“Don’t. Don’t say it’s not my fault. I didn’t get the Oxy for him. I didn’t get him hooked. I didn’t put the damn pills in his mouth, and I didn’t make him wash them down with whiskey. I know all of that. I’m not absolving my father for what he did. But he needed help, and I had a chance to help him. But I didn’t do it. Just like with Landry.”

Jake takes me by both arms and looks right into my eyes. “Beckett, he was your father. He was a firefighter and a soldier. You could live that night over and over for the next year and it still wouldn’t be your fault for not telling a grown-ass adult how to live his own life. That’s on him.”

“But—”

“Listen to me. Please. Landry’s a kid, and a lot of people should have seen what was going on with her. Including you. Including me—I’ve spent a lot of time here too this year. Hell, I was probably the distraction that kept you from noticing what was going on with her. But your father is another issue entirely. You were not in control of his decisions. You’re not in control of anyone else’s choices, and you can’t blame yourself for failing to prevent an adult’s mistakes.

“You can be there for people when they ask for help, but you can’t make them ask, Beckett. You can’t make them accept help they don’t want. And you can’t blame yourself for not being able to read minds. To see the future. Down that path lies madness.” His expression softens into the beginnings of a grin. “And panic attacks.”

My laugh is half sob.

I let my forehead fall onto his shoulder as my arms wind around his neck. “Why are you so good to me?”

He pulls back enough so that I have to look at him. “Because I love you, Beckett.”

Suddenly my chest feels tight again, and this is an entirely new kind of panic.

He’s serious.

I mean, he’s said that several times before, and I’ve even said it back. But this time, he means it.

Maybe he’s always meant it.

“I—” I have no idea what to say. Fortunately, at that super-convenient moment (it’s not convenient), his phone beeps, and he pulls it out of his pocket. “Your mom?” I ask. She’s probably pissed that he’s here with me on Christmas Eve.

But then Jake flips his phone over, facedown on my comforter, and irritation whooshes like fire through my veins.

“Seriously?” I launch myself off the bed, fighting whiplash from the sudden emotional one-eighty. “You’re still doing that? You just said you love me, and you’re hiding texts again. How am I supposed to trust you, if you—”

“Beckett, I’m not cheating.”