Page 79 of For Her Own Good

“Would you stop it already? I know Scotsmen are supposed to be stubborn, but this is ridiculous. You can talk about your feelings or you can get out of here, Lowry Harrison Campbell. Up to you.”

When faced with an ultimatum like that—I can’t deny there’s a shred of me that’s tempted to walk out so I don’t have to do this. But I’d so much rather be anywhere doing anything with Starla than be anywhere doing anything without her that it’s only a momentary folly.

“You drive a hard bargain, lass, but okay.”

She tips her head and nods in decisive satisfaction of getting her way. Someday when things aren’t so fraught, I’d like to get her to stomp her wee foot in frustration. Not today.

“Sit,” she commands as she shoves me toward the couch.

Weary and resigned, I do. She’s still on her feet, hands on her hips.

“Where would you like me to sit? We’re not fooling around but…”

Her gaze flicks to my lap, and yes. That is something I want too. Not for sex at the moment, but for comfort. I pat my thigh and her shoulders drop before she climbs on to me, settling herself in the cradle of my body. The feel of her weight, the scent of her skin and her hair, the way she leans against me and strokes the stubble that’s grown overmuch at my jaw. Went to the gym and worked out, hoping to sweat out some of the angst, and went through the motion of showering, but didn’t clean up my facial hair.

It’s a comfort to have her in my lap, to be able to wind my arms around her body—the warm and very much alive flesh of her, which is the thought that tightens my throat. If I had lost her, if she hadn’t survived me leaving, what would I have done? I never would’ve been able to forgive myself.

Thinking about it makes my chest hurt and my arms tighten reflexively around her. As though holding her is going to make her immune to the disease that whispers awful things to her, as though my will is strong enough to overpower the demons that haunt her, who might be strong enough to drag her away from me and into the darkness she’s only ever given me glimpses of, but that I know is constantly nipping at her heels, beating at the firmly shut door of her sanity.

My breath is ragged when I inhale and I fairly crush her to me because I’ve allowed myself to think the unthinkable. It haunted me for months after I moved to Chicago. It was years before I stopped waking up in cold sweats having dreams about her and now it’s all coming back. Grief, yes, for what’s happened in the present, but also those years of crushing worry fall on me and tears press at my eyes as my sinuses burn. I cannot, absolutely cannot, put this on her.

But if I don’t let it out, where’s it all going to go? My hands are starting to shake already. I have the ridiculous notion that I might be able to get away with this if I splash some water on my face.

“Darling, if you’ll excuse me for a moment…”

Starla looks at me in a considering way and then declares, “No. You said you would have feelings and I’m going to hold you to that.”

“Yes, well.” My jaw tightens and flexes because weeping in front of her is not precisely what I signed up for and my feelings are trending toward frustration and embarrassment. “It’s not precisely a turn-on to see your daddy cry, now, is it? I don’t know if I can stop it, and I’d really rather not in front of you, because…because…”

“Did you think any less of me all the times you’ve seen me cry?”

“No, of course not. But it’s different for men.”

“Which is foolish. You can take your toxic masculinity and shove it. I have no use for it.”

She says it so kindly and in such a straightforward way. She may as well have said, “Lowry, don’t be a numpty. Cry, for fuck’s sake, if you need to.”

It’s been half a lifetime since I did. I’ve forgotten the sweet relief of letting the moisture that’s been stinging and burning at the corners of my eyes spill over. The tears are hot and wet, cooling rapidly as they roll down my cheeks. It’s such a foreign sensation and I…I don’t know what to do with them. Not swipe at them with my sleeve. Starla solves my dilemma by kissing them away, her soft lips pressing against my cheeks and her kitten tongue darting out to sweep the salty moisture into her mouth.

“I’m so sorry you’re hurting.”

Clearing my throat so my voice doesn’t crack, I say, “And I’m sorry I brought this to your doorstep. I didn’t mean to, and it’ll be over soon, I swear. I didn’t mean for you to see me like this, so I apologize.”

“Don’t you dare. I’m not sorry. I want you to come to me when you’re upset. It means you trust me. And that you think I’m strong enough to help you and not just the other way around. Don’t get me wrong. I love when you take care of me, when I get to be your little girl. But I can give you more than that and it means a lot that you’ll let me. Or at least let me try.”

“You being right here helps.” I give my heels a bounce and she lets out a surprised giggle, clings to me a smidge tighter and God, does that feel good.

“So, what is this about, really? Can you talk about it? I know if it’s one of your patients, it’s—”

“One of my patients died by suicide this morning.”

No use beating around the bush. There’s not a nice way to say it. Took his own life? Is that any better? Perhaps I should’ve tried harder to temper my language because Starla sucks in a breath.

“Oh, Lowry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I close my eyes and think of Tony. Of the pictures I’ve seen of his wife and his daughters. Beautiful family and now he’s torn it all to shreds. Or blown it up, same way he blew his brains out with a revolver at the desk in his home office. His wife found him. At least it wasn’t one of the girls.

“I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t help him. He didn’t trust me enough or believe in me enough to call me when he was thinking about it. How did I not see this coming? I thought we had a plan. I thought we’d made an agreement. I thought…”

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