“Dammit, it’s a conversation. I’m not wearing a wire. I’m not even a Chicago cop. And I’m sure as hell not playing a game. Christ, Tyler, I’m—”
I’m falling for you.
I blinked, shocked by the intensity of the thought. And I didn’t look at him. Instead, I looked everywhere but.
“I’m—I like you,” I finally said. “I like us. But I don’t even know you.”
“What if I told you I was squeaky clean?” His voice was so very gentle, and in that moment I feared that he’d heard past the words to the truth in my voice. “What if I said that everything you fear is in the past?”
I turned now to look at him, and those stormy blue eyes were clear and warm. “That would be nice,” I admitted, realizing as I said it how much I wished it were true.
I tried for a smile. “Will you tell me about your past, then? How you met Evan and Cole? The misadventures of your youth? You told me once your childhood should have been idyllic. What went wrong?”
He raked his fingers through his hair, then stood up and glanced around the moonlit park. Then he reached a hand down for me. I took it and let him help me to my feet, then fell in step beside him. I assumed we were done, that he was keeping his childhood secrets locked away, and I told myself that was good.
I didn’t have a future with Tyler. Despite his protests—or maybe because of them—I knew damn well he was dirty. But for these last few days of my medical leave, I could ignore that. Pretend it wasn’t true. Tell myself I was taking a vacation from myself and sliding into adventure.
I didn’t need to know his secrets, didn’t need to see his heart.
After all, I’d already given him too much of mine.
We’d been walking in silence for at least fifteen minutes when he said, softly and simply, “My parents live in Florida now. We don’t really talk. We’ve never really talked.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Well.” We’d reached a hill atop which there was a statue of a man on a horse. The moon shone down around us, illuminating the area. It was late, probably after three and right then it felt like we were the only two people on earth.
I sat on the side of the hill, then laid back in the cool, damp grass. Above me, Tyler smiled down, and I held out a hand. “Join me.”
He did, stretching out beside me and taking my hand, and when he spoke, it was as much to the stars as to me. “I grew up in Rogers Park,” he said. “Up north where Lake Shore Drive turns into Sheridan Road. Near the lake. On the Red Line. Solid middle class. Decent house. Decent neighbors. My dad managed a gas station. My mom stayed at home.”
“Sounds nice.”
He made a sound that might have been a snort.
“She drank. He gambled. Not just at cards or in weekend jaunts to Vegas, but in everything. Any get rich quick scheme you could think of. And he was damn stupid at it. Never once got on top of it, not that I could see. And I saw a lot.”
“He talked to you about it?”
“Hell no. Neither one of them talked to me at all. The three of us lived in that house, and it was like we were three strangers. When I was very young, I’d make up stories as to why. I thought maybe I had an older brother who’d been kidnapped, and they were so lost in their grief they couldn’t see me. Or that they weren’t my parents at all. My parents were actually spies, and they’d send for me as soon as they were safe. Then I quit making up the stories and just figured it was me.”
“Tyler, no,” I said, my heart breaking for the little boy he used to be.
“No,” he agreed. “I realized soon enough it wasn’t me. It was them. My parents were—are—two broken people. And they didn’t give a shit if they broke me, too.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“They paid the bills, kept the roof over our heads. But there was never dinner—I lived on cold cereal and scrambled eggs. And there was never conversation.”