“I don’t want it to hit you.” His voice is sharp and rough. “I want you to feel safe with me. Always.”

“I want that too. Without hesitation or reservation.” A lump clogs my throat, and my voice comes out in a rasp. “But sometimes what we want isn’t what we get.”

The corner of his eye twitches. “Delilah, I’ve known that my whole life. The only difference here is that it hurts more than I can handle.”

Macon

I walked away. I couldn’t see that look in her eyes. Regret. Shame. A mistake.

Every inch of me hurts. There is a crushing weight in my chest, claws grasping at my throat.

I’m Macon Saint, untouchable, the one everyone wants to be near. I am nothing. Stupid, disrespectful, lazy boy. That’s what my father always called me. Though I’ve tried over the years, I can never fully rid myself of that old hurt. Just a glimpse of his face, the memory of his voice is enough to yank me back into that shell of a boy who felt small and helpless. How can I fault Delilah for having the same knee-jerk reaction to the things I said to her?

Some things you can never forget. Like the moment I saw that girl on a red bike coasting along the road, weaving back and forth in a serpentine pattern. Nut-brown skin and glossy brown hair streaked with copper and gold spoke of days spent in the sun. She appeared happy and well fed. Carefree. She didn’t sit on her seat but balanced on the pedals, humming some tune off-key as she glided. A butterfly girl in the sun.

Her dark eyes caught sight of me, and a knot of dread formed beneath my breastbone. I didn’t want her to see me. My face was hot and throbbed in time to the beat of my heart. It was probably red and swollen at my cheek where my father had hit me. But she didn’t heed my warning glare and rode over.

She had chubby cheeks, a snub nose, and eyes the color of the butterscotch candies our maid Janet sometimes slipped me when no one was looking. And she was bigger than me. By at least a few inches. I knew she’d just moved into the neighborhood.

I knew the house. It was one of a dozen bungalow-style houses built sometime during the 1920s. Nothing like the monstrosity of a mansion I lived in, looming at the end of the road. I’d seen two girls running around on the lawn while their father watered the pink rhododendrons and laughed at their antics.

She was loved.

She looked at me on that first meeting with those strangely golden eyes surrounded by dark lashes. Looked at me like she saw it all: the pain, the isolation, the sadness. I couldn’t breathe from all that looking. This pretty, happy girl on her bike had everything I wanted: a sister, parents who loved her. She belonged in the world, and I didn’t.

Rage choked me, thick as grits sliding off a hot spoon. Stupid boy. Lazy, disrespectful little shit.

She peered at me and seemed to come to some conclusion. “Maybe you’d like a friend?”

A friend. I didn’t have friends. Didn’t want them. Didn’t want her. That choking rage took root and found a voice. I spit it out like bitter blades. “You stupid or something?”

Butterscotch eyes widened in hurt.

Stupid boy.

Stupid.

Stupid . . .

Regret presses in on me. If I could go back to that moment in time, I would. I would have told that sweet little girl yes. Yes, I needed a friend. I needed one so badly. Someone to show me what simple kindness was so I’d know it when I saw it. So I wouldn’t push it away with both hands.

But I can’t go back. I chose the wrong girl to cling to back then. I let my father win, became the stupid boy he so often accused me of being. That boy still lives, grown to a man everyone calls Saint. The devil with an angel’s name.

Everyone except her.

She thinks we’re a mistake. For her, I am one. I understand that now. I don’t want it to be true. But I understand it. And there is only one thing I can think of to fix this. I have to let her know everything.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Delilah

I flee. To the safest place on earth—my mama’s kitchen.

“Now then,” Mama asks when I’m settled at the battered round oak table I’ve eaten meals on since childhood. “Why are you here looking like someone kicked your dog?”

“I don’t have a dog, Mama.”

Her red lips purse. “It’s an expression.”

“It’s a terrible expression. Who would do that? Why would I want to picture it?”

“Stop evading, Delilah Ann. Out with it.”

I take a deep breath. “I heard from Sam.”

She doesn’t move, but I see the relief in her eyes. “I knew she’d turn up sooner or later. Though I’d hoped for sooner.”