There he was, making his way through the crowd of people. An overwhelming sense of relief washed over me. He hurried across the grassy area separating us, and my eyes raked over him, looking for signs of hurt. But except for a smudge of soot on his cheek and a cut on his hand, he seemed okay in spite of what had just happened.

When he drew near, he pulled me into his arms for a bone-crushing hug. "Are you okay?" he asked desperately. "Tell me you're okay."

"I'm fine," I gasped, running my hands along his back. "Are you?"

The muscles in his shoulders tensed underneath my fingers, as if he had just remembered something. "Yes," he muttered, pulling away from me.

"God, I'm so glad," I said, reluctantly letting go of him.

He didn't say anything, and kept his eyes cast on the ground. His shoulders slumped. I looked at him intently.

"Jax," I said, my voice tinged with concern, "What happened out there?"

He winced and took a step back, furthering the distance between us. When he lifted his eyes to mine, his haunted expression shocked me. "I don't want to talk about it," he said, his voice hoarse.

My heart thudded in my chest. Something was wrong. How could there not be, when he'd stayed on that stage, playing his guitar as everything burned all around him?

And whatever was wrong, this wasn't the place to deal with it. Not surrounded by all these people. "What if we went back to the bus?" I rushed out. "Maybe you'll feel better there. We can be alone."

His mouth set in a thin line, like he was suppressing some kind of hurt, for what seemed like a long time before he finally nodded. A deep uneasiness settled in my chest. Instinctively I reached out and took his hand, not sure of who I wanted to comfort more—him or me. He hesitated, then his fingers curled around mine in a tight grip. A flash of his old tenderness awoke in his eyes.

But then it was gone, and his eyes filled with pain again. Swallowing, I kept his hand wrapped tightly in mine as we made our way through the throngs of people.

We walked together through the fairgrounds in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. Every now and then I caught a glimpse of his anguished eyes resting on mine and a pain shot through my heart. He hadn't always been this way, not when I'd first met him—he'd been troubled, sure, but not this dark. Never this dark.

When we got back to the bus, I followed Jax into the common area and sat down nervously. He stayed standing, eventually beginning to pace up and down the bus, clenching and unclenching his fists. His eyes were distant and unfocused, as if he was trying to untie a knot in his mind.

As he paced, my anxiety grew.

"What is it?" I blurted out, unable to bear the sight of him in pain any longer. "Please talk to me."

He stopped, and gave me a look that was part fear, part misery. "I don't know what to do," he said, his voice wracked with anguish.

A chill wrapped around my spine. His face was wild in a way I'd never seen before. Why was he looking at me like that? "You're scaring me," I said. "Tell me what's wrong."

He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes widening. "When I saw you fall . . ." He stopped, his jaw clenching. "You could've been hurt," he went on, a tortured look on his face. "And it was my fault. All mine."

I stared at him. "How was that your fault? You didn't knock me over."

He shook his head. "No. Before that. The crowd was pissed and I just gave it right back to them and made it worse. And you were in there!" He grimaced. "I'm just . . . I'm not thinking right, Riley."

He began pacing again with quick, agitated movements, as if by doing so he could escape whatever tormented him.

I watched him with uneasy eyes. "This was a one time thing, Jax. And I'm fine."

He pressed his hands to his temples. "It's not just one time!" he groaned. "This has been happening. It will keep on happening."

My heart sank at the frustration in his voice. "We don't know that."

"I know that!" he shouted, his eyes wide with panic. "You're not safe around me."

The conviction in his voice scared me, even more than the tortured intensity in his eyes. "Jax," I pleaded, "Stop."

My words bounced off of him, not slowing him down for a second as he kept on pacing up and down the room. "Why do you keep putting up with my shit?" he growled, glancing at where I sat huddled on the couch.

"You know why," I said, my voice unsteady.

That made him stop in mid-step. "Yeah," he said, his voice dropping lower. "I know." His jaw worked as he struggled to find more words. "That's what makes this so fucked."

The oppressive weight in my chest grew heavier. "What do you mean?"

A pained expression flashed across his face, then he lowered himself slowly to sit next to me, his mouth set in a grim line. Reaching out, he touched my hand for a second, then looked down at the floor. It was a moment before he spoke. "I don't know if I can do this anymore," he said in a quiet voice.

My stomach clenched with a sudden sickness. "No," I cried, "You can't mean that. Not now."

His shoulders hunched, and he rocked forward, still not looking at me. "I don't know, Riley. I don't know what to think about anything anymore." He picked his head up swiftly, and his desperate gaze pierced me to my core. "But I can't see you get hurt, and I don't think I can promise you that won't happen."

Tears welled up in my eyes. "But why? I don't understand. Why can't we fix this?"

His jaw tightened, and the stubborn look in his eyes was one I knew all too well. "This isn't something you can fix."

"So it's a problem with me, then?" I said in a small voice. "I did my best to be there for you, Jax."

He winced. "No, it's not you . . . but it is. Fuck, this is so fucked up!" He slammed his hand against the couch.

A fresh wound ripped open in my heart. So that was it—he just didn't want to be with me anymore. "So it's me," I said, grimacing with pain.

His eyes widened. "No, Riley, I didn't mean that. Not that way. You're the best girlfriend, everything I ever wanted. Everything I never dreamed I'd have." He stopped, his voice choking. "You've been so good to me. God knows I haven't deserved it."

I looked up at him, and read the truth in his eyes, and in the firm line of his lips. My head swam with confusion. "Then why?"

He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked defeated. Hopeless. "I have PTSD, Riley." His voice sounded bitter. "Post traumatic stress. From that night with Darrel."

My eyes widened, and I pressed my lips together, unable to speak as my mind reeled. PTSD, like the Iraq War vets got sometimes. Of course—it all made sense now. Since that night with Darrel, he'd been acting totally differently. Like someone still trapped in hell.

I dashed away a tear, a small sensation of hope growing in my chest. At least now I knew what we were fighting against. "But that's something you can get better from, right?"

He nodded, but defeat still hung around his slumped shoulders.

I touched his arm, making him turn and look at me. I gazed deep into his eyes, searching in their wounded depths for some way to make this right. "Then why not let me help you? Why are you doing this to me? To us?"