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I’ve spent almost four years protecting this woman, but over the course of five days without her, I’ve forgotten what it feels like be needed.
    "Erica—"
    "Forget it. I’ll call him later. I’m on the way." She hangs up.
    I toss his phone on the bed, heading into my closet for a moment alone and to grab some clothes. I pull on a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt while readying myself for the shitstorm I know is approaching.
    Slate is staring out the window when I emerge from the closet. He’s pissed, but this is Slate. We are going to butt heads no matter what.
    "Sit down and start talking," he says in a surprisingly patient tone, which he usually reserves only for Erica.
    I decide to start with a lie. After all, I’ve spent years telling them—it should be easy.
    "I’m just making up for lost time. That’s all. Went out, got a little drunk. I must not have heard my phone when she called."
    "Bullshit," he snaps. "She’s been calling you for three days."
    "Look, thanks for coming, but I’m not doing this with you."
    "You need serious help, Leo. Erica and I have started counseling—"
    "I’m glad to see that Erica is getting help, but beyond that, I don’t give two fucks how awesome counseling is working out for you!" I shout.
    No therapist in the world is going to change the decisions I’ve made in the past. I’m not dealing with something that happened to me; I’m crippled by the guilt of something I did. There’s a big difference—one that can’t just be overcome.
    "I don’t get this sudden change in you. You are probably the most levelheaded person I know. You’re finally free to live whatever life you want, but you’re spending your days drinking and ignoring the people who love you. You’re having some issues, so let’s figure it out so we can all move the fuck on."
    I’m not sure why his words send fire through my veins. Maybe it’s because the very idea of moving on seems impossible and the words of hope are like dangling a steak in front of a starving man.
    I just need someone to hate me as much as I hate myself. I know Erica won’t do it, so Slate’s on deck.
    "That night while your beautiful bride was tied to a bed, naked—"
    His face morphs and he immediately stops me. "Don’t fucking do this. You’re not provoking me."
    I spit out the venomous words anyway. "You know…when I sent all those men in to rape her."
    "Shut your fucking mouth, Leo. Goddamn it, we are not talking about this."
    "It must be nice—to be able to just turn it off." I roll my eyes and head to the kitchen.
    "I know you’re struggling, and it’s okay. We’re going to get you help," Slate announces, following me from the room.
    "I don’t need help. I need a goddamn escape."
    "Don’t spew bullshit like that. What the hell is going through your head right now?" he asks.
    The truth explodes from my throat. "Her screams! That’s what is always going through my head. The sounds of her screaming while I stood helpless on the other side of that door play in a never-ending loop. All day. All night. No matter what I do. I can’t block it out!"

    "SARAH! WOW. You look beautiful tonight." I lean in and give her a hug when she walks out of the restaurant. Fuck that stupid handshake shit she tried to pull earlier.
    I take a step away, and she watches me blankly, but the smallest smile plays on her lips.
    "All right. I’ve officially ditched the parents. Where are you taking me for my celebratory dinner? It better be good. It’s not every day I get a big, fancy receptionist position," she says playfully.
    "Come on. I’ll show you." I offer her an elbow, and she doesn’t hesitate in sliding her arm through mine.
    "So tell me about yourself," she inquires as we stroll arm in arm the two blocks to the restaurant.
    "Well, hmmm… What do you want to know?" I smile down at the very moment she looks up through her lashes. Jesus, she is gorgeous. No one could possibly describe her as anything else, but I know there’s more