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He doesn’t share the most infuriating part of the event, though—that in all likelihood, the fact his mother was a minority meant the attackers were never caught, or that the police dragged their feet on ensuring justice was served. To them, she was just a statistic. Another casualty of a gang war.
Percy silently hovers in the bathroom doorway for a moment while I cradle a sobbing Lance against my chest. He reads my stricken expression and silently leaves the room. He knows one angle of the story already, but I doubt he knew how deeply the wound still festered in our boy. I imagine he regrets pressuring him about it earlier. But sometimes healing can’t truly begin until the wounds are bared to the light, and all of us have done our share of that this week.
I hold him until his breathing evens and he’s worked his way through my box of tissues. He finally looks around and frowns.
“Where’s Percy?”
“He left to give us privacy. You can always talk to both of us, you know. Everything we share with each other stays between us, I promise.”
“I’m kind of annoyed he left, actually. He’s the one who wanted me to talk.”
“I doubt it was curiosity that made him press. Misery just loves company. Don’t feel like you need to repeat the story for him.”
He sighs and shakes his head. “I’ve talked about it enough. This is the first time I’ve, um…” He gives me a sheepish look and rakes a hand through his hair. I offer a comforting smile. “It’s never been easy to open up about it. You make it easier.”
“Do you think the fact that Percy shared his story helped too?”
“Yeah. Do you mind if I go find him? I think I owe him an apology or something.”
“You don’t, but go ahead. His room is downstairs. I need to hop in the shower and wash off this sticky cheesecake residue.”
He grins. “That was fun.”
He slides off the bed, and I rise to head to the bathroom.
“Gwen, wait.”
Before I make it to the door, he grabs my hand and pulls me to him. His expression has gone serious, his eyes searching mine.
“What is it?”
“Is this… is this real? I mean, I’m not just some fun diversion, am I?”
My heart skips a beat at how earnest he looks. I face him and place my hands on his shoulders.
“You are so many things, but a diversion is not one of them. I want more nights like tonight with you and Percy. Maybe less emotionally fraught, but tonight has meant everything to me. And I don’t want to speak for Percy, but I suspect he feels the same.”
ChapterTwenty-One
Percy
I’m too emotionally raw to settle down after everything that happened tonight. After showering again, I slip into the kitchen and find the bottle of good whiskey Gwen keeps hidden behind the breakfast cereal. Tea would probably be safer, but I need to dull this feeling a little so I can process it.
Admitting the truth used to be harder for me, but after years of therapy, it’s become a bit of a painful habit, like poking a wound just to feel something.
The truth is I’m scared. Terrified of how quickly things have changed this week. Of how little control I have over the trajectory of events. But what terrifies me most is how much I want to surrender to Gwen’s desires, and how vulnerable that makes me.
Vulnerable to hurt, sure, but I’ve been hurt. I can deal with pain. What I’m most scared of is the crazy part. I’m scared of falling in a way I’ve never fallen before. Because love opens you up to more potential hurt than anything else, and that’s the kind of pain that could break me.
A door opening upstairs sends a shiver of awareness down my spine, then footsteps head toward the stairs—Lance’s, not Gwen’s, based on the cadence and heaviness of the steps.
Since living here I’ve become so attuned to her habits, her sounds, that I wake up in the middle of the night if she wakes up to pee. I usually lie awake, staring at the ceiling until I hear her flush and crawl back into bed again. She’s been my entire world for months, but until this past week, it was just a job I got paid for.
Now it’s so much more. Now there’s another person whose well-being is tangled up with hers, and whose happiness is becoming just as big a priority.
I stand and retrieve a second glass from the cabinet, then sit on my barstool again and pour a measure of whiskey into it. When Lance appears in the arch of the kitchen clad in nothing but the jeans he wore earlier, I push the glass toward him.
“We need to talk,” I say.
