Chapters (43)
- Cover
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Epilogue
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- Readers Guide
- QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
- About the Author
- What’s next onyour reading list?
“It’s why I get mad at these reporters for coming around, taking pictures of what’s still broken, when they weren’t here for all the fixing. You got to stick around with the ugly if you want it to make you strong.”
Andra’s shoulders tensed. “I don’t know about that. I tried. I stayed in Bozeman after I was attacked, all the way until the trial was finished, and it didn’t help a thing.” Maybe he could draw strength from living here amid the reminders of the past, but it didn’t seem to work that way for her. “It’s been five stupid years now, and I’m still so messed up, you’re sleeping on the floor in the kitchen because you’re afraid you’ll jar me into a panic attack just by rolling over the wrong way.”
“More like I’m afraid Mama would find a shotgun if she caught us in bed together before I put a ring on your finger.”
“Don’t try and put it on her, LJ. She asked me yesterday if you were in the doghouse for something and that’s why I won’t ‘let’ you share the bedroom. You don’t even have a couch to sleep on, for crying out loud.”
“We’ve never had a couch. Who would want to stay inside when you’ve got a perfectly good porch to sit on?”
The weak attempt at humor sagged in the air between them. Andra stared out the side window, the beautiful historic street starting to blur with tears. “It’s bullshit,” she muttered. “All those ‘time heals’ platitudes. History fades, but it doesn’t disappear, and I don’t know if it ever stops hurting.” She turned and narrowed her eyes at him. “You didn’t stay, either, LJ. Not in the end.”
“No, you’re right—I didn’t.” He rubbed his hands down his thighs, glancing at the rusting cast-iron swirls of the balcony they were parked next to. “It’s hard to love something so much and see it hurting when you can’t fix it. After a while, it starts to eat you alive inside.” He met her eyes. “Maybe that’s why I left.”
Her shoulders drooped, and she wondered if he was talking about leaving New Orleans or Montana.
She blew out a breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m sick of feeling like we’re walking on eggshells around each other. I came here because I wanted to fix things with you, and I just . . . I don’t know where to start.”
He caught her hand. “Hey. We ain’t broken. The way I feel about you—” He shook his head, dark eyes soft on her face. “There’s nothing you need to fix about that.”