But I would have known that his injuries weren’t just the result of a horrible IED incident or a wretched ambush. If I’d done my research, I’d have known what he really went through.

Torture.

I wish I’d known.

No, I wish he’d told me. Of course, I hadn’t given him a chance to do that, now had I? Okay, so maybe he’s right to be pissed at me. I just can’t figure out how we went from cuddling and sleeping together to wanting to kill each other in the kitchen over something so unimportant in the grand scheme of things. We can work through it.

Only he isn’t talking to me.

I toss the blob of bread dough onto the counter and brace my palms against the granite as I try to catch my breath and get control of my thoughts. Flour is everywhere, and I don’t care.

“You know you actually have to touch the dough to knead it, right?” Lindy says, coming back into the kitchen.

I halfheartedly began moving the dough around again as Lindy unloads the tray containing the remains of Paul’s lunch.

I glance at the tray out of the corner of my eye.

The pasta was barely touched. He’s not eating. I know only because I keep an eye on how much food Lindy throws out, not because I actually eat with Paul. I’ve barely seen the guy in the week since our confrontation. He’s made sure of that.

Lindy hasn’t asked me why Paul and I are at odds—again—nor has she complained that she has to bring him all of his food, when I’m getting paid to do it. I’ve tried to explain, but she just pats my shoulder and tells me that there’s a spare room in the small house if I need it.

If this keeps up, I will need it. Hearing Paul yell every night without being able to go to him is killing me. I tried once; the door was locked.

Lindy and Mick have to be wondering what I’m still doing here. A caregiver who has zero contact with the person she’s supposed to be caring for? It’s only a matter of time before Paul’s father comes swooping in here telling me I’m fired.

Oh, but wait. That won’t happen, will it? Because then Paul won’t be able to continue his pathetic existence of hiding from the world while not having to contribute a single thing to society.

Why should I care if Paul is so committed to never entering the world that he’ll enter a childish bargain with his father?

I don’t.

Except I do. I care so much it that it feels like it’s almost physically eating at me. It’s the first thing I think about in the morning when I take lonely runs all by myself. It’s what I think about when I sip coffee alone, and when I have my solitary lunch. It’s what I think every time I take my big old Andrew Jackson biography down to the library each day, getting my hopes up that the door will be unlocked this time.

He’s shut me out completely, and a part of me wishes he’d just banish me already and get it over with. It’s becoming increasingly clear that Paul Langdon isn’t going to be the absolution I’m looking for. I came up here looking to rediscover my humanity—to remind myself that I’m a still a good person and that kissing my boyfriend’s best friend doesn’t make me irredeemable.

But if anything, my time in Maine is confirming my worst fears. I’m no good for other people. Paul may have been broken long before I came onto the scene, but I’m fairly sure that when I leave, he’ll be worse off. Almost as though I’d hoisted him halfway over the ledge toward redemption only to push him off again just as he was starting to feel hope.

All because I couldn’t just let him come to me himself.

Still . . . he’s acting like a damn baby about the whole thing.

Lindy appears at my side with a little sound of dismay and reaches for the bread dough that I’ve been mutilating for the past five minutes. “Okay, then. That’s about enough of your special kind of kneading.”

“I hate him.” I give the ball of dough one last slap. “I hate him!”

She uses her hip to bump me out of the way. “Well, from where I’m standing, you have a right to.”

I glance at her sharply. “You know what happened?”

“No. I never really know what’s going on with him. Or you,” she says, dropping the dough into a greased bowl, covering it with a clean towel, and then setting it aside to rise. “And I don’t want to know. Neither does Mick, because we know we’ll just end up wanting to knock some sense into the both of you. But that doesn’t mean I don’t see that by ignoring you, he’s hurting himself just as much as he is you. Maybe more.”

A little flutter of hope arises in my stomach. “Yeah?”

She gives me a knowing look. “Oh no. Don’t go fishing for intel, because that’s all I’m saying. But don’t you give up on him. Don’t you dare.”

I trace my finger though the extra flour on the counter. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do in the meantime until he comes around,” I say glumly. “Mr. Langdon isn’t exactly paying me to lurk around and destroy your homemade bread.”

“Mr. Langdon is paying you to bring his son back to the land of the living. And that’s exactly what you’re doing, even if the approach is indirect at the moment.”

“Okay, but . . .” I slump over, all of my weight on my forearms as I lean against the granite counter. “I’m bored, Lindy.”

“I thought you’ve been enjoying your nights out. I heard from Kali’s aunt that you guys are getting along great.”