“I don’t want to keep secrets from you.” He is still facing the window, but now he turns. “I don’t. But at the same time, things will come out when they come out. Does that make sense? Do you understand?”

“You know I do,” I say. “I said so when you told me that Damien is your brother. I don’t have a right to your secrets. And it’s wrong of me to get bitchy and make it worse for you.” I think of my own secrets—painful ones that I’ve held close. That I haven’t yet shared with this man I love. This man I trust.

I draw a breath for courage. “Honestly, I’m not really sure how much of today was even about you or Megan or any of those other women. I was in a pissy mood, and on any other day I might have actually handled the whole thing like a sane person.”

Immediately, his eyes sharpen. “Why? What happened?”

“Nothing specific,” I lie. “Just a bad day.”

The truth is that I’ve realized that I do want to tell him everything about Reed and my dad and the whole shebang. I want to spill it all out. I want him to hold me close and soothe me and tell me that the storm inside me will subside. That he will help make it so.

But I don’t want to tell him today. Not when I’ve just seen so much evidence of his own worries and fears.

Mine can wait. They’ve already waited years. Another day won’t matter.

He is watching my face, his expression knowing. “Now who’s the one keeping secrets?”

“Me,” I admit. “But it can wait.” I reach out and take his hand. “Truly.”

His brow furrows as he moves closer to me. He’s right there in front of me, and I can feel the power and concern radiating off him, and all of it is directed at me. “Don’t ever think that.”

I blink, confused. “Think what?”

“That you need to pull your punches with me.”

“Pull my—what?”

“Don’t think you have to coddle me if I’ve had a bad day.”

“I’m not,” I say, then realize it’s a lie the second the words spill out. “Okay, maybe I am, but what’s wrong with that? You want to take care of Megan and Ronnie, right? Well, I want to take care of you.”

“Sweet,” he says. “But it doesn’t work like that.” He sits down again and tugs me into his lap. “You tell me what’s on your mind so that I can help you, too.”

He pulls me closer and I curl up against him, feeling warm and safe. Ironically, this was the way my dad used to cradle me in our big armchair. But that was when I was young. Before things went bad and I didn’t even want to look at him, much less touch him.

“I don’t know where to start,” I admit.

“The beginning is usually a good place. Or you could tell me what happened today.”

“My brother called.” I draw a breath, relieved at how easy that was.

“Ethan, right? The one moving home from London?”

“He gets in Wednesday. I’m picking him up and driving him down to Irvine.” I swallow, because just saying that makes my mouth go dry. “I was hoping you’d go with me. Because—well, because I don’t want to go alone.”

“Of course I will.”

“Thank you.” My relief is so intense it almost knocks me over.

Jackson is studying me, the concern evident in his eyes. “What happened with your parents, Sylvia?”

I’m so used to not talking about it that I start to push the question away, even though I’ve already decided that I want to share my past with this man. I regroup, nod, and gather my thoughts.

And then, slowly, I begin. “It … it was all okay when I was little. Good even. Normal.”

“So when did that change?”

“When Ethan got sick.” I stand up, because I really have to move, and I pace the length of the small table. “He was the most precious kid. Everyone adored him. My parents thought he hung the moon, and I didn’t mind, because I did, too.”

“You’re older?”

I nod. “By just under three years. And my favorite thing in the world was taking care of him. Playing mommy, you know? I’d feed him, change him, play with him. And when he got older, we were best friends.”

I wait for Jackson to ask me what happened, but he is calmly watching me, clearly letting me go at my own pace.

“About the time he was ten, he started getting into fights with the bigger kids at school. They were picking on him and—anyway, the reasons don’t matter. The point is that the bruises didn’t heal as fast as my mom expected. So she took him to the doctor.”