Chapter Twenty-Three
The guitar was cast aside. Tyler’s arms encircled her.
“I’m sorry,” Tyler whispered.
No wonder the butterflies in the field had affected her the way they had. No wonder Heart’s beautiful tattoo. It was a tribute to her sister. The design was so ethereal, and now he knew why. How had she died? He sensed Heart felt responsible. “My family’s not that close… And I have a lot to do with that.”
Whatever that meant, perhaps those words were part of this story about Monica. His hand, holding hers upon her belly, teased it loose from clenching the fabric of her tiny blouse and skirt, that dammit, would have all the guys looking at her tonight.
His fingers laced with hers as his other cupped her head to his pectoral.
“I didn’t mean to pry.” He’d meant to pry.
Heather was like a ball of fun on the outside, but now he knew it for the shield it was.
She cleared her throat and forced a laugh, a little too chipper, and sat upright. “It’s okay.”
It wasn’t okay, but he knew what she meant.
“How old were you?” He let her pull away, but their hands across her belly stayed meshed.
“Monarch was fifteen.”
“Not what I asked. How old were you?”
He eyed her, feeling tightness in his chest and bracing himself for the answer. “Twelve.”
He tightened his fingers laced with hers. Twelve. Goddammit. The weight of that hit him. How did a kid Seth’s age cope with that kind of loss? How did the parents? When his family had thought Travis had been killed overseas, Pops had shut down. Cried. Momma had poured her energy into himself and Toby. Things about Heart were clicking into place. Lawyer brain was putting what he knew about her in a chronology, piecing together snippets of her story.
“Your scar?”
She pushed abruptly to her feet, her hand yanking from his, snatched up his plaid and slipped her arms into it so that it hung down her back, covering her skirt, so only bare legs were visible. Yup. Her scar. Her actions screamed so loudly, she didn’t have to confirm or deny a thing.
“What happened, sweetheart?” he murmured.
“Monarch had just gotten her driving permit.” She remained facing away. “I begged her to drive me to the museum of art, because they had a modernist exhibit my teacher had told me about.” She shook her head. “She wasn’t supposed to, but I begged and whined and she was excited to drive and needed an excuse, so she finally caved. It was only ten minutes down the highway. So easy. She was going to miss her highway exit.” Heather paused. Still facing away from him, and sickness twisted his gut with anticipation. “She couldn’t get over in time. Slammed into the—” Heather’s breath rushed out. She inhaled hard.
Tyler was on his feet, hands on her shoulders.
“Slammed into the cement wall.” She exhaled, winded. “I ended up with metal crumpled through my abdomen and a massive concussion. She died on impact.”
His arms came around her from behind. Cinched around her shoulders and neck, cheek buried against her hair. Tears had leaked a trail down her skin and wouldn’t stop, collecting on her chin, and dripped onto his forearm. He pressed his lips against her skin. Flashes of the car accident, of Isabella trapped and his boys, thankfully in their car seats, screaming, blinked like a movie reel, and he squeezed her. He’d almost lost everything that day due to Izzy’s selfishness and desperation. Heart had lost everything. A parent’s worst nightmare.
“Shh,” he whispered.
She laughed, a garbled sound, and cleared her throat. “I’m ruining our first date as boyfriend and girlfriend, if you even still want to be—”
“Don’t,” he growled, reeling her backward and pinning her between his thighs as he sat back down on the bench. He extended his legs around hers, caging her into him, the piano at his back and his forehead resting to her belly.
If anything, she was opening herself to him, finally. Trusting me.
“My family doesn’t talk about it.” Tears dripped on his forehead. “It’s my fault she was on the highway. It’s my fault she—”
“Naw, sweetheart—”
“Yeah, it is. And after what I know about your wife? Your anger at her because of that wreck? How can you even look at me let alone think I’d be good with your kids?”
“You were a kid, sweetheart. Just a kid.”