Page 66 of Buckin' Around

My face is engulfed by heat instantly, and I’m so glad the room is only dimly lit.

“When I was twelve, my parents went to a farmers’ meeting for our local county. I don’t remember what it was about, only that my father was passionate about whatever it was. It got him angry every time him and Mom would talk about it.”

Spencer’s brows shift downward.

My heart is ramming my rib cage like it could escape if it only tried hard enough.

“I fed the animals, like I did every evening with my brothers. Put the supper out, like I always did when Mom and Dad worked late or were away.”

A warm hand engulfs mine.

His breathing has picked up pace, his chest rising and falling in deep cycles. I’m guessing he’s figured out what happens next.

“When I woke up the next morning, I went to find Mom to help make breakfast.” My gaze falls to the duvet on the motel bed. “Instead, I found Chloe screaming in their room, her diaper dirty, and their bed empty.”

“Ri—”

“Let me finish. Please.”

His hand squeezes mine.

“Around an hour later, the police were on our doorstep. My aunt arrived later that afternoon.”

My chin wobbles. I try to pace my breathing and fail. “Mom and Dad’s truck left the icy road just before midnight. They plowed through a field and hit a massive tree. They didn’t stand a chance.”

Tears stream down my burning cheeks.

“Fuck, Riles.” Spencer’s eyes are welled with tears, too, his jaw feathering as he shuffles closer and pulls me into his chest.

I sob, soaking his white shirt with my tears.

Every breath burns.

The ragged sounds tumbling from my lips, I’ve never heard before. I didn’t have time back then to let it out. I had to takecare of Chlo. I had to make sure the farm was worked. Organize my brothers and manage a household. School was tough, but I knew, even back then, it was our ticket to something better.

So I sank myself into work, family, and study.

I learned at twelve that hard things have to get done.

It’s easier to bottle up the pain and keep moving. Keep busy.

And it hits me... this is the first time I’ve ever let it out.

A wave of despair crashes over me, and I chug out a string of sobs. Spencer holds me tighter, his soft words that I don’t bother to comprehend brushing over my head.

Shaking, I press both palms to his chest. As if that can ground me.

His heart is racing.

With his body wrapped around mine, he’s better at this people stuff than he gives himself credit for. My fingers curl around the opening of his T-shirt before my brain catches up to how intimate we’ve become in the last few minutes.

All because I couldn’t keep my baggage to myself.

Sniffling back the dregs of the last few sobs, I shuffle backward and put distance between us.

His face is as wrecked as mine, and tightness swells in my chest. “I’m s-sorry,” I breathe. The syllables are still wobbly, my command over my words not there yet.

He cups my face with both hands like he did before. This time, there is no heat in his eyes, only an empathetic look of sorrow as his thumbs wipe my cheeks dry.