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I should’ve said something about his abusive ex, or his mental breakdown, right?

Tried to find any words of encouragement, or . . . support?

Fucking hell, I don’t know.

I know I fucked up at least, making it all about me.

I pull out my phone, find his contact information, and tap the screen to message him, but can only stare at the blinking cursor when the keyboard pops up.

He doesn’t deserve a half-assed message where I will probably put my foot in it again.

No.

I’ll think about the right words tonight, and hopefully see him in the morning before he leaves for his weekend off.

I’ll make sure he knows I believe him, that he can come to me if⁠—

Why the fuck would anyone in Sunny’s position come to me?!

I’m a privileged jock with the emotional intelligence of a brick.

He deserves better.

12

SUNNY

I had to get out of there. It was getting too intense, too personal, too . . . honest.

The rawness of Tucker’s pain for his brothers was starting to blind me, unravel me.

I can’t let myself get any closer to Tucker than we already are.

Conversations after dinner have to be brief and emotionless from now on.

Stick to business.

Yup, that’s what I’ll do.

But I can’t.

None of the emotions that were brewing in that living room are professional—good or bad—and keeping it professional would involve an adult talk this morning.

Facing one of the most intense conversations I’ve ever had terrifies me. I know if I stay, I won’t be able to keep it professional, not only hours after I flayed myself open just a little then Tucker went ahead and spilled his guts for me to wade through.

So, like the coward I am, I run away at the dawn of the next day.

I know I won’t be able to escape another of Tucker’s apologies when I get back. Somehow, I can picture perfectly how he won’t let it go. He’ll hunt me down until he can say his piece if I keep running away.

But I need time and space, and probably some wine, to fortify myself enough to accept that apology and not do more than pat him on the shoulder when he looks at me with those earnest brown eyes.

June 12th

When I’m yet again standing on the sidewalk, looking up at the brownstone after a cab drives off, I feel somehow heavier and lighter than I did on Friday.

With two days of separation and an emergency session with Dr. Natalie under my belt, I do feel strong enough to face whatever is to come behind the front door.

It’s nine p.m., and the only communication I’ve had with Tucker since Friday night was his text message Saturday morning. I read it enough times that it’s burned into the back of my eyelids by now.