“No, you don’t. You hate cowardly. They’re not the same.”
That stopped me.
He was right.
I hated when he was right.
He leaned back.
“You are in the middle of treatment. You were abandoned. You are vulnerable. I was hired—”
“You refused payment.”
“Still. I entered your life under strange circumstances.”
“Strange is one word.”
“I don’t want to become another man who takes advantage of your fear.”
I stared at him.
Then looked away because tears came too fast.
“That is the most Owen answer imaginable.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. You’re not.”
“No, I’m not.”
We sat in silence.
The rain tapped the porch roof.
Finally, I said, “What if I don’t want to be protected from every beautiful thing just because I might get hurt?”
His eyes closed.
I continued.
“What if I die anyway? Do I only get doctors and soup and responsible boundaries?”
His jaw tightened.
“No.”
“What if I live? Do we pretend this was only support?”
“No.”
“Then what are we doing?”
He looked at me.
For the first time since the altar, he looked scared.
Truly scared.
“I’m staying,” he said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I trust.”
read more in next page
