Page 155 of Unexpected Heroine

My chest loosens a bit, and I’m unsure why. Because she was nice to me? I’ve never cared about that before.

Nah. It’s probably knowing she’s safer that has me breathing incrementally better.

Sawyer clears his throat, drawing my attention away from the door. I look at him, lifting my chin and letting my face go slack.

“What?” I ask when the silence stretches too long.

“You okay, bud? I’ve been worried about you. In fact, I was gonna give you a call after dinner.”

There’s no jest in his tone. No accents or impressions. No punchline waiting in the wings. His face is replete with what appears to be genuine concern. Like someone who cares about me.

Like a friend.

But I don’t have any of those.

“Yep. I’m good.”

If being completely dead inside is good.

“We were getting ready to eat. Can you change your plans for tonight and stick around for a bit?”

“No. I have shit to handle.”

He narrows his eyes, blatantly scrutinizing me. “How’s your girl?”

Not my girl anymore. Not that she ever was.

“Fine.”

As of five minutes ago, when I last checked the cameras at her apartment, she was sitting on the couch looking catatonic. So, you know. She’s peachy fucking keen.

His face pinches, and he sweeps his gaze over his shoulder to where Sammy was standing. “If she needs someone to talk to, Sammy would be happy to spend some time with her. Woman to woman. Survivor to survivor.”

“I’ll let her know,” I answer flatly.

Just as soon as she decides to speak to me again, which will be never.

“And if you need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

My neck tightens, pitching my head back. “About what?”

Not trying to be a shit. I honestly have no fucking idea what he thinks I’d need to discuss with him.

He shrugs, bringing one hand up to squeeze the back of his neck. “I’ve been there. Not quite the same, but close.”

Moving on their own accord, my eyes dart around the room as if they’re trying to find a fuck to give for this conversation or the sense he thinks he’s making.

Nada. No fucks. No sense.

“Sawyer, I don’t need to?—”

He cuts me off, popping my chest with the back of his hand. “Easy, man. It’s okay to ask for help. To have questions. Or just need someone to talk to. Someone who’s sort of been in your shoes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know you’re not this fucking dense, man.” He scoffs, wobbling his head with annoyance. Lowering his voice, he explains, “I’m the only man Sammy’s been with since her abuse.”

My mind continues searching for the meaning, replaying his sentence.

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