Page 176 of Broken Pieces
He studies me for a long time, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Sometimes it’s hard to get out,” he says, almost to himself.
“I’ll get out.”
Rainer’s stare doesn’t waver. “Better be for real. You’ve got more to lose now. Do you love her?” he asks.
I hesitate because standing here talking about this leaves me too exposed.
Rainer’s eyes narrow. “It’s not a trick question, Zane.”
I swallow, the lump in my throat, it’s almost painful. “Yeah. I do.”
He doesn’t speak; he waits, with that steady silence that always pulls more out of me than I mean to give.
“I can’t imagine my life without her,” I say, voice low. The truth scrapes out of me like gravel. “She’s the only thing that makes any sense in all of this.”
He nods. “Then give it up for her,” he says. “She deserves better than this. Better than some guy who keeps choosing pain over peace.”
I know he’s right.
I look down at my hands. Scabbed. Bruised. Torn across the knuckles where skin split open hours ago.
They’re the hands that were built to destroy, not to hold something soft. Skylar deserves hands that don’t carry blood beneath the nails or tremble with anger they can’t bury. She deserves something clean. Something I’ve never been.
“Yeah,” I say, voice low. “She does.”
Rainer lets out a slow breath, something that sounds a lot like relief. “Then make it right.”
“I’ll make it right.”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He studies me, his eyes running over everything I try to hide.
“You will,” he says finally, putting his hand on my shoulder, before walking away.
I stare down at my hands again, flexing them until the knuckles ache.
They’ve only ever known how to fight, but maybe, if I try hard enough, they can learn how to hold on.
Chapter Thirty-One
Skylar
Irunmyfingersthroughmy hair, trying to fix it in the smeared, grimy window of Lou’s Diner.
It’s barely ten, but the air already reeks of burned grease, stale bacon, and broken fucking dreams.
A flickering “Help Wanted” sign hums in the corner, buzzing like it’s half a second from giving up on life.
Still, it’s a job. And I need it.
If Zane’s out there breaking himself to make money, then I need to step the fuck up. If he’s fighting to keep us afloat, the least I can do is stop watching him bleed for it.
“One small step for minimum wage,” Cassie mutters, pushing the door open with her hip. “One giant leap for future grease fires and deep-fried dignity.”
I shoot her a look. “You promised you’d be supportive.”
“I am,” she says, all sugar-sweet and full of shit. She leans against the counter like she’s posing for some fuck-you fashion campaign, all legs and attitude. “But I’m also not gonna lie toyou. You’re gonna smell like onions and regret for the rest of your life.”
“You’re such a bitch.”
