Don't Speak (A Modern Fairytale, #5)(100)

“I went to the hospital to find you, to comfort you,” he continued. “But you were so . . . I mean, did I do somethin’? Because one minute we were spendin’ the night together, and the next minute you hated me. Why?”

She took her time arranging the blanket before looking up at him. “I didn’t hate you.”

He flinched. “I don’t understand.”

“When . . .,” she started, but her voice broke. She cleared her throat, wetting her lips and pressing them together for a moment before continuing. “When I went home that morning—that morning after we were together—my father was waiting for me on the dock at our house. My sisters were there. My oldest sister, Issy, she’d come by the night before to check on me, and when I didn’t come home from work, she radioed my father. He came back early from crabbing, rousing the whole island to search for me.”

Her face was shattered as she shared her story, and Erik’s heart was gripped in a vise as he waited to hear how things played out. Even without hearing the words, he knew that they’d played out very, very badly.

She swallowed, staring at the fire as she continued. “I docked the boat, and my father followed me inside the house, yelling at me, demanding to know who I’d been with, where I was. I wouldn’t tell him. He was getting more and more upset, saying he’d hunt you down and force you to make it right.”

“Laire,” groaned Erik, leaning forward, wishing he could sit next to her but knowing it probably wouldn’t offer her any comfort.

“He was getting more and more upset. And then . . . then . . .”

Tears streamed down her face as she lifted her feet to the couch, clutching her knees to her chest.

“He had a heart attack,” finished Erik, all the pieces falling neatly into place. “He had a heart attack, and you blamed yourself for it.”

“And you!” she cried, raising her head to look at him, her face shattered. “We did that to him! We were careless and selfish. We caused it. You! And me! We almost killed my father!”

He winced at her words, letting them imbue the facts with her point of view. She hadn’t just blamed herself. She’d blamed him too. That’s why . . . that’s why . . .

“That’s why you pushed me away,” he murmured, staring into her eyes. “You held me responsible.”

“Yessss,” she sobbed. “And me. Both of us. We didn’t deserve to be happy when he was lyin’ there at death’s door!”

“Darlin’, it wasn’t—”

“Our fault? Yes, it was! There’s no way around it. I was out all night with you, and he had a heart attack as a result. Those are the facts.”

“Laire,” he whispered, sitting on the edge of his seat. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

“I thought he was going to die,” said Laire. “He was in a coma for two weeks. At one point, right before you came to see me, I told God I’d give you up. I’d give up what I loved most if He would spare my father’s life.”

“So you did,” said Erik, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Instead of talkin’ to me or lettin’ me comfort you, you gave me up. You pushed me away.”

“My father was dying and we caused it,” she said. “I didn’t deserve any comfort, Erik . . . especially not from you.”

Her words were harsh, and he reeled from them, sitting back in his seat, though he still stared at her, unable to peel his eyes away. He remembered, easily, the awestruck way she’d spoken of her father that summer, how desperately she’d tried to conceal their relationship from him. She’d lost her beloved mother and had only her father. Erik knew the profound pain it would have caused her to lose her only living parent . . . but to be the reason for that loss? It would have been a life-altering sort of horror for her.

He leaned forward again. “I get it.”

Her face softened as her head fell to the side, almost resting on her shoulder, tears tracks glistening on her skin. She sniffled. “You do?”

Now he couldn’t bear it anymore. He stood up and walked around the fire pit, sitting down on the couch beside her, putting his arm around her shoulders and pulling her against his body. No matter who they were to one another now, they’d loved each other once, and making her talk about this was causing her pain.

To his relief, she didn’t push him away. Perhaps she was too tired, or maybe she needed the comfort he offered now, as opposed to then, but she moved her head to his shoulder, resting against him.

This, he thought urgently. Please let me have more of this.

“I understand,” he said gently.

And he did understand, but it still hurt.

Because she could have told him. She could have come back at Thanksgiving, once her father was all right, and explained everything. She didn’t need to turn her back on him, on them, forever. “I just wish you’d figured out a way to tell me.”

“Do you?’ she asked, pulling away from his embrace and scooting her body into the corner of the couch. Her voice had changed in an instant—it was cooler, suspicious, and angry.

“Of course.”

“Give me a br—”

“You broke my heart that day, Laire.”

“Right,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes and looking away from him dismissively.