By the time Thursday shows up, I’m ready to put my fist through the wall.
A couple of our teachers have come down with the flu, so I’ve been working overtime to make sure they have everything prepared for classes next week. Gina Billings is still on her crusade to cost us all of our funding, and while no one has yet to obey her “suggestions,” we’ve been fielding calls from annoyed donors all week. I’m afraid this might cost us in the long term, and I’ve yet to hear back from Asher Julian about the article.
On top of that, my dad seems to be coping with the extra stress by being extra nosy.
“He’s been asking me about you,” Morgan tells me when I pop by her classroom that afternoon with a couple of blueberry scones. “Well, he’s been asking about this mystery guy you’ve been seeing. Thought I might know something.”
“He what? What did you say?” Crap. I wasn’t expecting Dad to go all super-sleuth on me.
“I just told him the truth. That I don’t know very much and that I’m sure you’ll let him know if you’ve found a keeper.”
I bite down on my scone. Dammit. Now it feels a whole lot shadier, hiding this from him. Maybe I should try testing the waters again, see if I can gauge Dad’s true opinion of Calder. I just don’t know what I’ll do if Dad’s holding on to any lingering resentment. Honestly, I don’t want to put that strain on what Calder and I have right now.
“How is he?” she asks suddenly. “How’s he dealing with this media craziness?”
“Who? Calder?”
“Duh.”
I feel weird admitting that he doesn’t want to talk about it with me, so I shrug. “About as well as you can expect.”
She nods again.
“Poor guy,” she says. “It just gets worse and worse, doesn’t it?”
She doesn’t need to tell me that. In spite of my best efforts, I find myself drawn to the news again and again. I’ve been spending my lunch breaks with my eyes glued to my computer screen, gorging myself on the gossip blogs. The other night I stopped by the supermarket for some food, and I ended up standing next to the magazines for almost an hour, reading every article on the Cunninghams in the entire store.
The speculations have continued. The most popular theory still seems to be that Wentworth had some sort of gambling problem. Some have embraced the idea that he was involved in a scam overseas—but whether he was part of the con himself or a merely victim remains up for debate.
The worst are the claims that there was some sort of blackmail situation going on. I saw one article claiming that Wentworth had some kid by a call girl. The woman in question claims that the late Cunningham patriarch paid her huge sums of money to keep her quiet while he was alive—and that Calder took up the silencing efforts after his father’s death.
The whole thing just makes me sick.
“They’ll say anything to sell a magazine,” Morgan says, reading into my silence.
I know that—but I also know that something big has been bothering Calder. What if the Cunningham family really does have something to hide? How far would they go to protect their name?
Calder hid the truth of his financial situation from me. He allowed me to believe that he had the funds I needed for the Center, encouraged me to play along with his little games in order to win that money from him. I understand now why he lied to me, and though I’ve forgiven him, that doesn’t mean he’s not capable of lying again.
I want to trust him. I want to support him. But I don’t know what I’ll do if he blindsides me again. If we’re going to be together, he can’t keep these huge, life-changing secrets from me. He might think he’s protecting his family or himself, but the truth will always come out.
I’m still thinking about it that night as I get ready for our date. He’s back in town today, and as promised, he’s going to cook me dinner. I put on some music while I get dressed and force myself to focus on the beat, not the questions running through my head or the lump that’s settled in my gut. I want tonight to be perfect, and that means forgetting about everything going on outside. Tonight, it will just be us.
I arrive at his apartment right at seven o’clock. He offered to come by my place instead—he told me that he didn’t want me to have to drive all the way across town—but I insisted that I was a big girl and that we both knew it would be more convenient for him to cook dinner in his own kitchen. Besides, I’ve been dying to see where he lives.
Since I’ve never felt comfortable asking Calder about the gritty details of his financial situation, I have no idea what to expect. When a billionaire loses “everything,” where does that leave him? Below the poverty line? Somewhere in the middle of the middle class? For all I know, he’s still pretty damn wealthy, just not as ridiculously wealthy as he was before.
His building, as it turns out, is fairly modest. It looks older than mine, but it’s not quite as grungy. Just an average, ordinary apartment complex. I can’t imagine how strange this place feels to him after growing up in that enormous mansion—or even after the fancy suites and villas where he lived over in Europe.
He’s been very closemouthed about his former estate since the last time we were there together. I wonder if he still thinks of it, or if he suppresses all memories of his childhood home in his ongoing attempt to pretend that everything’s fine.
He seems well enough when he opens the door. In fact, his face breaks into a wide, breathtaking smile when he sees me. Before I even have a chance to say anything, he grabs me and yanks me hard against him. He kisses me fiercely, like he’s been gone three years instead of just three days.
