But I wasn’t thinking about drinking and spending the next day with a massive headache. Taking a deep breath, I stepped forward and without wanting to, without even trying, I found myself staring toward the side parking lot, where the Dumpsters were and where the staff usually parked. It wasn’t that well-lit back there.

It was where I parked the last time I’d been here.

Cold wind whipped through the parking lot, lifting strands of my hair and tossing them around my face.

Ice settled in my veins and my stomach wiggled with a nest of snakes. I wanted to look away. I wanted to walk straight into the bar, unaffected by being here, but I couldn’t.

“Jillian?”

I jerked to my left, not realizing Brock had joined me in front of his car. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Yellow light from the overhead lamp fell upon his face. Concern filled his steady gaze as he took my hand in his. “What are you thinking?”

My mouth dried. The door to Mona’s opened and laughter spilled out into the parking lot.

“I’m thinking about that night.” Brock squeezed my hand as he brought it to his chest. “I think it makes sense. It’s okay if you are.”

I wet my lower lip and then nodded slowly. “I never . . . I never drove past here again. I didn’t come anywhere near here. I just . . .”

Brock circled his other arm around the nape of my neck, drawing me close. For several moments we stood there in silence and he said, “You know, I haven’t gone by the place I grew up since I was . . . hell, in my early twenties?”

Surprise flickered through me. “You haven’t?”

He shook his head. “Not once since then.”

All I could do was stare. Brock rarely talked about his past. He’d always been that way. “I thought you’d gone back.”

“Just that once. Saw my father.” He let out a heavy breath. “He was still drinking and he still wanted to do nothing but talk with his fists.”

“You never told me you saw your father.”

He raised a shoulder in a slight shrug. “There was nothing to tell. The man barely cared that I was even there, standing in front of him and alive. All he saw was that I was wearing nice clothes and driving a nice car. He saw me and saw his next bottle of whiskey.”

Sadness filled me. “And your mom?”

Another slow shake of his head. “She wasn’t there, but that wasn’t anything new. She was never there.”

His parents really were the worst. His dad was a drunk who had never been able to hold down a job. He’d stay out, come home, and even though Brock rarely admitted it, I knew his father used him as a punching bag.

Just like Brock’s father had used his mom.