Was it because Landon was familiar with death that I wanted to tell him or was it because he made me want to open up? I’d never told anyone how she died. People close to me knew my mother had died and that I’d ended up in a home, but I never said how she’d died or who had killed her. But there was something about Landon, about the way he had about him, that made me think he’d stand between me and a drunken tourist or me and a bullet. It was the same way he was holding me now. And it felt safe to tell him anything.
“My father killed her,” I admitted.
Landon froze behind me but he didn’t loosen his grip. “Jesus,” he said.
“He was drunk. And they fought. They used to argue a lot. I was used to that. But it would pass quickly and the next day the hallway would be full of flowers, and the house would echo with laughter. I just thought that’s how things were—up and down. Looking back, of course, there were signs of violence that I didn’t recognize. The bruises. The time my mother broke her collarbone. It never occurred to me that my father—the loving, gregarious man who would tickle me breathless and make me toast in the shape of stars on the weekend—was violent and abusive.” I took a breath as I remembered back to those times. “I remember getting upset one time when I heard them fight. I was little, seven or eight, and my mom explained that it was just what married people did and that I shouldn’t worry—that it was like a thunderstorm and it would pass quickly. She said without the rain, the trees and flowers would die and so the storm was nothing to be scared of.” I paused. That’s what I’d been working so hard to avoid—the storms. I’d learned that sometimes when they came, the devastation they brought changed the world, or my world, forever. I tried not to think about that time now. I liked to stay in the present. There was nothing I could do to change the past, so what was the point in thinking back to that time? But I’d lifted the lid and was staring right at those memories that I had boxed away now, and I couldn’t look away. “The gunshot. It was so loud.”
Landon just held me while I let the memory engulf me. The blood. The sirens. All the people.
“Maybe it would have been different if I’d gone down. Tried to make them stop arguing.”
“You couldn’t have done anything, Skylar. You were a kid. It wasn’t your job to save your mother.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “When I found out my father had pulled the trigger, I remember making the decision right then that I’d never get married.”
“So your criteria for a man is . . .”
“It’s impossible to meet,” I said.
“That makes more sense to me. You don’t care that it makes you sound high maintenance or picky. You want to put men off.”
I shrugged. As usual, Landon saw more than I showed him. “I don’t trust many people. Because people aren’t who they say they are. My dad was a charming, joke-telling, family man, but underneath it was a jealous, possessive killer. It takes me a long time to believe that someone is really who they appear to be. I know as a child, you don’t always see the entire picture, but the same is true when you grow up too—people are good at hiding who they are.”
“That’s very true,” he said, not letting go. “How long were you in the home?”
“Until I turned eighteen. I left on my birthday. I had nothing. No one. Yachting saved me. I’d seen a magazine article about yachting and spent the little money I had on a one-way bus ticket to Florida. I slept on a bench in the depot the night I arrived.”
“You’re very brave, Skylar.”
“I’m not the person here who signed up to protect his country.” I prodded his thigh.
“Bravery comes in many forms,” he said. “To survive what you did and to come out the other side, that takes—”
“Ruthless practicality,” I finished his sentence. “That’s why I don’t talk about it much. There’s nothing to be gained. I just like to keep
the storm at bay, keep my path slow and steady.”
“Well, ruthlessly practical works for you. You’re very good at your job. You must love it.”
I laughed. “I’ve never thought about it. I’ve just always focused on having a place to live, food to eat, and money to save so I never had to worry about having it in the future.” My savings account was my umbrella from any unexpected rainfall. “What about you? The army must require practicality.”
“Yes, but I loved being in the army. And then working private security. I couldn’t do my job if I didn’t love it. Passion for what you do is important.”
“Yeah, my parents had plenty of passion for each other, so I’m not concerned that I’m not passionate about my job—Bad things happen when you feel so strongly.”
“No soldier would ever enlist if they didn’t passionately believe in what they were doing, Skylar. No one would run a marathon, climb a mountain. Passion can be a good thing.”
“Maybe,” I replied. Perhaps Landon was right and passion was good for some people. But not me. I needed to stay practical, down-to-earth. “I’m happy with my life.”
“You make it sound like you just bought a watermelon or finished ironing.”
“I’m just realistic. There are many people in the world who can’t say they’re happy. I imagine most of the kids I was in the home with can’t. I’m lucky—I might not be passionate about my job, but not everyone needs to be.” I shrugged. “It’s a small industry. There’s always work if you have good references and people like you, so it’s not as insecure as it seems at first. I’m hoping to get a two- or three-year contract on the Sapphire after this season. But it’s not like the army.”
“I understand that getting to a place where you were established and had some savings was important, but what about now?” he asked. “Those savings you talked about. They give you options, right?”
“I’m hungry. Let’s eat,” I said.
“And I thought I was good at swerving around difficult conversations.”