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When I think about it, I know where I went wrong… I got Daniel, the greatest gift in the world, from the most selfish asshole ever… Damn you, Tanner.

I don’t realize I’ve been screaming until Tanner comes bursting through the door.

“What’s wrong, Ashely?”

The sight of him only adds to my pain.

“Get the fuck away from me!”

“What’s wrong?” he asks again, ignoring my request. “You’re screaming bloody murder. Does something hurt?”

He walks toward the bed, and when he gets close enough, I can’t help but take a swing at him with my good arm. The punch hits him in chest, the only body part I can easily reach. I hit him once more before he grabs my wrist.

“Did that you make you feel better? Tell me what’s wrong.” There’s a mixture of emotions on his face, but I don’t care enough to worry about which ones they are.

“You’re what’s wrong. Get the hell away from me. I hate you!
I hate you!
” I yell. “But you’re always fucking here. Because of you, I lost the most important thing ever, and I didn’t even get to see him. But you did. You, the one who did everything wrong, got what I should have.”

He sighs. “Ashley.” He releases my wrist but only to run his hand up my arm.

I yank my hand from his grasp and hit him again.

“GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME! DON’T TOUCH ME!” I scream. My screams turn into sobs. I sit in my bed, hunched over, my head in my good hand as I continue to cry for everything I’ve lost.

“Ashley,” Tanner whispers.

“Go. Just leave me alone. Just get out of my life. Please.”

I hear his footsteps as he retreats toward the door, and when it clicks closed, another round of sobs leave my body.

Chapter 22

Tanner

What the hell just happened?

I stand outside her door, listening to her cry her heart out, and she won’t let me do a thing about it. I have no clue what set her off, but I’m becoming more and more worried about her. She’s just so goddamn angry all the time. I understand her pain, really I do, but how long is she going to keep this up?

I slide down the wall to sit on the floor outside her door. I want to stay close, just in case she fully breaks. I feel it coming. Maybe today‘s her tipping point. It’s hard to tell with her refusing to talk to me. Well, she talks to me sometimes, but only to tell me to go fuck off or leave her alone. Ashley telling me not to touch her cut me deeply, more deeply than I’d like to admit. Nothing has ever brought me as much joy as touching Ashley—the feel of her skin, the way her eyes used to shine brightly when she smiled at me, her laughter, the way she fit in my arms as though there was nowhere else she ever belonged. I would give anything to have her look at me with adoration again instead of hatred.

Her wailing grows louder and more high-pitched just as Quinn comes through the front door. She stands at the end of the hallway, a look of sympathy on her face.

“What happened?” she asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” I say. “She just started screaming, and when I went to check on her, she threw a huge fit. She punched me and kicked me out after telling me for the thousandth time how much she hates me.”

Quinn slides down the wall to sit next me. “I’m so sorry. I know how hard this must be for you.”

“It’s okay. She needs you though. You should go check on her. I’m sure she’ll talk to you.” I don’t want Quinn to comfort me. I don’t deserve it.

“Okay, are you going to hang around until I find out what’s wrong?” she asks, standing again.

“Yeah, then maybe I’ll figure out how I pissed her off without being anywhere near her, so I can avoid doing it again tomorrow,” I say, feeling resigned as I watch Quinn head into Ashley’s room.

I push myself off the floor and head to the living room to give the girls some privacy. The idea of hanging around the door now that Ashley has someone in there to confide in makes me feel like a weird stalker. I take up my post on the couch again and wait for Quinn to come out.

It feels as though hours pass before Quinn comes out, but a glance at the clock tells me it’s only been half an hour. She heads to kitchen before coming into the living room with a glass of wine for her and a beer for me.

“It’s worse than I thought,” she says after a sip of wine.

“What’s going on?”

“She was watching some dumb show about babies—pregnant woman and their roads to becoming mothers or some shit like that,” she says, staring into her wine glass as if it holds all the answers to her problems.

