He starts to say something, and I raise a hand to stop him, needing to finish what I have to say. “No, Colton, I’m not running and I’m not leaving you, but I don’t know what to do. I have no fucking clue! Do I stay here and let you rip me apart more? I’m dying inside, Colton. Can’t you see that?” I wipe the tears from my eyes and shake my head, needing some kind of reaction from him. “Or do I just leave? Give us a couple of days to fix the shit that’s fucked up in our own heads? So I don’t resent you for getting a choice when I don’t. So you realize I’m not like every other woman who’s ever used you.”

I take a step toward him, the man I love, and I wish I could do something—anything—to ease the turmoil inside of him, but know that I can’t. I can sense he’s at a breaking point just like I am, that being faced with the possibility of a child is more than even he—a man who has survived so much—can bear, but I’m at a loss how to help when I’m filled with turmoil too.

The muscle in his jaw pulses as I watch him struggle to remain in control over his emotions, his anger, his need for release and wish I could do something more for him because if my heart is breaking, then I can’t imagine what his is doing. And the only thing I think I can do is give us some space … let us calm down … figure ourselves out so we can be good again.

Find us again.

I take another step toward him and he finally raises his eyes to meet mine so I can read what he’s feeling. And maybe it’s the fact that we really know each other now, have broken down each other’s walls, because regardless of how hard he’s trying to mask his emotions I can read every single one of them flickering through his eyes. Fear, anger, confusion, shame, concern, uncertainty. The truth is there—what I knew would be—he’s pushing me, daring me to run to prove to him I am in fact what he perceives all other women to be. And at the same time, I see remorse swimming there, and a small part of me sighs at the sight, gives me something to hold on to.

He takes a step toward me so we stand close but don’t touch. I can see the emotion flickering across his face, how his muscles tense as he tries to contain everything I see in his eyes. I fear if I touch him, we’ll both break and right now one of us needs to be strong.

It has to be me.

“Look at me, Colton,” I tell him, waiting for his eyes to find mine again. “It’s me, the one who races you. The one who’ll fight tooth and nail for you. The one who will do anything—anything—to make that hurt in your eyes and the pain in your soul disappear … make Tawny’s accusation go away … but I can’t. I can’t be anything to you until you stop pushing me away.” I step closer, wanting to reach out and touch him and erase the pain in his eyes. “Because all I want to do is help. I can handle you being an asshole. I can handle you taking your shit out on me … but it’s not going to fix things. It’s not going to make Tawny or the baby or anything else go away.” I choke on the tears that fill my throat. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“Rylee …” It’s the first time he’s spoken and the desperation in the way he says my name with such anguish sends chills up my spine. “My head’s pretty fucked up right now.” I force a swallow down my throat and nod my head so he knows I hear him. He closes his eyes for a beat and sighs aloud. “Look I—I … I need some time to get it straight … so I don’t push you farther away … I just …”

I bite my lower lip, not sure if I’m upset that he’s telling me to go or relieved, and nod my head. He reaches out to touch me and I step back, afraid if he does, I won’t be able to walk away. “Okay,” I tell him, my voice barely audible as I take a step backwards. “I’ll talk to you in a couple of days.”

And I can’t look at him again, both our pain right now is so palpable for different reasons, so I turn and head toward the house.

“Rylee,” he says my name again—no one can say it like he does—and my body stops instantly. I know he feels like I do—uncertain, unresolved, wanting me to stay and wanting me to go—so I just keep my back to him and nod my head.

“I know.” I know he’s sorry—for hurting me, for loving me and that I’m being put through this, for Tawny, for the uncertainty, for my own insecurities when it comes to what I can’t give him … so many things I know he’s sorry for … and the biggest one is that he’s sorry for letting me walk away right now because he can’t find it in him to ask me to stay.

“I’m so proud of you, buddy.” I look into Zander’s eyes and fight my own tears. I want him to see the depth of feelings I have for him and for what he just did. For giving the district attorney all they needed to press formal charges against a man that’s disappeared like the wind. To sit at a table full of scary grown-ups and explain, in a voice you just found again, how your father murdered your mother—how he attacked her from behind, stabbed her repeatedly and then waited for her to die while you hid behind the couch because you were supposed to be in bed. Now that, is a courageous kid. I squeeze him tight in my arms, more for me than for him, and wish I could take away the memory from him.

“How’d you get so brave?” I ask him.

I don’t expect an answer, but when he responds it stops me in my tracks.

“The superheroes helped me,” he says with a shrug. I force a swallow down my throat burning with so much emotion I can’t speak. I look into the eyes of a little boy that I love with all my heart, and I can’t help but see pieces of the grown man who owns it too. My heart twists for both, and even though I am filled with such an incredible sense of pride, it’s tinged with a bit of sadness because I know Colton would want to know what Zander did today. The imaginary barriers he vaulted over that most adults could never fathom.

But I can’t tell him.

It’s been four days since I left his house.

Four days without speaking.

Four days for him, for us to get our individual shit together.

And four days of absolute chaos for me in more ways than one: The House, my emotions, the media frenzy over a possible baby, missing Colton.

I tell Zander I’ll put his beloved stuffed dog in his bedroom and tell him to go play tag with the rest of the boys. Go be a kid, play, laugh, and forget the images that haunt him—if that’s even possible.

I go through the motions of getting dinner together, while the familiar and comforting sounds of the boys outside help me cope.

I miss Colton. We’ve been together every day for over a month and I’m used to his presence, his smile, the sound of his voice. I’m hurt he hasn’t called but at the same time I don’t expect him to. Other than texting to make sure I’d gotten home okay and the song I Am Human, I haven’t heard from him. He has a lot to figure out, a lot to come to terms with. And God yes, I want to be there by his side, helping him figure it all out, but it’s not my situation to figure out. Plain and simple.

I can’t count how many times I’ve picked up the phone to call him—to hear his voice, to see how he’s doing, to just say hi—but I can’t. I know better than anyone that until Colton lets me back in to his barricaded heart, a call won’t do any good.

I frost the cake I’d made earlier as a little reward for Zander’s bravery today, when my phone rings. I look over at the screen and push ignore. It’s an unknown number and most likely a journalist wanting to pay me handsomely for my side of Tawny’s story. She’s told the press that I am the mistress who broke up her, the pregnant victim, and the love of her life … Colton.

The only blessing is that the paparazzi have not discovered The House yet. But I know it’s not long until they do, and I’m still trying to figure out what do I do then?