I swing my gym bag behind me and wrap my arms around her waist. “Sucked. I just wanted to be back in bed with you.”

“So you missed me, huh?”

“Always.”

She jerks her head toward the mailboxes. “Are you going to you check your mail today?”

“What?”

“There might be a surprise...you know...other than bills or credit card applications.”

I spin on my heels and move toward the boxes. Over my shoulder I say, “How did you get into my mailbox?”

She follows, standing next to me as I turn the key. “Frank,” she says.

“Frank?”

“The maintenance guy. Jeez, Ky. You don’t know the maintenance guy?”

I shake my head and then open the box.

A single pink rose.

“Debbie said it was the color for thankfulness.”

I pull out the flower and pretend to examine it, but my mind’s reeling. “When did you see Debbie?”

“This morning, while you were at the gym.”

I glance up at her. “You went out on your own?”

“Yup!” She nods proudly.

“By yourself?”

Another nod.

“And your anxiety?”

“Not so bad.” She shrugs. “It was worth it. I just wanted to find a way to show you how I felt about you.”

“You’re thankful?”

“For you, Ky. Yes. I’m thankful.”

***

Slumping down on the couch, I start to unwrap the tape from around my fingers. Morning sessions at the gym focus on Martial Arts. Gunner and I spent most of the time sparring in the cage while he taught me different moves; defense and offense. Gunner knows a hell of a lot more about skilled martial arts. Me? I just kind of punch things. So far, that had been enough. But if I want to get DeLuca, I need time. Which means that I need to make it through my first fight. So, I need the training. And that means I need Gunner. Still, knowing how to fight in the ring doesn’t save me from a fucking bullet through my head.

I need to start carrying.

“I’ll do it, babe,” she says, pulling me from my thoughts. She sits next to me and covers my hands with hers. Then she carefully flips my hand, palm up. Her brow bunches as she inspects it. “Does it hurt?”

“No. It’s not injury tape,” I say. “It’s just precautionary.”

Her jaw works as she slowly removes the tape from each finger. I sigh, unable to remember the last time someone’s held my hand—has been this gentle with me.

I kiss the top of her head, breathing her in.

“What was that for?” she asks, lifting her gaze.

“It just feels good to be cared for, you know?”

She quickly looks away and refocuses on my other hand. “Yeah. I do know.”

After she watches me shower, we head back out.

We go to the dollar store and get her another frame. Then we end up having lunch at a random diner Debbie told her about this morning. When I ask for the bill, the waitress tells me that it’s taken care of and sets a note on the table in front of me. I manage to read it quickly before Madison reaches over and pulls it from under my nose. “Thank you for your service,” she reads out loud.

Looking down at myself, I try to work out how someone would know. I kick myself for not realizing I’m wearing my Army PT shirt. Sighing, I hide my dog tags behind my shirt and look up at the waitress. “Who did this?”

The waitress just shrugs. “They wanted to remain anonymous, but they’ve already left.”

“Thanks.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Thank you.”

***

I’m quiet on the way home, and so is Maddy. I know she wants to say something because she starts a few times, only to stop and drop her gaze. I hold on to her hand tighter so she understands that I’m not upset at her.

I’m just upset.

Once we’re in her apartment, she orders me to sit on the floor in front of the couch. She sits behind me; her legs wrapped around my torso and her hands massaging my shoulders. I stretch my neck, welcoming her touch. “I needed this,” I tell her. My body was starting to feel the effects the rigorous training and the lack of actual rest. When I’m not at the gym, I’m with her—which means a lot of walking. The only time I get to sit down is during meals and, clearly, that isn’t enough.

“You seemed tense,” she says, digging her thumb under my shoulder blade. “Does it happen often?”

“What?”

“People praising you like that.”

“First time for me,” I tell her. “But I’ve heard stories about it.”

“And you don’t like it?”

I moan when her thumb finds a knot in the middle of my back. “I don’t deserve it,” I manage to say.

“You can’t say that—”

“Yeah, I can,” I cut in, leaning forward until her hands can’t reach me anymore.

“Why can’t you accept someone’s gratitude?”

I sit on the couch and pat my lap. She understands what I want. She crawls on her knees until she’s sitting on me, straddling my waist. She cups my face, kisses me once, and then pulls back, leaving her hands there. “What is it, babe?”

I push my head further into her hands.

And then I tell her.

I tell her everything.

KY

Age 17

It had been a week exactly since Jeff died, and a few days since the funeral...also the day I found out my ex-girlfriend was a whore. And I was so fucking sick of feeling. Seventeen years—hundreds of beatings—and I’d never felt as low as I did then. I wanted the pain of a thousand knives effortlessly stabbing my heart to stop. Just for one night. Hell, even for a few hours. So I did something I thought I’d never do.