“Jesus.” Why would she do that to herself?

“I don’t know what to do, Tanner,” Quinn says, bringing her eyes up to meet mine. There’s a pleading look in them, as though she’s begging me to help her figure this situation out.

I rub the back of my neck, feeling a bad headache coming on. “Quinn, I’m more clueless than you. She won’t talk to me unless it’s to tell me what a piece of shit she thinks I am.”

Tears well in Quinn’s eyes. “I love her. I do. But how much of this am I supposed to take? I get that she’s angry, but what the hell did I do? I’ve done nothing but support her. Her mood swings are giving me whiplash, and since I cut back on her meds so she can’t use them as an escape, she’s gotten even bitchier.” She doesn’t deserve Ashley’s anger, and she’s most likely its target because of me.

I sigh. “I can only go by what she tells me, which isn’t much. I didn’t realize things were so bad. Maybe she needs to speak to someone who can help her through this. You and I can’t do this alone.” A professional could help our girl start to heal.

“She won’t go for that,” Quinn says, seeming defeated as she wipes a stray tear from her cheek.

“Well, we won’t give her a choice. I have no problem being the bad guy. I’ll take her, make her go. I bet she’d rather do that for an hour than spend it with me,” I point out.

Quinn chuckles. “Good point.”

I know she doesn’t mean anything by laughing, but it hurts to admit that Ashley would rather do almost anything other than be near me. I can’t help the frown that spreads across my face.

“I’m sorry, Tanner. It must be rough. You’re not an asshole or the bad guy, so don’t let her convince you otherwise.”

I smile sadly as I push myself off of the couch. “Doesn’t matter if I am or not. I’ve already made my bed with one mistake.” I hold out a hand to help Quinn up. “Come on. Let’s go tell Ash we’re making her see a therapist. I wonder how loud the explosion will be this time.”

Quinn laughs. “She’s going to blow a gasket.”

Is this what dealing with Ashley has come to—us plotting behind her back, making decisions for her, and laughing at the fact that there’s a good chance she’ll go nuclear on us? Either way, no matter what I do, she’s going to hate me, so I might as well force her to deal with her problems and get better.

Quinn knocks on Ash’s door before we head in.

We find her sitting in the same spot she always is. It’s not as though she can sprawl out or move around much. Tears are rolling down her face as she stares are the TV. The couple on screen talk about waiting for the arrival of their baby as the husband rubs his wife’s very pregnant stomach.

A piece of my heart breaks looking at the longing and sadness in Ashley’s eyes.

“Dammit, I told you to stop watching this shit,” Quinn yells, walking over to grab the remote from her hand.

Ashley just continues to stare at the screen that is now thankfully devoid of soon-to-be parents.

“Ashley, you can’t keep doing this to yourself,” I say softly, almost apprehensively, not stepping through the door. I don’t want to set her off more by getting too close.

“I didn’t do this to me. You did this to me,” she answers, her gaze snapping up to meet mine. The fire burning there is almost hot enough to melt me on the spot.

“That’s enough,” Quinn says, directing Ashley’s attention toward herself and effectively ending the “blame the world’s problems on Tanner” session before it gets started. “You’re not doing this again. You need to speak to someone. It’s time to start thinking about a therapist.”

“I don’t need a shrink,” she growls. “I’m grieving. I’m allowed to grieve my losses.” She snaps her head around to glare at me, a not-so-subtle reminder that I’m to blame for her losing anything.

“You do need a shrink… and maybe an exorcist at this point,” Quinn quips. “I’m not too sure which right now. I love you, but you need something that I can’t give you, and you sure as hell don’t want to talk to Tanner.”

I have to bite my tongue when she says
exorcist
. Leave it to Quinn to make a joke in the middle of serious conversation.

