Page 82 of The Americana Playbook

I let out a trembling breath. “I just don’t think anyone’s ever said that before”—I lift my eyes to his before I finish my thought—“about me.”

“Said what about you?”

“That I matter.”

The admission, I realize, sours the mood. It scratches the surface of the truth that I’m too shattered, too embarrassed to ever even speak out loud. That I only matter to people when I serve a purpose to them, when I fit their mold. It’s sad. It’s exhausting. Conditional love is like strangulation you want terribly to break out of but can’t because something has to be better than nothing. Someone, no matter how they treat you, has to be better than no one. But I know now that’s not true. Because if people only love you at your best, they don’t really love you at all.

Tilting my head forward, I let my hair curtain my face so I can clear the tears that have gathered.

“You matter to me,” Fitz whispers. “You always have.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Hey.” Fitz’s warm, thick finger tips my face up. “Can I remind you where you always mattered?”

“They put up a gate?”I ask as Fitz slows, pulling over to the side of the road. “Awall?”

“Looks like it.” Fitz turns off the engine. “My mom sold her place not long after I left for college.”

My mouth falls into a pout. There was so much charm to the front of the house, to the quaint yard lined with shrubs. It was a joy to just drive past. With this cinderblock border, it’s unapproachable.

Unrelatable, I think to myself. I guess it’s more Montgomery now than ever.

I open the car door and walk up to the iron gate, peeking through. The pebbles of the driveway are gone. The dark pavement flows seamlessly into the street the driveway intersects. From what I can see, flower boxes no longer flank the front windows. But this view isn’t enough.

Eyeing the gate, I sidestep, reaching out to touch the concrete wall that stands higher than me. Fitz sighs. He probably knows where this is going.

That’s confirmed when he comes behind me, gripping my waist.

“Ready?” His breath tickles my ear. For a second, I matter more than enough. Because even though he’s got a firm hold on me, there’s a delicate lace to his touch, to the way he stands around me. Maybe I don’t need to see the house. After all, I’ll never have it. In my mind, I’ve already given it up.

“Parker?”

But I’m no chicken.

I nod and Fitz lifts me so I can grab the top of the wall. This one is easier than the fence at school. But maybe that’s because Fitz doesn’t stop supporting me until I’m sitting on the top.

I hold out a hand for him.

“I’ll pull you over if I grab onto you. Just give me a second.”

“Aren’t you a professional athlete?”

“Do you know how much climbing is involved in football? Zippo.”

“Ma’am.”

My eyes sweep from Fitz, who now hangs from the wall, to the SUV, where Agent Samuels. “This is private property.”

“Call the police then,” I say as if I care before turning my attention back to Fitz. In another time and another place, he might mumble my name under his breath, a quiet, boy scout’s warning to not challenge authority. But now? He surprises me again. I don’t have to tell FitzLet’s gobecause he’s already on his way up. When he reaches the top, I drop down.

And the moment my feet touch the ground, regret inches up my body as if poison was planted in the soil I’ve now rooted myself on.

With the house in full view, I can’t help but choke over the urge to flee.

From the house.

From my family.

---