Page 71 of Someone to Hold
“I’m sorry, Molly,” I say before I lose my nerve. “If you don’t want me here, I?—”
“What are you sorry for?” she asks, hopping toward the kitchen. I follow because, let’s face it, I’d follow her anywhere. The kitchen is easy.
“I’m sorry for that scene with my father. I should have known he wasn’t going to let me ignore him forever.”
She points a finger at me, then grabs a glass of rosé from the counter and takes a sip. “You’re sorry for the wrong thing.”
“Okay, then.” I massage a hand along the back of my neck. “I’m sorry for whatever else you need me to apologize for.”
“Not good enough.” Her delicate brows draw down over those green eyes as she glares at me.
I want to smile, because she’s so damn cute when she’s angry. And while she might look like she embodies the ferocity of a butterfly on its first day out of the cocoon, I know there’s more to her. More than most people give her credit for.
“You should be sorry for shutting me out,” she says over the rim of her wine glass. “For thinking you need to apologize for your father’s behavior when you have no control over it. Trust me, I’m an expert at wishing I could have controlled the behavior of other people.”
“I’m sorry for that, too.” I don’t close the distance between us even though I want to. But letting me in more than she already has might make her sorriest of all.
“Do you know what I’m sorry about?” she asks as she finishes the wine and places the glass on the counter.
I blink. “You don’t have a thing to be sorry about.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m sorry you believe you deserve how your father talked to you. Those things he said…” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry you’re so busy caring for everybody around you that you won’t let anybody close enough to return the favor.”
I bite down on my inner cheek when pain slices through me at her words. “I don’t need--”
“I know what you don’tthinkyou need,” she counters. “But everybody needs something, Chase. Even you.”
Oh, I need something, all right. I look away because her words are knocking down the walls I’ve built around myself one soft syllable at a time. And if I truly let her in, it might drag us both under.
“I need a shower,” I say instead of answering her.
Her lips twist. “You know where it is.”
“Thank you.” I pause, watching her, then add, “Molly, you have to know?—”
“Donotgive me another lame-ass apology,” she interrupts.
“Did you just call me lame?” I clap a hand to my chest like she’s wounded me.
“I called you a lame-ass,” she says with a smirk. “I think that’s worse than lame.”
I nod. “I’ve been called plenty of awful things in my life, most of them by my father at one time or another. Lame is a new one.” I offer a mock bow. “Well done, and I’ll be out of your way in a bit.”
She nods, but I don’t miss the disappointment that flashes in her eyes. I hate that for her. I hate that I’ve done that to her.
“You’re not like him,” she says as I walk away.
The words rumble through me like the sound of distant thunder. It doesn’t matter how many times she tells me, they aren’t words I can believe.
“He wasn’t always that way.” I turn back to her. “The awfulness was always inside him, but my parents had moments of happiness. Dancing in the kitchen or laughing and making jokes. He loved her. Probably still does. Or at least what he considers love in that fucked-up mind of his.”
“Sometimes that makes it harder,” she says softly.
The tension gripping me unfurls the tiniest bit because she’s cut right to the heart of the matter.
“Yeah,” I agree. “The good times gave me false hope that it could be different, that he would be different. It’s easier when you don’t hope for something better.”
She scrunches up her nose. “At least the bad stuff and hard times are consistent. You can create a little shell that protects you. But those good times, they break through and…”
