Shit.

“I know. That’s all good. I’m not worried about that, Hattie.”

“Okay,” she said hesitantly.

Shit.

She did not need to think he was worried about that, because she was being super chill about all that was going down. She hadn’t freaked once.

But if she thought he was worried about it, she might start worrying about it.

“That piece is titled ‘Tripped.’ ”

“Pardon?”

“The one in the window. It’s titled ‘Tripped.’ ”

She said nothing, but he felt her gaze keen on him.

“I had a buddy in the service. We were tight. He stepped on a land mine.”

She gasped.

Yeah.

That was not even close to it.

“Axl,” she said gently, her fingers curling on his thigh.

“He was in front of me. I saw it.”

“Oh my God, Axl.” Her fingers squeezed tight and didn’t let up.

“So,” he cleared his throat, “yeah.”

“So that piece … called ‘Tripped’ …is a representation of a land mine exploding?”

Yep.

She got it.

“Yeah.”

“Why …I …it’s …” She pulled it together. “It’s an amazing piece, but why do you have it?”

“A vet who’s a friend of another buddy of mine, also from the army, got into art when he got out. That’s his thing. Making stuff like that into what you see in my living room.”

“Making an instrument of death beautiful?”

She sounded horrified.

“Fucking with your head that an instrument of death could be beautiful. It’s not. It’s hideous and destructive. It’s a political statement that the men who sit at desks, never in danger, never even under imminent threat, should be very clear in making decisions about when and why they send men and women into that. The cause should be just. It should be to protect our loved ones and our way of life. Not protect their financial interests.”

“Although I hope it goes without saying that I agree with all of that, I hate to say this, but I didn’t get that from that piece,” she said carefully.

“That’s the point. You’ll never get it, Hattie, not really. And I thank fuck for that. They won’t either.”

She fell silent.

He spoke into it.

“I went to a show of his. I was in a mood. In a mood to support a fellow vet, because that piece cost a fuckin’ fortune. And in the mood to be confronted with that reality in my living room.”

“Axl—”

Christ, he’d started.

Now it didn’t seem like he could stop.

“The flag on my dresser came from his casket. He was a foster kid. He had no one else for them to give it to. No one but me. He fought hard not to get caught up in bad shit growing up. And part of that fight was to enlist and have a job that was good and right and far from all that in a way, even when he was out, he could go to school and stay away from it forever. He didn’t get that shot.”

She was rhythmically squeezing his thigh now.

But when he was done, she said, “Maybe we should talk about this when we have time and you’re not driving.”

“I don’t talk about it.”

“What?” she whispered, and there was a thread to it, worry, maybe even fear.

“To the guys … yeah.” That was a grunt. “To you, this is all there’s gonna be.”

“Honey—”

“That’s what it looked like, except in the middle of it, flying apart, there was a big Black man that had a huge smile, a sense of humor so wicked good, he could have been a standup comedian, and he was such a solid guy to his core, he never had anyone give it to him his entire life, but his sense of loyalty was second to none. That piece is what a land mine looks like when it’s triggered. Exactly.”

She didn’t say anything.

And he knew why.

“So that, Hattie, is why we won’t talk about it. Because now you have some small sense of how hideous and destructive it is, and outside this, I’m not gonna lay that on you.”

She slid her hand from his thigh.

He glanced at her.

Maybe for the first time since he met her, he couldn’t read her face, and it wasn’t because it was in profile.

And he did not like that at all.

“Babe, it’s too much. If I need to, I talk to the guys. If they need to, they talk to me. That doesn’t touch you.”

“What was his name?”

“Jordan.”

“First or last?”

“First. Full name Jordan Bridges.”

Then … nothing.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” he muttered. “You got a shower to have fun at and—”

“I’m shy, and there are things about me that are messed up, but I’m not weak,” she declared.

“I know you’re not,” he said fast. “I know that, honey. You’re tougher than you think.”

“No,” she stated, and he knew she was looking at him. “I’m tougher than you think.”

Shit.

Now he was getting pissed.

“It’s not about that, and not to be a dick, babe, but it’s also not about you.”

She grew quiet again.

He drove.

They didn’t speak all the way to her house, and because they didn’t, because she didn’t set shit straight, he got more pissed.

So they also didn’t speak as they went in the back door and she grabbed her present.

And they didn’t speak all the way to Jet and Eddie’s.

He stopped, idling at the front, and looked to her.

“Text when you’re done,” he said shortly.

“All right,” she replied.

She turned to the door.

Then she turned back.

And laid him out.

“You’re right. It isn’t about me. It’s yours to give if you want, to withhold if you don’t. But something to think on, Axl, my situation with my father is mine. It isn’t yours. In a certain sense, it’s none of your business at all. But in what we’re building, it’s totally your business. If you let me struggle with that on my own, you’d be the shittiest boyfriend in history. You lost someone you obviously cared about deeply, and I cannot even imagine how it felt watching him die. I hate that for you. I hate it. But I need to know Jordan Bridges, not just because, with every passing minute I spend with you, you mean more to me, so I need to know you. But more importantly, I get the strong sense Jordan deserves to be known. I love how protective you are of me. But this isn’t going to work if you protect me from you.”