Page 139 of The One With the Mountain Man

She shook her head. "Nope. I had a good and proper meltdown when we found them in the mine shaft. Big, huge, ugly tears."

I was both relieved and pissed I wasn't there for that. "I'm sorry you went through that alone."

She leaned back, catching my gaze. "I wasn't alone. I was with Sharon. And when Scottie got out, he hugged me until I was done crying."

God damn, I owed that man. "I'm glad you weren't alone."

Her fingers traced shapes on the small of my back. "It was probably a panic attack or PTSD. It felt just like that day on the beach, waiting to hear if my friends were safe or hurt or worse."

I wanted to lock us in the bedroom and stay there forever. No fucking families, no triggering events, no bad things. None. "I want to hold you. All night. Is that all right?"

"Of course," she sighed. "That's all I want too."

We moved through a shortened bedtime ritual. Faces washed, teeth brushed, clothes lost. I held back the blankets while she slid into the bed, then I climbed in and curled myself around her.

She was warm and soft. I listened to every breath, every sigh as she settled. Marley was perfect from her wild hair to her perfect ass to her twitchy feet. Even when they were cold. I wanted to fall asleep like this every night and wake up next to her every morning. The mountains no longer called to me, not like they used to. The only siren I planned to follow for the rest of my life was right here.

"What did he want me to know?" she whispered into the night.

"Repeat that, darlin'." But I heard her. Knew what she meant. I'd been bracing for it all day.

"Your...George." She turned in my arms, looking up at me in the moonlight. "That man at the bar this morning. He gleefully wanted me to know some dark secret of yours. Tell me now. Let's get all the bad out now. Today is bad. Tomorrow doesn't have to be."

She deserved to know. She did. But I didn't have to like saying it. "The day I moved out of Lost Creek is also the day I almost killed my father."

I waited for her gasp, for her shock, but it never came. "Tell me about it."

The words fell out of my mouth after that. I explained in greater detail how my father singled me out for his anger. How he tried to hide it from everyone, but especially people in town. How I snapped when he informed me he'd be moving on to Karis when I left town.

"No," Marley finally whispered, her fingers over her mouth. "He would have broken her."

"I know. So, in that moment, I felt like I had to scare him badly enough that he wouldn't try. Wouldn't touch any of them. And I succeeded." I left my father with a punctured lung, a broken arm, two cracked ribs, and enough bruising to swell both his eyes shut.

I promised him that if he touched a hair on anyone else's head, I would finish the job and make sure no one ever found his body.

He told my mother he got into a bar fight. That's when I knew he'd heard and he understood.

"I left town that night and I've barely been back since." I held my breath. "Until you made it home again." I laid my heart bare because it was the only option. "Do you hate me?" I expected her to shrink away. To fall out of love with me.

I was a monster after all. I hated myself for stooping to his level, for repaying his violence with more violence. I was no better than him and if I truly loved Marley, I would let her go when she pulled away.

"Jackson," she whispered in that way only she could. It turned my name into something special, something I didn't deserve.

"I-I won't blame you for leaving. I understand."

"No."

The word made my ears ring.

"No, Jackson. I'm not leaving." Her fingers stroked my cheeks, my jaw. "I don't believe you're a violent person."

"I did those things, Marley, I did."

"Yes, you did." She confirmed that she understood what I told her. "We're all capable of doing unusual things when we're pressed into impossible situations. You were scared, you were hurt, and you spoke to that man in the only language he truly comprehends."

I felt sick. I didn't want Marley's understanding. I wanted her to convict me. To confirm what I already knew. I was guilty of being my father's son, and while I might live in a fantasy of my own making, a world in which I wasn't just like him, it didn't change reality.

"I write heroines that fight. They are strong and capable, and no matter what happens, they keep on fighting. But when Cristobal yanked me off the sidewalk and into the bushes, I didn't fight, Jackson. I cried. I couldn't control my body at all. My arms, my legs, nothing worked. So I cried. Do you know how much I hate myself for that?"

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