I blink away moisture and clear my throat. “So I went to the box under the bed—the dumb fuck stored the thing loaded. And I walked back to the living room and pointed it at him. It wasn’t heavy; my hands didn’t shake at all. But when I cocked it, the sound it made—it seemed so loud. He stopped, right away—froze. He knew exactly what that sound was. He turned around, slowly, and I kept it aimed right at his chest. I told him to go, to get away from us . . . or I would kill him. And I really fucking would have.”

At some point, Chelsea’s hand started rubbing soothing circles on my chest, my stomach, but I didn’t feel her touch until just now. It gives me the motivation I need to finish.

“I guess it’s true what they say about cowards. They only prey on easy targets, the ones who don’t fight back. Because he left and didn’t come back.”

For a moment, the only noise in the room is the sound of our breaths moving in time. Then Chelsea says with admiration, “That’s why you do what you do.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a defender. You defend people. Like you defended your mother . . . and Rory. You gave them a chance, to have a new start.”

My eyes squeeze shut. “Most people don’t see it that way, Chelsea.”

Her warm hand cups my jaw. “I see it that way.”

The look on her face is everything I want it to be. Gentle, adoring—like I’m the hero of the story. And god, I want to be fucking selfish. I want to roll us over, peel her clothes off, and eradicate any chance she’ll ever look at me any differently than she is at this moment.

I want to get to keep her.

But ugly truth always comes out eventually. And she deserves to hear it from me.

“Today I defended a man exactly like my father.”

Her stroking hand stutters. Stops.

“His wife . . . she’s stayed with him for thirty years—took everything he dished out—and she finally got the courage to leave. To tell him to go screw himself.” I pause, swallowing. “And I took that away from her.

“He hurts her—I know he does—and because of me, he’s going to keep on hurting her.” I look into her eyes, hoping that in them I’ll find an answer I can live with. “He’s a monster, Chelsea, and I defended him. What does that make me?”

Her heartbeat quickens, like a fluttering bird who’s only just realized it’s in a cage. She searches my face . . . searches for the words to say.

In that quietly confident voice she tries, “Jake . . . sometimes, in life, we have to make hard choices—”

I grip her arms, pulling her closer. “But that’s just it. If I was a good man, it wouldn’t be a hard choice. Sometimes . . . sometimes things are so right . . . they should be easy.”

Something inside me crumbles, under the weight of all the things I want. I want her—this fearless, stunning woman. And I want the kids. Those perfect, awful, amazing children—whom she loves with every inch of her soul. I want them to be mine. Mine to hold, mine to protect and teach. Their joy, their laughter, their love. I want to come home to it, bask in it, be the reason for it.

But even more than that, I want to deserve them.

To be worthy.

And all today did was point out the stark, cold fact . . . that I’m not.

“I shouldn’t even be here,” I tell her, my voice aching. “You deserve a man who knows what the right thing is, and who does it. I want . . . Christ, I want to be that for you.”

Wordlessly, Chelsea slides out of my grasp and moves higher up the bed, above me. So she can guide my head against her breast.

She’s soft and warm and smells so fucking good. She whispers to me, rubs my temple, the back of my neck, fingers sliding through my hair. And there is nowhere else in the entire world I would rather be.

“It’s okay, Jake. Go to sleep. Shhh . . . it’s okay.”

21

I think he’s dead.”

“He’s not dead—he’s still breathing.”

“Can you breathe if you’re dead?”

“No. Well, maybe. But you’d need a ventilator.”

Sniff, sniff.

“He smells like he’s dead.”

There’s pressure against my eyelid. And then it’s pried open—revealing Rosaleen’s blurry, peering face.

“Are you dead?” she yells.

Apparently she suspects I’m also deaf.

I reclaim my eye with a jerk of my head.

“Yes, I’m dead.” I roll onto my side, away from the voices. “Let me rest in peace.” Pounding doesn’t being to describe what’s going on in my head right now. It feels like sharp-clawed parasites have burrowed under my skull and are prying it open from the inside. My stomach churns, and although I haven’t puked from alcohol since I was twenty-two, today just might be the day it happens again.

“I could make you feel better, you know.”

That came from Raymond. I shift slowly to my back and crack open my eyes. The four of them—Raymond, Rory, Riley, and Rosaleen—gaze down at me, dressed in their school uniforms, with expressions of curious disgust. Mostly disgust.

“How?”

“Our mom was really into homeopathic cures and supplements. I could mix something for you.”

“Okay.”

And this is how desperate I am—listening to a fucking nine-year-old.

I use the walls for support as I make my way into the kitchen. Chelsea’s there—dressed in tight black leggings and a Berkeley T-shirt that makes her tits look fantastic. If only I felt well enough to show my appreciation properly.