The oppressive weight in my chest grew heavier. "What do you mean?"
A pained expression flashed across his face, then he lowered himself slowly to sit next to me, his mouth set in a grim line. Reaching out, he touched my hand for a second, then looked down at the floor. It was a moment before he spoke. "I don't know if I can do this anymore," he said in a quiet voice.
My stomach clenched with a sudden sickness. "No," I cried, "You can't mean that. Not now."
His shoulders hunched, and he rocked forward, still not looking at me. "I don't know, Riley. I don't know what to think about anything anymore." He picked his head up swiftly, and his desperate gaze pierced me to my core. "But I can't see you get hurt, and I don't think I can promise you that won't happen."
Tears welled up in my eyes. "But why? I don't understand. Why can't we fix this?"
His jaw tightened, and the stubborn look in his eyes was one I knew all too well. "This isn't something you can fix."
"So it's a problem with me, then?" I said in a small voice. "I did my best to be there for you, Jax."
He winced. "No, it's not you . . . but it is. Fuck, this is so fucked up!" He slammed his hand against the couch.
A fresh wound ripped open in my heart. So that was it—he just didn't want to be with me anymore. "So it's me," I said, grimacing with pain.
His eyes widened. "No, Riley, I didn't mean that. Not that way. You're the best girlfriend, everything I ever wanted. Everything I never dreamed I'd have." He stopped, his voice choking. "You've been so good to me. God knows I haven't deserved it."
I looked up at him, and read the truth in his eyes, and in the firm line of his lips. My head swam with confusion. "Then why?"
He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked defeated. Hopeless. "I have PTSD, Riley." His voice sounded bitter. "Post traumatic stress. From that night with Darrel."
My eyes widened, and I pressed my lips together, unable to speak as my mind reeled. PTSD, like the Iraq War vets got sometimes. Of course—it all made sense now. Since that night with Darrel, he'd been acting totally differently. Like someone still trapped in hell.
I dashed away a tear, a small sensation of hope growing in my chest. At least now I knew what we were fighting against. "But that's something you can get better from, right?"
He nodded, but defeat still hung around his slumped shoulders.
I touched his arm, making him turn and look at me. I gazed deep into his eyes, searching in their wounded depths for some way to make this right. "Then why not let me help you? Why are you doing this to me? To us?"
He exhaled a shaky breath. "I don't want to!" he cried. "But you've been with me the past few weeks, you know what it's like! I can't control myself. Damn it, I'm even seeing things that aren't there! I'm sick. And if you get hurt . . ." He trailed off with a wince. As if of all the things that had ever hurt him, that would be the worst.
I gripped his arm as anger suddenly flared in my chest. This was all Darrel's fault. I couldn't let the pain he'd caused drive us apart—I just couldn't. "I don't care if you hurt me," I said with heat in my voice.
He rubbed his forehead. "How can you say that? After all I've put you through?" His mouth drew down into a grimace that frightened me with its determination. "No, Riley. This has to end."
My heart wrenched, and I shook my head stubbornly. "I'll do whatever you need. You know that." My lip trembled. "Just don't push me away."
"You can't help me with this," he said, his voice rising in frustration. "Even the doctor thinks so."
"What?" I cried, my voice sharp. "What does he know?"
He scowled, as if he were angry at what he had just said. "Forget it."
My grip tightened on his arm. "No, Jax. I want to know. What does the doctor say?"
His scowl deepened. "My PTSD. He thinks since you were there that night, that seeing you triggers all my symptoms. He already had me get rid of my bike. And now . . ." He hung his head.
The full weight of his words hit me like a punch in the stomach. "God, no. He wants you to get rid of me?"
He didn't look at me. "Yes. And I'm starting to agree."
His words shook me to my core, sending a deep hurt pulsating through my entire being. I was the one causing him pain? All this time? A shudder wracked my body. "No," I managed to get out. "No matter what the doctor says, I can't believe that you want this."
He brought his head up, giving me a piercing look that told me everything about the agony every hurtful word was costing him. "It's killing me," he said, his voice rasping.
"Then there has to be another way," I cried.
The desperation that sprung in his eyes made me shiver. "But don't you see?" he said, his voice dropping lower, "I don't care if you're triggering all this shit. I would live with PTSD forever if I could just have you. But you're going to get hurt. And if there's one thing I can control about this shitty situation, then I'm going to do it. I'm going to make sure you're safe."
My throat choked as tears streamed down my face. He had it backwards—the only place I'd ever felt safe was with him. "This isn't right. You know it isn't. I love you."
He pressed his hands to his forehead, as if those three words had cut him deeper than any wound he'd ever revealed to me in our time together. "Riley, don't. You're making this harder than it has to be. Please."
I shook my head as a sob caught in my throat. "I won't give up on us. Not now. Not ever. You mean everything to me."
Closing his eyes for a moment, he pressed his lips together. His shoulders shook as he took a deep, shuddering breath. Then he sat up straight, opening his eyes and giving me a look that almost broke me with the intensity of his anguish—for what we had together, and for what we were about to lose.
"You mean everything to me too," he said, reaching out to stroke my cheek. His touch electrified me, as it always did, even through my sadness. None of it made any sense. How could he let go of what we had together?
I brought my own hand up to his, and pressed it to my cheek, holding him there. Keeping him with me.
His tortured eyes looked deep into mine, piercing my soul. "But don't you see—" He bit off his words, his brows drawing together as frustration struggled across his face.
I looked at him, my eyes filled with mute appeal. My hand clasped tighter on the warmth of his. Please, Jax. Don't do this.