
That he wanted to tug her back to his side—on his cold, hard kitchen floor—so he could once again press his hip against hers.
Didn’t like that it felt as if he’d suddenly been set adrift, back to bobbing in a stormy sea after struggling to shore. After finding a safe harbor.
“I don’t think it’s the best time to get into why I’m here,” she said. “Not when you’re obviously…”
He pushed to his feet and crossed his arms. “I’m obviously…?”
Her eyebrows lifted at his quiet, challenging tone, but her mouth quirked. As if his daring her to speak the truth now, after practically begging for any scrap of honesty from her time and time again, was the ultimate entertainment.
“Not feeling well,” she settled on.
He pressed his lips together. Dropped his gaze.
Not feeling well.
That was one way to put it.
A much better way than saying he was losing his fucking grip.
“I’m fine,” he said.
And that was in large part due to her. Her presence. Her patience and compassion.
She made a humming sound of disbelief, but when she spoke, her voice was soft. “How often do you have them? Your anxiety attacks?”“I said I’m fine.”
“Have you considered seeing a therapist?”
“I’m. Fine.”
“What about your family?” she pressed, when she never used to push for anything from him. “Have you confided in any of them about what you’re going through?”
He dropped his arms. Inclined his head toward the door behind her. “You can go now.”
He turned, flipped the light on over the island, then crossed to the fridge, and yanked the door open. Stared blindly at the contents.
He couldn’t watch her walk away.
Even when he was the one kicking her ass out.
He grabbed a beer, twisted off the cap, then took a long drink, listening for the telltale sound of the door opening.
Of it shutting behind her.
But there was only silence.
Followed by a soft sigh.
She hadn’t walked away. She hadn’t left him.
He had to lock his knees so he didn’t slide back down to the floor in relief.
“I came here,” she said, “because I was… because I am… mad at you.”
He turned, eyebrows raised. “You’re hiding it well.”
“That’s because I’m not very good at it. At getting mad,” she clarified. “The way I grew up, it wasn’t safe to get angry. Lashing out meant someone was going to lash back. And they were always bigger and stronger than me. They were always angrier.”
I thought if I stayed still enough, silent enough, if I was small enough, no one would be able to reach me.
She’d had to make herself small, had to keep her emotions silent, so she wouldn’t be hurt.
Shaken to his core, sick to his stomach, he swallowed down the nausea rising in his throat.
If she could survive going through it, he could survive knowing she did.
“So I didn’t let myself get angry,” she said. “Or sad. I didn’t ask for anything. I just did my best to be whoever they wanted me to be.”
“I never asked you to play a part. I didn’t want you to be anyone other than who you really were.”
“Didn’t you?” she asked softly.
Frowning, he dropped his gaze.
He wanted to deny it. Wanted to tell her she was full of shit. That this was just more of her manipulation.
Another way she could try and shake some of the blame for what happened between them.
But he couldn’t.
Because part of him wondered if she was right.
“Me coming over here, ready and willing to confront you, is actually a big deal for me. And while I’m going to keep thinking it was incredibly brave of me—and another step in my personal growth and healing—I have to admit, if you’d been any other man, I don’t know if I would have been able to do it.”
“Guess I really pissed you off.”
Her smile was brief, a flash of warmth and humor. And agreement. “I met Ian’s mom a little bit ago. She’s the reason I’m here.”
“You’re here because of Katarina?”
He remembered Kat’s smug look at dinner. Her wanting to know more about Tabitha.
Knew how smart and savvy and cynical his nephew’s mother was.
How much she disliked him.
“I’m here because she shared a very interesting story with me. One about a family dinner where it seemed I was the topic of conversation.”
“Your name was brought up,” he conceded slowly. “But not by me. And I wouldn’t say you were the main topic of conversation.”
“Oh, I know you didn’t bring me up. Kat told me that was all Verity.”
“For someone who barely speaks when she’s around me and my brothers, Kat sure as hell seemed to have a lot to say to you.”
“She was very forthcoming.”
He bet.
“My family was curious about you,” he said, giving into the urge to move, to work off some of his once again building anxiety by picking up his beer and taking another drink. Swinging the bottle in his hand. “About how we knew each other.”
“I imagine they were.” Her pause was long and charged and had his instincts screaming that he needed to take cover because shit was about to go down. “Considering that up until I moved here, they hadn’t known I even existed.”
Guilt tried to worm its way through him, wiggling its way into the spaces cracked open by his lingering anxiety. He shut that fucker down.
He hadn’t done anything she hadn’t done first.
“We were together for a year,” he pointed out, “and you never introduced me to any of your friends. You never told me about your past except that you’d grown up in Pittsburgh in foster care. You never shared one aspect of your life with me. Nothing that was real. And now you think you have the right to be pissed that I didn’t tell my family about you?”
She looked at him with an expression that was half pitying, half frustrated. “That’s not why I’m angry. I knew you never told them about me when we were together. Did you think I didn’t? Anytime they called or Facetimed and I was there, you either didn’t answer or went into another room. You went home for birthdays and holidays and never asked me to go with you. When any of them visited, you made sure I wasn’t around. God, you really must have thought I was an idiot.”
“I didn’t think that,” he said, quick and rough and honest. “Not once. And I didn’t tell them because my family was going through a difficult time. My older brother’s fiancée cheated on him with one of his friends, and they called off their engagement. Silas was getting into worse and worse trouble and Eli was struggling in school…”
But even to him those all sounded like lame excuses.
Worse. They sounded like lies.
“That’s why I didn’t ask you to come home with me. But I would have told them,” he insisted, desperate to prove he was telling the truth. Desperate to believe it himself. “I was going to tell them, but then you left and there was no need.”
The look she gave him let him know she thought he was full of shit.
Hell, he couldn’t even blame her for it.
“Like I said, I’m not angry you didn’t tell your family about me. Or because you said I wasn’t important enough to discuss.”
“I didn’t say that.”
But he had said their relationship hadn’t been important.
He lifted his bottle. Took a long drink, trying to wash away the sick taste of shame coating his throat.
“I’m not even angry you told them I was guarded,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken.
“Jesus.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Did Kat take fucking notes?”
“What bothered me,” she continued, ignoring him, “was that you said all of that after everything you told me on the sidewalk this morning. You can’t have it both ways.”
Her voice shook with the first hint of the anger she’d told him she had.
He shouldn’t be proud of her for it.
Shouldn’t be grateful she trusted him enough to feel safe getting pissed at him.
But he was both.
“You don’t get to accuse me of lying when you’re not telling the truth,” she said firmly. “And you don’t get to hold our past over my head when you withheld just as much from me as I withheld from you. When you made just as many mistakes. When you’re just as much to blame for what happened between us as I am.”
He set his beer down on the counter with a sharp thud. “I’m not the one who left.”
“No. You weren’t the one who left. You were the one who bought an engagement ring.”