That was my biggest fear.

That he left without saying goodbye again.

Maybe he’d decided enough was enough, and he just kept driving. Maybe I wouldn’t see him for another seven years. Maybe not ever…

Headlights hit the window, and I stood up, bending over the couch to look outside. Sure enough, it was Jackson’s truck in my driveway. Immediate relief punched me in the belly. He hadn’t left me yet. He came back to me.

The door opened and shut quietly.

When he came around the corner, I gasped and covered my mouth. His shirt was torn, and he had a black eye. Blood ran down the corner of his mouth, his pants were ripped at the knee, and his hair stuck up all over the place. He stumbled forward until he saw me. “Shit. I told you not to wait up. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

His words spurred me into motion. “Oh, my God, what happened to you?”

“I ran into a door,” he said drily.

“Jackson.”

“What the hell do you think happened to me?” he snapped, holding his hands up to his sides. “I picked a fight with someone. It’s what I do.”

“Apparently.” I ground my teeth together and reached out to touch his cheek gingerly. There was already a bruise forming. “And clearly lost.”

He jerked away from my touch, looking offended. “I didn’t lose. I never lose. And before you ask, no, it wasn’t Derek…this time.”

I rolled my eyes. “What were you thinking?”

“That I was pissed off, and it would be fun to kick some ass.” He grinned and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “I was right. It was. For the first time since coming here, I felt like me again. I felt like myself. And it felt pretty damn good.”

As in around me…he didn’t. “Oh.”

“I’m drowning here, Lilly.” He stumbled toward me, and the closer he got, the more I smelled the booze and perfume on him. “You’re drowning me. With your smiles, and your laughter, and those sexy noises you make when you come….”

My heart contracted. Needing to do something with my hands, I grabbed a tissue and reached out to clean his face off. “You’re drunk. Did you drive home like this?”

“No. I got a ride. Tyler drove my truck. He’ll walk back to the bar from here.”

“Should I give him a ride?” I asked.

“Hell, no.” He caught my wrist. “The last thing I need is the two of you alone together. He’s a man-whore. You would stand no chance against him.”

“O-Oh.” He sounded almost…jealous. “Let me clean up your—”

“No.” He ripped the tissue out of my hand and swiped the blood off his face himself. “I don’t need you to take care of me. And I don’t need to take care of you. I don’t want it. But it’s there. You’re there. All the time. And you’re not even mine. You’re his. I hate him.”

I reared back, my heart wrenching even more. “God, Jackass Jackson comes out when you’re drunk.”

“No, I’m just being honest.” He eyed me. “Speaking of honesty, I flirted with other women tonight.”

I staggered back, pain slicing through my chest straight to my heart. “Did you have fun?” I forced myself to ask calmly.

“No.” He reached for me, and I jumped back, not wanting him to touch me right now, because I could smell another woman on him. “Lilly.”

“Did you score? Did you find someone to help you forget about me?” I shoved his shoulder and he stumbled back. The pain faded away and hid behind the anger. So much anger. “I hope she was good. I hope she made you forget all about me, so I stop drowning you.”

He had the audacity to look confused. “I didn’t fuck anyone else.”

“So you, what, wear women’s perfume before starting fights?” I went at him again. “Don’t lie to me. I can smell her on you.”

He backed me against the wall before I could do any damage, trapping both my hands above my head. Breathing harshly, his nostrils flared, he lowered his face to mine until we were nose to nose. “I wish I found another woman I wanted even half as badly as I want you. Wish I found someone who made me want her. Wish I found someone—anyone—else, who made me forget the things you make me feel. Hell, I even wish you weren’t you, so that things wouldn’t be so damn complicated.”

There it was again.

He wanted my life to be different because it would be easier for him.

The other times he mentioned it, I shrugged it off and acted as if it didn’t bother me. But this time, it did. I yanked on my arms but he didn’t let go. “Screw you. I’m me, and you were perfectly fine with that last night when my mouth was wrapped around your—”

“Damn it, Lilly.” Growling, he fused his mouth to mine, cutting off my words. His teeth dug into my lower lip, stinging, but I didn’t care. All that mattered was he was here, and he was saying all these confusing things, and my body lit up, like it only seemed to do for him. And for whatever reason, that made me sad.

He broke the kiss off too soon, groaning and shaking his head. “Shit, Lilly. You’re killing me.”

I made a small sound. “I’m not even doing anything.”

“You don’t have to. You just have to be you.”

“Well, gee, sorry for existing,” I shot back.

“When you laugh, I laugh. When you smile, I smile. When you’re in pain, I feel it, too.” He pushed off me and paced back and forth like a caged animal, waiting for his chance to escape. “Why did you have to write to me?”

I watched him cautiously. “I already told you.”

“Yeah, because your father told you to, right? Because he loves me so damn much.” He barked out a laugh and tugged on his hair. “Jesus, I can’t believe I fell for that. Tell me the real reason you wrote to me.”

When I first started writing the letters, I wrote that Daddy made me. It was a way to excuse my pathetic need to keep in contact with him, to make sure he knew how I felt about him, when he clearly didn’t want me to. But it had been a lie.

And he’d finally figured that out.

“I already did.” I hid my hands behind my back, still not moving from the spot he’d put me in. “I wrote because I cared about you. I wanted you to know that I was here for you. And I was hoping you’d care about me, too.”

“Ah. There it is. The truth.” He approached again, his brows low, stopping directly in front of me. “Why does it matter to you if I care? Why is it so damn important to you? You’re thinking about marrying another guy.”

My heart sped up. He’d cornered me in more ways than one, and I didn’t like it. So I fought back. “Because it did. But it doesn’t matter, because you didn’t care. You didn’t write back. So it’s a moot point.”

He stared at me, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “I read them all.”

“So you said.”

“They kept me alive. They kept me sane.” He stalked over to the sofa and lifted a cushion, pulling out a crumpled stack of envelopes, like he’d hidden them there rather than be caught reading them. “These are my favorite ones. The ones I read every day. The rest are in my room.”

Jackson tossed the bundle at me. I caught them unsteadily, blinking down at them.

Immediately, I recognized the one on the top. It was written in my senior year. I knew, because I’d been experimenting with my writing, and had written my a’s differently. That phase hadn’t lasted long. It was the last letter I wrote to him. The one where I told him I still cared about him, but he was never going to acknowledge me, so I was done writing to him. It was my goodbye letter to a friend. A friend I still loved very much. “You have favorites.”

“Yeah.” He squared his jaw. “When a friend died? I read them. When I couldn’t sleep? I read them. You kept me alive. You kept me going. And when they stopped, when you told me you were done? I died a little bit more inside. So don’t tell me I didn’t care.”

I licked my lips. “Then why didn’t you write back?”

“Because I was trying to set you free, damn it. Trying to show you that I wasn’t for you. But those letters kept me fighting. They kept me alive.” He laughed. “But now I’m back, and I swear to God you’re trying to kill me.”