“Protect?” He ran his hand over his face, finding the word almost laughable in the context of a conversation about his mother. “Whatever parenting manual you got that from, I can tell you my mother hadn’t read it.” Running from his thoughts and the conversation, he sprang from the bed and snatched up his jeans, pulling them on roughly. What had possessed him to talk about this?
He should have kept silent.
He should have— “I need to get out of here. I’m sorry, but I need to walk.”
“It’s raining.”
“I don’t care. I need some air.”
“Then I’ll come with you.” She was out of the bed, too, pulling on her clothes. “Wait for me. We’ll go together.”
“You don’t understand, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” It was the growl of a wounded animal and Brittany stilled but didn’t back off.
“Then we won’t talk.” Her voice was kind and calm. “I’ll just walk with you.”
“Why? What’s the point?” He felt her hand on his arm. Gentle.
“Because a friend doesn’t leave a friend alone when they’re hurting. And you’re hurting.”
“Brittany—”
She slid her arms around him and hugged him tightly, then let him go before he could push her away. “Let’s go. I love the rain.”
“You don’t have a coat.”
She shrugged. “My skin is waterproof.”
His pulse rate was slower, his breathing more steady. The panic receded like the tide.
“I’m sorry.” He ran his hand over his face. “Shit, I’m sorry.”
“You don’t ever have to apologize.”
“After what I did to you?” He gave a bitter laugh. “I could apologize for a month and it still wouldn’t wipe out what I did.”
She shook her head. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. For being naive, blind, selfish—I should have tried to get you to talk to me back then.”
“I wouldn’t have done it. I never have.” Realizing that his legs were shaking, he sat back down on the edge of the bed, embarrassed by the weakness. “What’s your earliest memory?”
She hesitated and then sat down next to him. “I was four. I was on the beach with my grandmother, digging in the sand. I remember crying because it started to rain and we had to run back to the cottage. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay and dig.”
There was a pounding in his head. “My stepfather moved in when I was three. That’s my earliest memory. I don’t remember a single day of my childhood when I wasn’t scared.”
There was a moment of silence and then he felt her press against him, as if she wanted to wrap his body with hers like a soothing bandage around a wound.
“Zach—”
“I couldn’t stop it happening, so I tried to detach myself from it. I switched my mind off, pretended it was happening to someone else. Then one night he overdid it. I was so tired I’d fallen asleep and he got into the room.” He wondered why his voice sounded so flat. “I was in the hospital for ten days and I never went home.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight.”
“They took you into care?”
“I went to a foster family for a while, but that didn’t work out.”
“Why not?”