I haven’t dated; I have always been too scared. My mom passed away when I was fifteen, leaving only my dad to raise me. Not long after her passing, my dad started drinking. At first, it was a beer here and there, but then it turned into an every-night thing. When I was sixteen, he started going out nightly to a local bar. The bar closed at one, and thirty minutes later, my dad would come home, bringing the party with him. I never felt safe; I was constantly on edge, never knowing if someone would stumble into my room drunk or high. I told my dad that I didn’t feel safe, but he just waved it off as me being a dramatic teenager.

Then one night, I was sick—like really sick. I had a fever and needed water and Tylenol. I got up and made my way into the kitchen, and once I was there, a guy who often attended my dad’s parties cornered me in the kitchen. I remember the fear I felt when he shoved me into the corner near the fridge, away from the view of all the others. I tried to get free from his hold, but he only held me tighter, and when I attempted to scream, he covered my mouth with his as he tried to force me to kiss him. I fought back as much as I could, and when another man showed up, I felt relief—until he started helping the guy who was holding me. They were both mocking me, telling me all the horribly disgusting things they were going to do to me.

I can still remember seeing people coming in and out of the kitchen, either oblivious to what was going on or not caring. When one of them stuck their hand between my legs, I reared my head back, busting the guy who first cornered me in the nose. Blood went everywhere. His hands let me go, as did his friend’s, and I ran out of the kitchen to my room, locking the door behind me. I hid in my closet with my phone and called the police. Not long after that, my dad came into my room and found me in the closet. He looked distraught, apologizing for everything that happened, but I couldn’t care anymore. I was done making excuses for him.

Two weeks later, I got emancipated from my father and joined Job Corps. It’s what I needed at the time, the environment almost military. We had schedules we had to keep, things we were responsible for, and school, which I excelled at. I’ve never regretted what I did. The only thing I have ever regretted is losing contact with my father, but part of me felt like if I were important to him, he would have gotten into contact with me.

My phone rings, bringing me out of my thoughts. I look at the name and roll my eyes, smiling.

“Hello, Maggie,” I answer my phone, exaggerating a put-out voice. She’s always teasing me that I lead the most boring life ever, so I play it up for fun.

“Hey, bitch. What are you up to?” she asks.

We were roommates in Job Corps and have been the closest friends ever since. She still lives in Seattle and is getting married in a couple months to her longtime fiancé, Devon, who was also in JC with us.

“Nothing much.”

“Geez, girl. It’s always ‘nothing much’ with you. When the hell are you going to have some good gossip for me?”

“Not everyone is a gossip slut like you,” I tell her, laughing.

“Hey, now. I’m not a gossip.”

“Sure you aren’t.” Maggie knows everything about everyone, and because of her, I know things about people I have never even met in my life—and a lot of those things are details I wish I never, ever knew.

“I can’t help it if people want to open up to me. I’m like Dr. Phil or Oprah.”

“This is true,” I say as I lie down on the couch, and I can’t help but laugh when I think about the position I’m in.

“What’s so funny?”

“Well, Dr. Phil, I met someone, and I’m now sprawled on my couch, so you wanna shrink me?”

“What?!” I hear the shock in her voice. Maggie has been trying to get me to date for years, but I have never felt comfortable with anyone before. That’s why it surprises me that Nico—Mr. Tattoo—is the one to make me feel this way. “Well, spill it, girl. Who is he? Tell me everything!”

“His name is Nico, and he is gorgeous, funny, and sweet. He asked me out and I turned him down, but then the last two days, he’s been waiting for me by my car with ice cream when I got out of work.”

“But you turned him down?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re going out with him?”

“Well, tomorrow he’s coming over for dinner,” I clarify.

“Holy shit,” she whispers, knowing how big this is for me.

“I know,” I whisper back, smiling.

“Girl, I’m so happy for you. Even if things don’t work out with him, I’m glad you’re at least going to get out of that bubble you’ve placed yourself in and try to live a little.”

“Well, I don’t even know what I’m doing, and I doubt he will stick around for long after he realizes I’m a crazy, but I want to see what happens,” I tell her, meaning it from the bottom of my soul.

“You’re not crazy, Sophie. You had a traumatic experience. You just need to realize you’re not broken and that the past has made you a stronger person. I love you, and Devon loves you. You deserve to be happy.”

“I’m happy,” I say, feeling a little defensive.

“I know you think you’re happy, honey, but you’ve been locking yourself up for way too long. Living a life in solitude is not happiness.”

“I’ve gotten better,” I whine.

“You have. I agree,” she concedes.

“I just need time,” I add quietly.

“You’ve had plenty of time, girl,” she says, sounding frustrated.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask exasperatedly.

“I want you to talk to someone about what happened.”

“I talk to you.”

“I know you’ve told me everything, but this is something I can’t help you with. You need to talk to someone who deals with this kind of thing,” she says gently.

“Maybe I shouldn’t go out with him until I figure things out for myself,” I say, my stomach pitching. The feeling surprises me, making me realize I how much I do want to see him again.

“Do not use your past as an excuse to not live your life. This guy is the first one you have been interested in. To me, that says it all. Date him and see what happens. Maybe you can open up to him about your past, but while you’re doing that, find a professional to talk to as well.”

“I know you’re right, but I’m afraid,” I admit.

“Which tells me you’re still living in that moment. Honey, that was years ago. Yes, it was a horrible thing that happened to you, but luckily it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.”

Her words make me shudder, but I know she’s right. I think my mom’s death and the events that happened after I lost her are still plaguing me. It’s hard to get close to people when you realize how quickly they can be taken away.

“I know it could have been a lot worse, and I need to start living again… I just don’t know how.”

