Page 95 of Renegade Ruin

He agreed, much to my dismay.

Not that I could blame him. He had no reason to come over. Still, selfishly, I wish he would have insisted.

After the fight we had yesterday, I’m not sure where we stand, and I hate being on unsolid ground. Especially with him.

I screwed up by aiming to keep the interview from him, but I really thought I could fix it.I still think I can. There isn’t any reason why he should have to get in front of the press if he doesn’t want to.

But that isn’t the point.

Over the last week, Bishop and I have found ourselves in new territory, skating somewhere between fuck buddies and something more—friendly? Lovers isn’t the right word. Still, friends doesn’t seem like enough.

I told him he was mine, and I meant it. If that doesn’t say more, I’m not sure what does.

Maybe we’re an ass-backward version of fuck buddies with benefits—the friendly part being the benefit. But damn if it isn’t a benefit I want.

I sip my coffee and shake my head to myself. If that’s the case, I’m hands down a shitty friend because it didn’t cross my mind to ask him for help with this.

Bishop has given me his trust, and I’ve done what I always do—fix things. I listen to him. Distract him. Protect him. Even if doing so breaks my own heart. It’s the curse of giving a shit.

No one tells you that, when you give a shit about others, it becomes second nature to keep them at a distance. It becomes second nature to hide behind their problems and push your own deeper.

My therapist would tell me it’s a coping mechanism, but for me it’s surviving.

Most of the time, I don’t even realize I’m doing it. I will give and give to those around me. I’ll even allow them a glimpse at the things that break me. But I don’t ever fully let them in enough to see me fall apart.

Bishop is a special case.

I accidentally let him in once. He didn’t ask to witness me sink into panic and lose it on that balcony in New York, but when he did, he brought me back and pushed me to be more. Then I left, shoving him away like I do with everyone when they get too close. I never could have predicted our world would implode as it did. And now to let him in—let him help me again—feels more intimate than I'm ready for while still managing to protect myself.

Because that’s what I’m doing with Bishop. Constantly trying to stop the traitorous organ in my chest from demanding more than either of us can give.

Not that it matters this time. I hurt him.

And now I might lose him.

Lana pads into the kitchen, pulling me from my thoughts. She eyes the box of donuts with a knowing smile. “Your uncle sent over an apology breakfast?”

Phoebe bounces in her seat beside me, and I preen, knowing my plan has lifted her mood.

“Yup!” Phoebe pops the p at the end before taking a giant bite of a frosted pink donut with Fruit Loops sprinkled on top. “Willow is going to take me to the field early to watch batting practice.”

“That’s a great idea,” Lana says, snatching a glazed donut covered in Oreo crumbs before turning toward me. “If it’s okay with you, Willow, I’ll meet you guys at the field closer to the game. I’ve got a few calls I need to make, and honestly, I’d love to take a nap.”

Phoebe’s brow furrows in the most adorable way. “You just woke up, Nana. You don’t need a nap.”

Lana chuckles and ruffles her granddaughter's hair. “When you get to be my age, there are no time restrictions on naps.”

Phoebe gives her a skeptical head tilt, making Lana and me laugh.

“Of course,” I say, reaching for the carafe of coffee in the middle of the island. Pouring Lana a mug, I then top off my own. “It’s not a problem at all. I’ll give you the number for my driver. He’ll pick you up whenever you're ready. And if you want to spend the afternoon by the pool, that's okay too. I’ve got Phoebe.”

“Really?” Lana’s eyes widen, exhaustion evident in the soft purple circles beneath them. She places her hand on top of my forearm like I’m offering her the lifeline of all lifelines. “Are you sure?”

I nod. There’s no way I’m allowing Lana to go to the stadium today. This saint of a woman has taken on the role of both parents for Phoebe since the crash, and even though I don’t doubt she’d do it over and over again for her granddaughter, she didn’t ask for the level of exhaustion that comes with taking care of a nine-year-old. If anyone deserves a break, it’s her.

“I insist. Let me take Phoebe. You relax today.” I turn to Phoebe, who has a mustache of powdered sugar dusting her upper lip from the second donut she snagged when Lana and I weren’t looking.Laughing, I hand her a napkin. “We’ll have a girls’ day. I’ll even take you to pick out a jersey at the team store.”

“Really? Do you think they’ll still have my dad’s jersey?” Phoebe asks excitedly, wiping her mouth and hopping from the stool.

---