Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome, #3)(74)

“Charming asshole.”

“Oh—I’ve been upgraded to charming.”

He walks beside me for a beat until he’s taking the lead again. And for some reason, I easily let him. In fact, I enjoy being able to focus all my attention on where our hands are joined. And I could probably blame this heightened attraction on the fact that it’s been a while since I’ve slept with anyone. But I’m almost certain it has more to do with the fact that I’m falling head over heels for Jack Bennett.

“All right, we’re at the bar,” he says into the dark. “I’m going to let go of your hand to feel for our phones.”

“I don’t need the play-by-play. I’m not scared,” I say in a snippy tone because if there’s anything I dislike more than needing someone, it’s someone thinking I need them.

“I forgot you’re never scared. Just like you never throw tantrums.”

I would pinch him if I could see him.

We’re side by side blindly feeling around the counter for anything that feels like a phone. “I can’t find mine. You?”

“Nothing.” Another crack of thunder hits the room, followed by an empty silence I don’t like. Maybe that’s what leads me to say, “I’m not scared of storms . . . but my brother is.”

“Noah?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m having trouble picturing it for some reason. Did he have a bad experience in a storm or something?”

“You could say that. Our parents were killed by a storm when we were kids.”

I feel his body go still. It’s easier to say it in the dark—when I don’t have to see the pity on his face. It’s the look every single person gets when I say those words. And I understand why; it’s only natural. It’s a painful, difficult thing to imagine happening to anyone, let alone a child. But I still don’t like to see it. Because every damn time, it rips open the wound. The wound that won’t heal. The wound that sits dormant under my skin until I twist uncomfortably from time to time and it’s raw again.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that happened.”

“And here I thought you read minds all this time.” Jokes, jokes, jokes. They’re what keep my Treasure Chest of Doom locked.

“How old were you?” Jack says, facing me now.

“Eight—second grade.” I’ve memorized the script. I recite it now with a monotone delivery, zero pauses and emotionless accuracy. “They were adventurous, my parents. They went hiking and camping in Colorado like they’d done countless times before, but a storm came that time, and they didn’t have enough warning to get off the mountain. Doctors suspect it was lightning that struck their tent.”

“Shit, Emily. I’m so sorry.”

I shrug like he can see it. “Me too.”

“But you’re not scared of storms?”

I laugh once. “I’m the oldest daughter, I’m not scared of anything.” I pause as memories hit me wave after wave. And for the first time in my life, I say them out loud. “Someone has to hold it together. Someone had to lift the blanket on her bed and let her sisters climb in when the thunder would shake the house. Someone had to assure them that her bed was the safest place in the world.” Even when my own hands were trembling. “I was always promising them that I would never go anywhere, and my door would always be open for them.”

Jack’s hand finds mine again. He squeezes lightly, and I squeeze it back.

“And even though Noah is three years older than me, he’d always find his way into my room too, nervous, shaking and pacing the room, unsure of what to do when the panic would grip him. So I would give him tasks to keep his mind busy. Get the flashlight in case we lose power. Wake Grandma up and ask her to check the Weather Channel.” I can still picture his efficient nod before he’d dart out of the room. “Maddie . . . she needed hugs. Big, tight ones. She needed me to stroke her hair and whisper over and over that everything was going to be fine. And Annie . . .” I squint in the dark. “It was always a bit of a mystery to me as to what she needed. She would go silent and still. When I’d hug her, she’d just say she was okay, and I could help Noah and Maddie.”

“And what did you need?” he asks.

How have I never asked myself that question? No one else has either.

Tears sting my eyes. “To go back to a time when my biggest worry was which cereal I’d eat for breakfast. To the Christmas when my mom and dad bought us a four-wheeler and we all spent the entire day in the freezing cold riding around the Huxleys’ farm.” I press my lips together as a wave of emotions washes over me. “I needed stability and reassurance that everything was going to be okay—but both of those things died with my parents, and I’ve never gotten them back.”

“And what about now?” he asks softly.

“Now . . . I need to be okay with being alone. Because everyone moves on eventually. But not me . . . I’ll always be right here where they left me.”

He’s quiet for so long. I could be standing completely naked on a stage under a spotlight, and I’d feel less vulnerable than I do now. The worst part is, I didn’t even realize until just now that I’ve been chasing and protecting a safety that I outgrew a long time ago.