Disbelief coloured his every word. In an instant, I could see him that little bit clearer. He’d been so ashamed of what I’d seen him do that he thought he’d destroyed himself in my eyes. He’d thought that any future we might have had together was destroyed, too. It had all happened years ago, and yet, I could see that he was still traumatised. It had simply morphed into something else, something ugly. Self-hate.

“King,” I said, frustration building at how he wouldn’t give me his eyes. “King, would you look at me?”

He lifted his head, and wow, every time he levelled me with his stare, I felt breathless. He was still so beautiful, even changed. “What happened that day, it didn’t turn out how you think. You should have called me, made contact.”

His chair legs scraped at the ground as he shifted in place, agitated. When he spoke, his words were stilted and gruff. “What do you mean, it didn’t turn out how I think?”

I reached forward and took his hand in mine, but he pulled away sharply from my touch. “I mean that you never killed Bruce. He survived. He was sent to prison and was killed by another inmate. Your mother survived, too. She gained consciousness right after you fled.”

The air all around us seemed to still as I comprehended the stupidity of just blurting all that out. King stood angrily, shaking his head in disbelief as he pushed up violently from the table, almost knocking over the board. “No,” he said harshly. “No.”

Fuck. I was bombarding him with too much too quickly. What the hell was I thinking? King turned and stalked away, his gait slightly unsteady, like he might collapse at any moment. I wasn’t sure if it was from the withdrawals or the shock of what I’d just told him. I ran after him and caught his arm. He reared back from my touch, so I threw my body in front of his. He stopped walking, barely an inch between us.

“I’m sorry,” I said, breathless. “I shouldn’t have told you all that. Not yet. You’re not ready.”

“I’m not an invalid,” he hissed.

“I know that.”

“Well, then, don’t fucking treat me like one,” he ground out, his voice choking up as his eyes grew watery with tears. He tried blinking them away, but it was no use. Agony marked his every feature.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

His emotion didn’t surprise me so much as it made me feel about two inches tall. How bloody tactless could I be? I watched his face, seeing all the realisations fall on him like a tonne of bricks. I knew exactly what he was thinking about. He was imagining all the time he’d lost because he thought he was a murderer. He’d hidden himself away, drinking himself half to death, thinking the only other option was prison. If only he’d reached out, gotten in touch. But no, he’d been too lost, too buried under a mountain of alcohol and guilt. I could see that I was losing him, and I couldn’t let it happen. I couldn’t let him get lost in regrets and what-ifs.

“Come back and play with me, please. We don’t have to talk, just play,” I said, desperate.

His face grew intense, and my skin prickled.

“No. You should go,” he said irritably, moving away from me.

I stepped forward, closing the distance between us once more, and stared at him openly, not hiding any of the vulnerability I felt inside. “Please, King,” I whispered.

A shudder went through him as I said his name, and we stood there, locked in a staring contest that felt like it might never end. After a long time, his distress seemed to die down as he realised I wasn’t going to give up and leave.

Finally, he ground out, “Fine. Let’s play, then.”

Relief flooded me. I gestured for him to lead the way back. He turned. I followed him until we were at the table, sitting down to continue our game. It was mid-July, and the weather was warm. It was a bit too hot for a jacket, so I shrugged out of mine and hung it over the back of my chair. A couple of the buttons on my blouse had come undone, revealing the edge of my black lacy bra. I hurried to button it back up, feeling his attention on me. If anything, my boobs had gotten slightly bigger over the years, probably because I’d put on a few pounds after I had Oliver. King wore no expression, but his eyes practically scorched me, and I was already too hot from the sun. I was a little glad, though. At least this way he might be thinking of something other than how fucked up the past was.

We continued playing in silence, but I could feel his need now like a physical touch. I wasn’t sure which one of us was more desperate for human comfort, him or me. Perhaps we were on an equal footing. However, I knew that, unlike me, King didn’t want to acknowledge he felt it.

I was winning the game, which was out of the ordinary, because he always used to win more than I did. I glanced at him to see his brow was furrowed and his upper lip was sweaty. Without even thinking, I knew he was in pain. His head must have been thumping with alcohol withdrawals, not to mention the ugly truth of everything I’d just told him.

“Is this Marina’s camper?” I asked, hesitantly gesturing to the van. He nodded. “Shall we go inside? It’s getting too hot out here. I need some shade.”

Without a word, King stood and opened the door to the camper van. He stepped back and let me go in first. By the décor, you could tell the place belonged to an older woman. The couch was made of a flower print material, and there were doilies on the coffee table and old-fashioned ornaments everywhere. The moment King closed the door behind us, I regretted suggesting coming in here. It felt too small, too close. But I knew the sun was taking its toll on him, and he looked like he needed to lie down.