What He Never Knew (What He Doesn't Know, #3)(52)

He nodded. “Which is what knocked me on my ass, I think. Five years. Five years without them, with life moving on like they didn’t matter.” Reese gripped the beer can a little tighter, the sound of the aluminum folding breaking the silence.

I wanted to reach for him again, the urge so strong now that I shifted until my hands were behind me, tucked between me and the counter I leaned on. “What happened to them?” I asked.

He cracked his neck, heaving himself up from the barstool long enough to trade his empty beer can for a full one. When he was seated again, he cracked it open, taking a long swig before he spoke.

“Did you ever hear of the mass shooting in New York City?”

I swallowed. “Which one?”

At that, his face paled, his hands stilling before he shook his head. “God, that’s so sad.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

Reese ran a hand back through his hair, and I traced the movement, marveling at how much hair he had. It was always tied back in a messy bun at the nape of his neck, but today, it flowed freely, the loose waves in it barreling down just past his shoulders.

“It was in Central Park, right behind the Met,” he said after a moment. “There was a little concert.”

Five years ago, I’d been about to go into my senior year of high school. It was a hard year for me, applying for college without my dad being there, hoping and praying I’d make it into my top choice — Bramlock. I hadn’t really watched the news, but a distant memory of the shooting he was referring to came to mind. I remembered my mom staring at the TV, one hand over her mouth as she listened to the account of what had happened.

“I think I remember,” I said softly, heart aching. “Were they… were they there?”

He swallowed. “Front row.”

I tore myself from where I stood, forcing a breath to keep myself from crying as I crossed the kitchen and stirred the soup again. It was done, so I cut off the burner and moved the pot to one that wasn’t on to let it cool.

I doubted either of us would want a bowl now.

Turning, I leaned against the counter, keeping distance like if I heard the rest of the story without standing next to him, I’d somehow be unaffected. “Were you there?”

Reese shook his head, frowning. “No.” Then, he laughed to himself again, a sardonic sort of chuckle. “No, I was at their place, waiting for them to get home. Waiting to ask them for money.” He laughed again, louder this time. “Like the absolute piece of shit I was.”

My shoulders fell. “Reese…”

“No, Sarah, honestly, I was. I still am.” He shook his head, staring at the beer can in his hands like it was responsible for all the pain in his life. “Everyone I love gets hurt in some way. I’m like a walking tornado, just fucking shit up and leaving destruction behind. I hurt my family, let them down, took my talent and their generosity for granted, and partied my way through life instead of making something of myself. Then, I broke a woman’s heart who loved me, who cared for me in the worst time. My friend and roommate, Blake.” He shook his head, tears glossing over his eyes.

The sight of that nearly sent me to my knees.

I covered my mouth, chest squeezing so tight my next breath was nearly impossible as I watched him.

“She loved me, and I didn’t see it. Not until I was back here, when she told me,” he said, still shaking his head. “And by then, it didn’t matter. Because I loved Charlie.” He laughed, a tear breaking loose and gliding down his cheek to his jaw. “And I hurt her, too. I hurt everyone. And now, everyone I love is gone. And I can’t even be mad.”

He was hysterical now, laughing with tears brimmed in his eyes.

“Because it’s my own damn fault. Maybe I’m meant to be alone, you know? I mean, I was afraid to even get a dog, scared I might fuck up its life, too. And you know what?” He stopped, every part of him stilling, all laughter gone as he whispered his next words. “To this day, I still feel like it should have been me.”

He lifted his head, his eyes locked on mine. Then, he repeated the worst thing I’d ever heard him say.

“It should have been me, Sarah.”

I swallowed. “No, Reese.”

“Yes. Yes, it should have been. I wish it was. I wish it was me who was gone, and they were still here. I wish I didn’t have to know what it was like to live without them. I wish so many fucking things.”

And then, the man who seemed to carry all his pain on his shoulders broke under the weight.

His head fell into his hands, shoulders shaking as he sobbed. I crossed the kitchen in three steps, wrapping my arms around him like I could shield him, like he was crying from being struck by bullets that I could somehow stop with my own flesh. As soon as I touched him, he sobbed harder.

I couldn’t help but cry, too.

Maybe it was because of my own loss. Maybe it was because I understood everything he said, everything he felt about having to keep living now that his family was gone. Maybe it was seeing a full-grown man break like that, submitting to his emotions, letting me see him weak and vulnerable and not okay.

Maybe it was that my heart was tied to his, perhaps from the very start. And when he was in pain, so was I.

It was impossible to say how much time passed with my arms around him, his face in his hands, the soup growing cold on the stove. Eventually, he grew quiet, his sobs turning to sniffs before he shifted under my arms. I pulled away, letting him straighten, and my chest squeezed again at the sight of his red, puffy eyes.