The feeling was spreading fast, coming up from my feet to my legs, my thighs, my stomach. It flared up my sternum, my chest. Through my shoulders. Down my arms. My fingers. Up to my neck, rising, rising until I looked at him.

I knew a tear fell.

“Once, yes.”

“How bad was it?”

My voice was hoarse. “Does it matter? He wasn’t in his right mind.”

“It matters.” His hands tightened on my shoulders, his fingers curving into my skin. “Please tell me the truth.”

I looked away. I couldn’t see whatever I was going to see in his eyes as I remembered this. I wouldn’t be able to deal with it.

The words spilled, for the first time. “He beat the shit out of me.”

He dragged in his air.

“It was the only time, but I’d started noticing little things. He wasn’t in control of himself anymore.”

“What happened?”

God. Really? My throat wasn’t completely numb. It was hurting, squeezing, tightening.

“When I woke up, he was eating popcorn and laughing at Impractical Jokers. I got up, and he looked surprised. He didn’t remember hurting me.”

“Fucking hell.” Reese hissed as he ripped himself away from me. His hands balled into fists, pressed at his sides, and he turned his back to me. He faced the door, his shoulders tightening.

“He was tore up about it, and he never hit me again, but there were other things. Small things sometimes. Big things toward the end. He stole groceries from a drive-up lane. He thought they were ours, but he’d already put our groceries in the trunk. Another time, he left the oven on during the night.”

Reese’s head raised up. His shoulders bulged.

“His short-term memory was getting bad. He would forget things he’d done the day before. One time he forgot my name. Another time his own. Just for a moment—then he’d be back. He’d be normal again.”

“How long?”

He turned back, a rawness in his eyes.

“How long what?” I could only get a whisper out now.

“How long did you take care of him until you got help?”

That question punched me, right in the diaphragm. He didn’t know how much guilt came with that answer, how much shame, how much pain sliced through me. “He started showing symptoms three years in.”

“Before what? How did the relationship end?”

I closed my eyes, shaking my head. “I can’t, Reese. Don’t make me tell you everything. I can’t. Not yet.”

He stepped closer. I could feel him, and he spoke so softly that it broke the rest of me apart. “How long did you have to breathe for him? Before you got help?”

I was crying.

I couldn’t feel the tears, but I knew they were there.

I saw them falling to the floor, some hitting my shoes.

“Too long.”

“How long were you guys together in total?”

I paused, not because it wasn’t in me to answer, but because my vocal cords had frozen. One beat. Two. Three, and then I could speak again. “Seven years.”

I’d had two years, two amazing years with my soulmate.

He cursed under his breath, then stepped close to me. His arms came around me, his hand cradling the back of my head, and at first I just stood there.

I had never spoken about what I went through.

I never said any of it out loud, just explained the bare minimum to his mother before they’d stepped in to help with him. I had to write out a list of behaviors and events for a lawyer once, but that’d been it. No one else knew—until now, until Reese. My parents. My siblings. My friends. No one. And in some ways, even I didn’t know it all.

It was out now, though.

I had a bleak thought, standing in Reese’s arms, that Trent had gotten what he wanted. Grant had gotten what he wanted. I was dealing with life again.

Then I crumbled.

Reese caught me. He held me, righting me so I didn’t totally fall to the floor. He went with me, moving so we were sitting in a corner of the room, me between his legs. He folded his arms around me, and I broke apart, my sleeve stuffed in my mouth to quiet my tears.

I was still sitting in his arms, resting against his chest when I heard people leaving the dining area.

“You should go eat.”

“Fuck eating.” His chest rumbled from his words.

We heard a voice asking for Reese through the kitchen, then a tentative knock on the door.

“Reese?” It was Juan.

He opened the door, his head poking in and his eyes sweeping the room until he saw us. He didn’t look surprised to see how we were, just pursed his lips together a second.

“Uh. Coach wants a word with you. We’re having a meeting, then we’re doing practice in an hour.” His eyes flashed to mine, an apology flaring. “You got some keys on you? I can open the courts for you, if you want?”

Oh. That made me feel nice, but crappy. I shook my head, scrambling up. Every inch of me protested as I pulled away from Reese, but I had a job to do. No way would I let a camper, and a professional ball player at that, do my job for me.

“I got it. I’m okay. Minor meltdown on pause.” It was a lame attempt at a joke, and it fell flat. No one laughed.

Reese stood behind me. “Coach is mad at me?”