The door to the bar opened and music poured out into the balmy night air. The man cursed. A car horn blew and there was a deafening pop. Red hot pain flashed through my entire body, lasting a second—only a second.

Then there was nothing.

Brock’s tortured gaze held mine now, and I knew . . . I knew he was reliving the same night. “You shouldn’t have even been there, Jillian. You think I don’t remember the events of that entire weekend? I was supposed to take you out to celebrate my big comeback.” He barked out a harsh, biting laugh. “I was planning to. I really was, but I got there . . . and I have no real good excuse, and trust me, I’ve searched for one. Over and over, I tried to explain why I chose to stay there and let you walk out, why I didn’t follow you. No reason I had is good enough—will ever be good enough.”

Brock laid the board down and thrust his hand through his hair. The soft ends flopped forward. “I know I never said these things to you afterward. I should’ve. You didn’t want me saying anything to your parents about why you were there, and I honored that, but I got to tell you that shit ate at me. I was out there, fighting matches, winning money, and seeing your dad, after everything he’d done for me, was still doing for me, and you were lying in that hospital bed, because I was a fucking jackass. I let you down and that’s something I can never forgive—”

“Don’t say that,” I pleaded, realizing I couldn’t bear to hear him say he couldn’t ever forgive himself for it. “Yes. You ditched me. That hurt—that really hurt, but you’re not responsible for what happened to me. I don’t blame you for it.”

“How can you not?” he asked, voice as sharp as ice.

There was a point in my life I had. That point hadn’t lasted long. I didn’t blame him. He hadn’t been the guy hooked on heroin, desperate for money and tweaking like crazy. I couldn’t hold him responsible for that and I didn’t care if some people thought I should. But I hadn’t let go of all the hurt from that night, and obviously neither had he.

Then it hit me with the force of a speeding semi-truck.

How were we still living like this?

I was afraid of getting hurt again. He was carrying the guilt for not returning my feelings when I was a teenager, and feeling responsible for me . . . for me getting shot, something he hadn’t done? Neither of us was really living.

What in the actual fuck had we been doing?