“We need to let it go,” I whispered, and that moment, the very second I said those words, they rang true with a kind of clarity that was earth-shattering.

Brock needed to move on from that night, and God’s honest truth, so did I, because I hadn’t. For six years, I really hadn’t let any of it go. And how could I move on, be truly happy and gain my life back, if I didn’t?

How could it really work between Brock and me if we both didn’t?

I sucked in a soft breath.

In a daze, I lifted my hands to my face, pressing one finger against the deep indent in my cheek. You’d have no idea that a bullet had entered my left cheek and then went straight through to the other side of my mouth, somehow not touching my tongue, the roof or the floor of my mouth, before blowing through my right jaw, practically exploding it to smithereens, and in the process, taking out some of the necessary parts needed for hearing in my right ear as it exited.

God knows I was so damn lucky.

Besides not being severely disfigured, I’d actually survived. I barely remembered being conscious after being shot. There were flickers of memories—of panic and not being able to breathe, of the metallic taste of blood as it was pouring down my throat, out of my mouth and nose as I heard yelling—screaming. That was all I remembered until I woke up in the hospital with a tracheostomy tube, unable to talk at the time or hear out of my right ear.

It had been a long recovery from that point.

I remained under observation for nine weeks, reentering the hospital multiple times for the reconstruction parts. It had taken a year for me to leave home and come back to Shepherdstown.

And it had taken six years to fully acknowledge that we both were still standing in Mona’s, stuck in that moment of me walking away and him not following. It was a moment that had lasted too long.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

Wordlessly, I stared at him, realizing we were on the cusp of something I had never believed possible. It was like walking up to the cliff’s edge and staring down. Could I take that leap again? I wanted to try, because I was tired of denying how I felt when I looked at him. I was tired of fighting it. I wanted . . .”I want . . .”

His gaze was bright and endless as he stared up at me. “You want what?”

Air constricted in my throat. “I want to let it all go. I do. And this is still scary as hell for me, but I want to start really living. I want to take risks and I . . . I want you.”