One Good Reason (Boston Love #3)(61)

But in this moment, I don’t want to have claws or teeth. I don’t want to lash out.

Inexplicably, I want strong arms around me.

I want lips on my hair, murmuring reassurances.

I want someone else to hold back the shadows that circle close, just for a few minutes, so I can finally, finally, finally drop my guard.

Parker doesn't say a word. He just holds me together when everything is spiraling into pieces, just like he promised he would. He lends me the strength I need to allow myself to be weak.

His shirt is wet when I finally fall silent, my ragged sobs settling into something resembling proper breath.

"Guess you picked now," he murmurs against my hair.

"I'm sorry," I hiccup. "I'm not usually this girl who gets all weepy and needs a guy to hold her and—” I hiccup again. “—to tell her it's all going to be okay."

"I know, Zoe." His arms tighten a bit.

"It's just this time of year, you know? The lights and the ornaments and the decorations and all the people out on the streets smiling and singing and acting like they actually enjoy each other's company. It's exhausting! I'm just… exhausted. I try to avoid it, to keep to myself, but this year..." I breathe deeply. "I'm sorry."

"Shhh." He pets my hair in long strokes. “Stop apologizing. You never have to apologize to me.”

I pull back to look up into his face. There's no pity in his gaze – nothing but compassion and sympathy and maybe a bit of worry.

"Thank you," I whisper.

“I didn't do anything, darling.”

"You were here." I shrug. "That's everything."

He pauses and I can tell there's something on his mind, something he wants to say but can't quite put into words.

"Say it," I whisper.

"You might feel better... If you talked about it."

I swallow. "I..."

“I don’t mean right now," he says gently. “I don’t even mean with me. But you should talk to someone, Zoe. You can't keep all this emotion locked up forever. It'll kill you. There are people out there, qualified people with fancy degrees, whose sole purpose is to help with shit like this. Believe me, I'd know – after everything that happened with my mom’s death, my father’s total inability to be a parent, I've got the therapy bills to prove it."

My brows lift. "You?"

"I know.” His smile is wry. “Parker West, the cavalier adventurer, in therapy. Who'd have guessed?" He shrugs. "There's nothing wrong with admitting you need help, reaching out and taking it from someone who's offering. There's no shame in admitting you can't do it all yourself."

Where did he come from?

How did I find him?

Seven billion people on this earth… and somehow I find the exact one I need.

"I think..." I trail off. It takes a minute, but I somehow muster my courage. "I think... You're the person I want to talk to about it. Not some stranger on a couch in a stuffy office who'll shrink me for $400 over the course of an hour. I'd rather talk to someone who..."

Cares about me.

Understands me.

Accepts me.

I don't finish the rest of the sentence; neither does he. But his eyes fill with something warm and his voice is barely audible when he rumbles, "All right, Zoe,” with so much emotion it nearly makes me cry again.

I take him by the hand and lead him to my desk. Opening the bottom drawer, I pull out the frame I keep hidden in the depths, where I don't have to look at it because it hurts too much. I barely glance at the image behind the glass as I pass it to Parker.

I don't need to — it's been burned into my memory for years. I can see it with my eyes closed, every perfect detail.

A little blonde girl in her ballerina costume, clutching a bouquet of red roses. Her proud parents, one on each side, their smiles so wide you'd think their daughter had just nailed her audition for Juilliard, rather than completed a rather halting rendition of The Nutcracker.

"These are..." Parker trails off. His finger hovers just over the glass surface.

"My parents." I nod. "And me. I was five."

He looks up at me as I pass him the other document from the drawer. It's a weathered sheet of newspaper, the front headline faded after nearly twenty years but still legible.

HOLIDAY DOUBLE-HOMICIDE: COUPLE SLAIN ON CHRISTMAS EVE

I watch his eyes move over the words, see the way his face sets into grim lines of grief as he reaches the smaller caption below the picture of bloody snow and rose petals outside the opera house. I memorized it long ago.

Rebecca and Luther Bloom, killed outside a recital hall on Christmas Eve by a suspect still-at-large. Their daughter Zoe Bloom, age 5, who witnessed the gruesome attack, remains in stable condition at Boston Children's Hospital, where she is expected to make a full recovery.

"Oh, Zoe." Parker looks up at me, ghosts swirling in his eyes, and I feel my heart clench like a fist inside my chest. There's nothing he can say. I know that — it's why I've never bothered discussing this with anyone. Even Luca knows only the smallest of details.

But, I'm stunned to discover, I don't need him to say anything. It's enough to have him reach over and twine his fingers with mine, his warm grip saying everything he can't find words for.