His throat worked on a swallow. “After the funeral, I went home and I picked up that book. I...I started reading it. Don’t even know why, but I got to that part, and I... God, it hit me, you know? The truth of those damn words the Skin Horse spoke. Being real could hurt. Being loved could hurt. That’s what...what living is all about and the opposite is unimaginable.”
Lowering the book to my lap, I smoothed my palm over the hard, glossy surface as I thought about the Skin Horse’s words. They could be interpreted in so many ways. To me, they were all about letting go of the fear of being imperfect. Accepting that it was okay to be wanted and needed and loved, to be heard and seen.
Rider and I were a lot like the little boy and the rabbit who wanted to be real. Both of us spent so long relying on only each other. We’d been tossed aside, unwanted. And we wanted nothing more than to be cherished, treasured and loved. We wanted to feel real. Both of us were afraid of the opposite. To some the opposite was death but to me—to us—it was being stuck forever. Never changing. Never seeing ourselves or others around us differently.
“I do,” he continued, voice gruff. “I do care. I don’t want to be like this forever.”
My gaze rose to his.
“I broke up with you because I thought it would be better that way. That you would eventually find someone who has their shit together, who has a future and isn’t stuck. Things were—are—messed up in my head. I’m trying, really trying, to change that.”
I stilled.
“I know you may never forgive me for hurting you. I can understand that. I can also understand if you don’t want to have to deal with me while I’m trying to do better, be better, but I...I want to be the person I think you deserve.”
Oh, my...
“I want to be the guy with a future, with his shit together and who has hope,” he admitted, scooting toward the edge of the window seat. His gaze met mine and those beautiful eyes carried a sheen that tore through my heart. “I want to be the guy worthy of your love, and I swear, if you’ll have me, I’ll do everything in my power to be that man. I’ll never stop trying. Ever.”
Oh, my, my...
“And I want you to know that I heard what you said in that speech,” Rider said, his voice scratchy. “I might’ve saved you all those years ago, but now you’ve saved me.”
My heart stuttered and then sped up. I reacted without thought. Placing the book on the bed, I launched myself at Rider just as he came off the window seat. We collided. I folded my arms around him as we went down onto the floor, me partially in his lap and his arms tight around my waist, his face burrowed against my neck. I felt a tremor run through his body and then he shook in my arms. I held him tighter as he broke into pieces, and years of holding it together shattered. I held him through it all.
Then it was me who put Rider back together.
Epilogue
The remote was right there, taunting me from where it rested on the thick cushion of the ottoman, next to the tray that held two glasses and a bowl of barely touched pretzels. All I would have to do was sit up a little and stretch. I could grab it and I wouldn’t have to watch any more of this basketball game.
Sitting up and stretching wasn’t exactly doable at that moment, though.
A heavy arm was curled around my waist, and if I moved too much, I’d wake Rider and that was the last thing I wanted to do, especially when he’d been so exhausted the last couple of days. The shadows deepening under his eyes every day the last two weeks worried me.
He’d been pulling a lot of hours at the garage on a custom paint job he’d finished up on Thursday. After school yesterday I’d gotten to check it out, and like every design of Rider’s, it had been amazing. Mind-blowing. I still had no idea how he could take paint and spray it on any surface, designing something so amazing and intricate.
This custom job had been on a car the owner raced at one of the tracks near Frederick. On the hood, Rider had painted a dragon, complete with detailed green-and-purple scales. Reddish-orange flames erupted from the dragon’s gaping mouth and crawled along the front side panels.
I’d snapped a picture of it with a real camera, to add to Rider’s ever-expanding portfolio of work. Like before, he had acted weird about it, as if he still didn’t know how to process recognizing his own talent.
I still had no idea how he didn’t see that, but he was getting better at it. Like so many other things, like me, it was a work in progress.
Rider had told me a few weeks ago that sometimes he opened up the photo book we’d picked up together at the craft store and just flipped through the pictures of his work. His cheeks had been bright red when he admitted it. I’d thought the reaction had been adorable. Sometimes we sat and looked at his art together, and he blushed then, too.
But the custom job wasn’t what had Rider worn out to the point that he’d fallen asleep the minute his head had hit the throw pillow on the couch.