“One day at a time. Every day, push yourself to do something you’re afraid of. And find a group or a counselor to talk to!” She practically yells the last part.

“I’ll try,” I promise.

“Don’t try. Do.”

“Okay.” I sigh.

“So, are you still coming home for your fitting?” she asks, changing the subject.

“Yes.” I smile. “And my dress better not be ugly.”

“Girl, you should know by now your dress is going to be hideous. I do not want you to outshine me at my own wedding.”

“Like that could ever happen.” I laugh.

Maggie is one of the most beautiful people I know. Her long, lean body with skin the color of dark chocolate makes her honey-colored eyes pop; that, along with her long reddish-brown hair she has kept in thin dreadlocks since she was little, makes her even more exotic-looking.

“Oh please, girl. You know you’re hot,” she says, growling the end.

“I love you,” I tell her, feeling tears sting my eyes.

“You know I love you too, girl. Okay, enough of this mushy shit. Tomorrow, when this guy leaves, I expect you to call me and tell me every detail.”

“Promise. Talk to you then,” I say, listening to her goodbye before hanging up.

I close my eyes and then open them up, looking at the ceiling feeling a sense of hope when I say aloud to myself, “Don’t try. Do.”

Chapter 3

Nico

I pull up in front of Sophie’s house and look around the neighborhood. It’s a quiet area where the people—mostly middle class—who work in downtown Nashville live. I pick up the flowers I bought for her off the passenger’s seat and make my way up to her front porch, noticing the flowers that line the walkway and the hanging plants along the front of her house. I stretch my neck before knocking once. I can hear music playing on the other side of the door and then some kind of banging. After a few seconds, I hear a couple of locks turn. Then the door is opened and Sophie is standing there. Her hair is up on top of her head, her cheeks are flushed, and my eyes travel down her body to see that she’s wearing a plain black tank top and jeans with bare feet, her toes painted a deep purple.

“Hi,” she says softly, and my eyes leisurely come back up her body to meet hers.

“Hey,” I greet as she opens the door farther, stepping back for me to enter.

“Did you find it okay?” she asks.

My brain takes a second to process her words; I’m still stuck on her bare feet and how sexy she looks dressed in jeans. “Yeah. I don’t live far from here.” I watch as her eyes look me over, and I see nervousness, but also hunger. We both stand there staring at each other, but then her eyes travel down to my hand and get humorously big. “These are for you.” I lift my hand, righting the flowers and awkwardly holding them out to her.

“Oh, wow. Thank you,” she says breathily, taking the flowers from my hand and bringing them to her face to smell them. After a few moments of just watching her appreciate my simple gift, my dick is already trying to inch closer to her through the roughness of my jeans. She seems to shake herself and tells me, “Um…dinner is cooking. I hope you don’t mind pasta.”

“It smells great,” I say, breathing in through my nose, the smell of garlic and freshly baked bread assaulting me.

“I didn’t even think to ask you if you could eat carbs.”

“What?” I ask, confused.

“Well, you’re all muscles. I know that a lot of weight trainers don’t eat pasta,” she says matter-of-factly.

“I’m not a weight trainer,” I tell her, laughing.

“You’re not?”

“No. I work out because my job requires me to stay in shape, but I eat whatever the hell I want.”

“Okay, good.” She smiles.

Once again, we’re both just standing here watching each other. I run a hand through my hair and laugh when I see her eyes drop to my waist. She jumps, her head flying up. “Um…I-I’m just going to put these in some water. Do you want a beer or something?” she rushes out.

“Sure,” I say, taking a quick look around her house.

It’s small, maybe two bedrooms, and the living room is comfortably snug, with a TV, a small loveseat, and a matching chair. I follow her into the kitchen, my eyes watching her h*ps and ass as she walks. The kitchen is a decent size, with a small dining area attached.

I study her as she pulls a chair from the table, carrying it over to the fridge. “What are you doing?” I ask, seeing the unstable chair wobble as she begins to climb up on top of it.

“My vases are up here,” she says distractedly as she tries to keep her balance on the chair. I walk over to her and pick her up with my hands around her waist. “What are you doing?!” she screeches, her fingers digging into my arms.

“Saving you from breaking your neck,” I tell her, setting her down and squeezing her waist once before placing my hand on her belly to push her back a step. I move the chair out of the way and open the cupboard. “Which one do you want?” I look down at her.

“You just picked me up,” she mumbles almost to herself.

“Yes, so you wouldn’t accidentally off yourself.”

“You just picked me up like I weighed nothing,” she says in disbelief.

“You don’t weigh much,” I inform her. “So, which one do you want?” I repeat my question, watching her face.

“It doesn’t matter,” she replies, and I pull down the first one I touch. “Not that one,” she says, so I put it back in the cupboard and grab another. “Not that one either,” she states, making me smile.

“Babe, this will go a lot faster if you just tell me which one you want.”

“The tall, clear pink one,” she answers then bites her lip, and I know she just changed her mind again.

“You sure?” I ask teasingly.

She shakes her head. “The blue one.”

“You sure?” My hand hovering over the blue vase.

“I’m sure.” She nods.

I pull it down halfway and she reaches up, taking it from me. I close the cupboard and put the chair back.

“The beer is in the fridge. There is also tea, juice, and pop. Just help yourself,” she says, picking up the flowers from the counter.

I grab a beer and lean against the counter to watch her as she measures the flowers, pulls a knife out of the butcher block, lays the flowers over the sink, and then starts to saw the ends off. It takes everything in me not to snatch it away from her and do it myself to make sure she doesn’t cut herself. Once she’s done, she fills the vase with water from the sink’s faucet, drops the flowers in and arranges them, and then sets the bouquet on her table. When she turns around, she jumps like she’s startled.