“Let me see.” Charlie moved in front of her. She breathed in his scent, a mixture of musk and woods and sweat, uniquely him, that sent her heart beating in time with the throbbing in her cheek. He brushed his thumb lightly against the tender spot and she winced. “The ice will help.”

Lane reached up and took his hand away from her face, exchanging the warmth of his touch for the sting of the ice pack. Good. She needed to steel herself for what she had to do. “Can we talk?”

“Sure.”

Her nerves were an energized tangle. Charlie followed her back to the same glider she and Miguel had just been sitting on. What would she tell him? It felt lame to say she couldn’t date him because her father said so—she was way past that. She could say she wasn’t ready, but her heart knew that wasn’t true and she had a feeling Charlie would see through it. He had that way about him. Since running into him, Lane had been trying to come up with a dozen different reasons why this couldn’t work—why they couldn’t work—but one thing stood out above all of them. He didn’t know the truth about her.

And maybe telling him the truth would make him realize she wasn’t right for him—or anyone.

“Your garden rivals my aunt’s.”

“Pops helps me with it.”

Slow seconds of silence ticked between them as the evening’s first stars began to twinkle above. Their shoulders touched and Lane realized for a quick second how nice this moment was. She wanted to remember it. Hold it close so on those nights when darkness loomed she’d remember what hope felt like. She breathed deep and began.

“Charlie, I have depression.” Saying the words didn’t give her instant relief, and now that they were out she desperately wanted to take them back.

“Lane, you lost your husband. That’s completely understandable.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’ve had depression all my life. I still have it.”

She watched his expression. Waited for him to recoil, but the only thing reflected in his face was compassion.

“I’m sorry . . .”

There it was. He was sorry she was messed up. Sorry about getting involved with a mentally disturbed person. Sorry—

“What can I do to help?”

“What?” The question had caught her so off guard that she hadn’t realized he’d taken hold of her hand. His thumb rubbed her knuckles.

“How can I help? I’ve read exercise is good. I’ve been running in the morning with Bane because my work hours are so long, but maybe you could join me. Or we could paddleboard on the river—”

“Charlie, I’m never going to get better.” She withdrew her hand. “This is who I am.”

He frowned. “I feel like I’m missing something?”