and he looks up to get more air as we make our way across the parking lot. He walks to his truck, which is parked just a few rows away from my car.
He stops at his driver’s door, leans back, and tucks his hands in his jeans. Relief is evident on his face. “Thanks for that.”
I nod. I should go, should just leave him be and go back in the store to finish getting my groceries…
“You’re sure you passing out was just a reaction to her? You’re not sick? I—I can give you a ride home?”
What the hell am I saying?
I can’t handle him next to me in my car. Plus, I’d probably offer to walk him up to his dorm. Where we had sex.
He gives me a small smile. “Not sick. I feel better.”
“Tell me who she was. Like you said, we didn’t really do a lot of talking…”
He arches a brow. “I recall you saying, Yes, yes, yes, just like that you handsome, talented sonofabitch.”
I laugh; I can’t help it. “I never said you were handsome. Who was she?”
“Well, damn, if I’d known all I have to do to get your attention is pass out, I would have been falling at your feet all day long.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
“Liar.”
“You’re a liar.”
He stiffens, and tension fills the air. “Never lied to you. Not one time.”
“No, you were brutally honest. Maybe that was worse.”
We stare at each other, and the only sound is the cars zipping past us on the highway out in front of the store.
He gets this faraway expression on his face, and his gaze lowers. “Carry-Anne was seventeen when my dad ran a red light and hit her. She was the perfect little Alma girl, prom queen, sweet as pie, and the mayor and his wife’s pride and joy. My parents, on the other hand, were trailer park trash who lived to get their next fix. Carry-Anne died at the scene. My dad was stoned. That’s pretty much it in a nutshell.”
My eyes flare wide. How did I not know this?
It’s as if he reads my mind. “We never really talked about serious shit when we were together, did we?” He pauses. “Only three people at Waylon know that story: Dillon, Ryker, and now you.”
I shake my head. “I’m so sorry. That must have been awful—for everyone. What happened to your parents?”
“My mom died—thrown from the car. My dad lingered on life support for several days until my uncle pulled the plug.” His mouth twists. “I was ten when it happened, old enough to know everyone in the whole town despised them. They’d both been in and out of jail for one thing or another.” A resigned look settles on his face. “My dad’s brother and his wife raised me.”
“Were they good to you?”
He reaches back, pulls out his wallet, and shows me a picture. “I was eleven here, I think, and had only been with them for a year. The girls were five, two, and one. They’re a mess.” His lips curve up as if he’s thinking of them in particular, and I suck in a breath, afraid he’ll turn that megawatt grin on me.
I stare down at the image he shows me.
It’s a family portrait with him as a skinny boy, tall for his age even then. He’s wearing a baggy blue dress shirt and high-water jeans that show the edge of white socks. Worn out sneakers are on his feet, but it’s his face that gets to me. No smile.
His uncle must be the man with his arms around a petite lady holding two babies in her lap while an older child hugs her leg. The little girls are sweet, their faces round and adorable—but Blaze stands apart from them, just a little. His eyes…they’re squinted with a faraway look, his face flat. His hands are clenched tight against his legs, as if he’s holding himself as still as possible.
I look up at him, my eyes skating over the chiseled face that looks like nothing could ever penetrate the surface. I could say, You look lonely, and if I’d been there, I’d have been your friend, but I don’t. He’s a proud person; I can tell by the hard, set planes of his face right now.
He doesn’t meet my gaze, just stares at the photo. “I know what you’re thinking when you look at it, that I didn’t fit in, and I didn’t, but my