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Tap, tap, tap.

The tapping sound was making my brain turn to mush, so I let my heart bleed all over him. Screw it. “And…it’s just been hard. Being here. Relying on someone else’s family for everything because mine didn’t want me. It’s hard to live,” I confessed. “Living is really hard, Reed. School is hard. Trying to make friends is hard. Getting through each day with all these scars and bruises is so goddamn hard. I’ll be graduating in a few months and I have no direction in life. My grades are slipping. My dreams are dangling by a thin thread. Where will I go? How will I survive? And you…” Choking, I snapped my mouth shut before any catastrophic words dribbled out like water. “Everything is just…hard.”

He stopped swinging his feet.

But the sound still pounded in my ears, so I guessed it was my heart, after all.

I froze, regretting the depressing monologue instantly. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say all that.” I started furiously stirring the ground beef mixture as I fought back tears.

Reed dropped his chin to his chest, his jaw going tense as his fingers curled around the edge of the countertop, and he blew out a long breath. “Tell me more about your dreams,” he said softly.

I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. Sounds like you need someone to talk to.”

I wanted to talk to him, but that was a terrible idea.

Spending alone time with Reed while I ambushed him with my graveyard of ghosts and brittle bones, forced to stare at that look in his eyes that would haunt me till the end of time?

It sounded more like a death sentence; like I’d find myself buried six feet under in that graveyard when all was said and done.

Flipping off the stove, I transferred the mixture to a casserole dish. “I didn’t mean to lay all that on you. Like I said before, I’m not your responsibility.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

I faltered, the saucepan tipped sideways as the ingredients sloshed across ceramic. “Are we friends?”

“I don’t know.” He frowned, pondering the term. “I guess.”

Friends.

I was eighteen, and he was almost thirty-five.

Friendship was debatable, but I wasn’t opposed to the title. In a way, it gave me permission to talk to him, to spend time with him, without the nagging tug of guilt.

Nodding slowly, I added a layer of crushed tortilla chips to the meat and reached for the freshly grated cheese. “I’ve been dabbling in photography at school,” I finally told him. “Our principal has a pet rabbit in his office. Nibbles. She’s a friendly lop-eared rabbit, a little overweight and extra squishy.” A smile crested as I thought about Nibbles and the feel of her soft sooty-gray fur. “When I was a little girl there was an injured bunny that found its way into our yard. It was bleeding, and all I wanted to do was take care of it.”

Reed listened, his gaze intense as he watched me layer the casserole while I unlayered myself. “Did you?”

My heart squeezed with residual heartbreak as I recalled the smell of cooked rabbit that night. A cruel message from Father. “I tried,” I said, pressing a palm to my chest to curb the pressure. “My father found me tending to the bunny with blood all over his precious garage floor. He whipped me with his belt ten times. And then he made dinner out of it.”

“Jesus.” Reed’s face hardened, a contrast to the soothing, heart-mending look in his eyes. He lowered himself from the counter and moved in beside me, lifting his hand for a split second before second-guessing whatever comfort he was about to provide. He just stood there, his shoulder brushing mine, and it was enough. “I’m sorry, Halley.”

The way he said my name had the power to piece all my broken bits back together, but I tried not to show it. “Anyway,” I continued, spreading sour cream with a spoon and topping the casserole with a final layering of cheese. “I’ve been taking pictures of Nibbles to add to the school newspaper. Our principal is really nice and lets me take her out of the cage during lunch. It would be cool to do something like that for a living one day.” I shrugged and pulled open the oven door. “But I know better than to believe something like that is actually attainable.”

“It’ll happen,” he said.

“Doubtful.”

“It will. You have a fire inside of you. You just need to find the spark to ignite it.”

I let out a self-deprecating sigh and placed the casserole on the rack. When I popped the door closed, I swiveled to face him and discovered that the look in his eyes had lightened even more, morphing into something almost playful. “What?”

“We can make a bet.”

I huffed. “No.”

“Rock, paper, scissors. If I win, you’re going to chase your dreams—wings spread, eyes on the sky, no looking back. If you win…” His face fell. “Then I guess you’re right.”

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