Rules of a Rebel and a Shy Girl(74)

She turns her head away from the window, her eyes glassy with tears. “My mom. When she asked me for money yesterday, she broke them ... all except the one you gave me, which was completely by accident, but I was still so glad.” She rolls her eyes at herself and sighs. “I don’t know why I just said that. Out of all the things I could’ve said, that’s my opening line.”

“I’m glad you told me.” I reach over and lace our fingers together, hoping she doesn’t pull away. “What I don’t like is that she broke them. I know how much they meant to you.”

She stares at our interlaced fingers. “They only meant something to me because my dad was gone and I thought I’d never see him again. Now that I have … I’m kind of glad they broke.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffling before lifting her gaze to mine. “How bad of a person does it make me that I want to forget my dad exists?”

I shake my head. “It doesn’t make you a bad person at all. I want to forget my dad exists, and he didn’t even walk out on me.”

She angles her body toward the console. “Yeah, but he treats you so poorly. He doesn’t even deserve to be in your life.”

“And neither does your dad if you don’t want him to,” I tell her, skimming my thumb along the back of her hand. “You earned the right to hate him the second he bailed on you. You don’t owe him anything, just like you don’t owe your mom anything. The only person you do owe something to is yourself.”

“I don’t agree with you,” she mutters. “I haven’t done anything to deserve anything.”

I think she’s referring to that job again. When she told me about it, I wanted to track her mom down and scream at her for being a shitty parent and making Willow think she needed to do anything to take care of her, things that are causing her self-torment. And her dad isn’t any better. He never should’ve left her to begin with. Although, after telling me about the creeper he chased off last night, I’m glad he decided to try to come back into Willow’s life. But fuck, the fact that she was even in that situation makes me want to lock her up and keep her safe forever, even if that does make me sound like a controlling asshole.

“Can I ask you something?” I approach cautiously.

“Yeah …” She hesitates then nods. “Go ahead. I owe you that much.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I want to make sure you’re not planning on going back to that place.”

Humiliation pours from her eyes. “You mean the club?”

I nod, grazing my finger along the back of her hand again. “After what you told me … with what happened with that guy … and then with your boss wanting you to …” I take a composing breath. “I just want to make sure you don’t plan on going back there.”

Her fingers tighten around mine. “I was never planning on doing that … I mean, the whole …”—her cheeks turn bright red—“stripping thing. I can barely stand being near the stage, let alone on it.”

“So, you’re not going back?”

“No … But I do have to go back to get my final paycheck.” Her shoulders slump. “God, I’m picking up my final paycheck, and I don’t even have a job lined up yet.”

My lips part. “That’s okay. I can—”

“No, you can’t,” she says.

Goddammit, she’s so stubborn.

“I don’t know why you can’t just accept my help. I mean, I do know why since I understand you. But I really wish you’d just move in with me and let me help you like I want to.”

She stares down at our interlaced fingers again. After a moment or two, a smile tugs at the corners of her lips. She quickly clears the look away before I can figure out what’s got her smiling.

“Did you mean it?” she asks quietly.

I slow down the car to make a turn into my neighborhood. “Mean what?”

“All that stuff on the list,” she says, giving me a tentative look.

I carry her gaze. “Of course I meant it. Every damn word.” Her lips start to turn upward again, so I press on, wanting a full smile. “Especially the pillow fighting part. That was actually the most important part of the list, so make sure to remember that when I knock on your door at two o’clock in the morning.”

Her laughter bursts through, and the wall of tension around us crumbles into dust.

“All right, I’ll keep it in mind,” she says. “But maybe we should make them ten o’clock pillow fights. I’d really like to start going to bed at a decent hour.”