Ashley grits her teeth. “Of course I don’t want to talk to that…”

“Asshole? Yes, we know, Ashley. He’s an asshole. You hate him. Same shit, different day. He’s still here, and he’ll be here to help you as long as you need it. Want to get rid of him? Starting getting better.”

Well, this is the first time I’ve been used as negative motivation. Thanks, Quinn.

“She’s got a point. Don’t want to see me anymore? Get better.” I smirk even though it pains me to say the words.

“Fuck off, Tanner,” Ash snaps. “I don’t need you here. I keep telling you that, but you can’t seem to get it through your damn head. If I was able to get around on my own, you wouldn’t get the fucking time of day from me.”

I grin. “I would love to be off fucking right now, but since you refuse to work on getting better, I’m here instead. And I’m not even getting the time of day from you now, so is that really a solid point?” Baiting her is easy. I just hope that it doesn’t backfire in my face.

“Shut the fuck up. I. Don’t. Want. You. Here.” She glares at me, a steeliness in her eyes I can’t quite place.

“When I’m ready to talk, I’ll talk,” she says, directing her angry back at Quinn.

“The time is now, Sweets. You either talk to someone or I’m sending you to your mother’s. You two can bitch back and forth at each other until you’re blue in the face. Let her be your punching bag because we’re not doing it anymore.

“Hell, Quinn can commit you if you don’t shape up,” I say with a smirk, earning me a look of pure venom from Ashley.

Quinn sets her jaw. “We love you, but we’re not going to sit around and watch you waste away. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you haven’t been eating lately.”

My head snaps in Quinn’s direction. I know Ashley won’t touch food I bring, but her not eating for Quinn is news to me.

Quinn gives me a sharp nod, which confirms what she’s saying is true.

“You’re supposed to start physically therapy in three weeks, Ashley. How the hell do you plan on doing that with no strength? You need to eat,” I bark at her.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she says, sounding like a child who’s been scolded.

“Well, since you want to act like a child, we’ll treat you like one. Do I need to sit in here with you now that I know you can’t even be trusted to eat by yourself?” I ask.

“Hell no! You aren’t sitting in here with me all day. It’s bad enough that you’re even here at all.”

“Well, get your shit together, and you’ll be rid of me all the quicker.”

A light of comprehension switches on in her eyes, as if she’s just solved the most difficult problem in the world, and she smiles.

“If I agree to see the shrink, will the two of you get the hell out of here and leave me alone?” she asks.

“Yes,” we answer together.

“And if you promise to start eating again,” Quinn adds.

“Fine. I’ll go and eat.” Ash agrees.

I can’t help but think that this is the beginning of the end for us. She seems way too happy at the prospect of getting rid of me, and I’ve just stupidly agreed to leave her alone.

“One more thing,” Quinn says, grabbing the remote from the bed. “No more TLC for you.” She scrolls through the channels before landing on Game Show Network with a grin.

Chapter 23

Ashley

Quinn moved faster than I’d anticipated after I’d agreed to see a therapist. She came bouncing through the door the day after my breakdown to tell me and Tanner, who of course had to be included in the conversation, about how she’d gotten me an appointment with a “fantastic” therapist that her mother recommended.

“If anyone knows how to find a good therapist, it’s my mother. Lord knows she’s seen enough,” Quinn had said. Apparently, the best part was that she had an opening at the end of the week and could squeeze me in, avoiding the month-long wait for a spot to open up in her schedule.

So here Quinn and I are, driving toward Dr. Michelle Paterson’s office—certified psychologist and grief specialist according to her website. I’d rather be on my way to the gynecologist right now than heading in to have my head examined. I really don’t want to spend the next hour with some woman who’s going to ask a gazillion questions I don’t want to answer.

“Her office is in this building,” Quinn says as we pull around the corner, heading for the parking garage. The building’s tall, with the cityscape reflecting in its mirror-like windows. It’s shiny and pretentious-looking. The only thing that feels welcoming about the place are the flowers that are starting to bloom in the beds along the front.