take your own advice and make up with Tucker?” I asked.
She sniffed. “Maybe.”
Instead of following her into the building, I took a preparatory breath and walked over to Dane. “What are you doing here?” I asked, though not unkindly.
He pushed away from the car. “I told you we’d talk later.”
I scratched my forehead. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Because I figured the best way to not blur any lines between us in my head would be to only see him at work or when we were on our fake dates. I was on my time now, and there was no need for him to be inside my apartment.
He stepped into my personal space and stared down at me. “You’re pulling away. Are you planning to go back on your word?”
I lifted my chin. “No, I wouldn’t do that. I’ve told you that before.”
My cell beeped. Glad for the distraction, I dug my phone out of my purse.
It was a text message from Freddie: Code red.
My whole body seized up. Shit. I raced to my car, jabbing the button on the key fob to unlock it, ignoring Dane’s shouts. I hopped into the driver’s seat and, without another look his way, sped out of the parking lot.
As I drove en route to my father’s house, my heart thudded hard in my chest. A code red situation could be anything from Simon having an anxiety attack to him cutting himself again. The latter occurrences didn’t happen often. But when they did, they could be bad.
Before long, I was speeding down my father’s street. The tires screeched as I brought the car to a sharp stop outside his house. I jumped out of the vehicle and rushed for the door, cursing when I dropped my keys halfway up the driveway. I bent and snatched them—
A hand grabbed my arm and spun me. Dane. “What’s happening?” he asked.
I blinked, surprised to see him. “You need to go.” I tried pulling my arm free, but he held tight.
“What’s going on? You’re white as a fucking sheet, and you’ve just been driving around the streets like the hounds of hell were on your tail.”
I shook my head. I didn’t have time for this. “I can’t do this right now. Just go. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“I’m not leaving until you tell me—”
“Fucking go, Dane.” I tore my arm out of his grip. “This is not your business.” I raced up the steps, unlocked Simon’s front door and then hurried inside.
Closing the door behind me, I called out, “Dad?” No response. I peeked into the living room. It was empty, but the TV was on. “Dad?” I again shouted. Still nothing.
I stalked into the kitchen and skidded to a halt. He was sitting on the tiled floor, his eyes squeezed shut, his hands fisting his thick dark hair.
I crouched in front of him. “Dad, what’s wrong?”
He awkwardly lifted his head and blinked. I realized he hadn’t acknowledged my arrival until right then. He’d been deep in his thoughts. In his memories. That was never good.
“Dad, what happened? And why is one side of your face pink?”
He touched his cheek. “I fell asleep at the table and …” He trailed off and squeezed his eyes shut.
I took in the dark smudges under his eyes. “You haven’t been sleeping well. Did you have a nightmare just now?” I asked carefully, knowing how badly they could mess with his head.
He shuddered. “I can’t stop seeing it, seeing her.”
There was only one woman he spoke of with such vehemence—his mother. “Dad, open your eyes, look at me.” I gently tugged his hands away from his hair. “Please look at me.”
His eyes fluttered open, and they looked so sad my chest ached.
“You’ve been working on your memories in therapy again?”
He only nodded.
I inwardly cursed. I knew it was important for him to unearth certain memories and face the abuse he suffered at the hands of his mother, but I hated the toll it took on him. Especially since it often led to him having vivid, horrific nightmares. Then he’d be so afraid to go to sleep that he’d lay awake for hours most nights.
There were times when he’d recover a memory so sickening, he simply couldn’t take it. Then the anxiety attacks would come back, or he’d start cutting himself again.
I didn’t say how much I hated what the therapy sessions did to him, though. The therapy was important, and I needed to be supportive of it.