“Damn, I missed you,” he growls against my lips. He crushes his mouth against mine once more, and I sink into him, falling against his hard chest.
When he finally breaks away, I’m breathless.
“I missed you, too,” I say. “But maybe I should let you go more often if this is the kind of hello I get.”
He smiles and grabs my hands, kissing each of the palms in turn.
“Come in,” he says, pulling me across the threshold. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“How was your trip?”
His hands tighten slightly on mine, but his smile doesn’t falter.
“Not particularly exciting, I’m afraid. How has your week been?”
I don’t want to spoil this evening with talk about the Center’s troubles or my many hours spent scouring the internet for gossip.
“It’s much better now,” I tell him, giving his fingers a squeeze. “What’s on the menu for tonight?”
“Pasta with marinara. Martin’s recipe. He promised me it was foolproof.”
I grin. It didn’t even occur to me until now, but Calder has never been in a position where he had to learn to cook for himself. Somehow that makes tonight that much sweeter. I almost comment, but my attention has already shifted to the room around us.
So this is where Calder lives now.
It’s a small apartment—though not quite as teeny as mine—but it’s well-lit and clean. The furniture is a rather eclectic mix of styles, but as I glance around I realize that all the pieces came from his family home—either things he couldn’t sell or couldn’t bear to sell.
Beside me, Calder is rubbing the back of his head.
“I know it needs some work,” he says, “but it’s comfortable. And big enough for me.”
He’s embarrassed, I realize. He’s ashamed of this place. He’s wearing the same expression he had on at the park, back when he practically apologized for not taking me somewhere nicer.
“I love it,” I tell him. And it’s the truth. “It feels like you.” I turn and laugh when I see the painting hanging on the nearest wall. The first time I saw this piece, I’d just lost a bet with Calder. Even now I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks as I remember the way his hands slid over me, the way he used his skilled fingers to bring me all the way to the edge—and then leave me there. It was a lesson I won’t forget anytime soon.
“You like?” Calder is standing close behind me, his voice thick with amusement.
“Decided to keep that one close, I see.” I lean back against him, and his arm loops around my waist, holding me to his body. I’m about to squirm against him, tease him a little, when my eye shifts to the painting hanging above the fireplace.
The Ludlam.
I can’t help myself. I pull out of Calder’s arms and run over. Benjamin Ludlam is one of my favorite contemporary artists—considered by many to be one of the modern masters—and this piece is worth a small fortune. If Calder wanted, he could sell it and move somewhere far larger and fancier than this apartment. But he hasn’t.
“It’s still yours, if you want it,” he says, coming to stand beside me.
I shake my head. He offered it to me once before, but I could never accept anything this valuable, not from him.
“It belongs here,” I tell him. “You just have to promise to let me come over and stare at it sometimes.”
He laughs, pulls me close. “Anytime.”
I loop my arms around his neck and bring his face down to mine, but he only lets me kiss him once.
“I have to go check on the sauce,” he says.
The pasta’s still boiling when we enter the kitchen, while the marinara is bubbling on the other burner.
“Homemade sauce,” I comment. “I’m impressed.”
“Don’t say that. You’ll jinx it.” He smiles and picks up the handwritten recipe sitting next to the stove. “But it should be close to done. Will you grab some black pepper from the cabinet?”
I walk over to the pantry door. This is strangely cozy—him making dinner, me grabbing ingredients. It’s weirdly domestic for us, and while it feels, well, odd, I’m not as frightened by the normalcy of it as I thought I’d be. In fact, I think I kind of like it.
And then I open the pantry door, and the romanticism of this little scene is shoved aside in the face of the most bachelor-ific of bachelor pantries ever.
It’s all I can do not to burst out laughing. He has exactly twelve food items in this cabinet: half a dozen assorted spices—purchased for tonight’s recipe, if I had to guess—a box of fruity cereal, some Pop-Tarts, a can of chicken noodle soup, a package of sandwich cookies, and two giant jars of pickles.
“What’s so funny?” he says, coming up behind me.
I grin up at him. “Just admiring your food selection. You really like pickles, huh?”
He shrugs. “Pickles are delicious.”
“That’s it. This will never work,” I tease, wrinkling my nose. “I knew there was something wrong with you.”
“Wrong with me? Who doesn’t like pickles?”
“Anyone with working taste buds.”
He laughs. “That’s a little harsh.”
“I question the judgment of anyone who eats something soaked in brine.”
“And I question the judgment of anyone who thinks it’s a good idea to send her panties through the mail.”
The panties! I’d completed forgotten. But one glance up at Calder’s expression and I know I played this one exactly right.
“I thought you might like another pair to add to your collection,” I say. “You have yet to give me back the ones you stole on our first date.”
“I like that pair,” he says, trapping me against the pantry. “They remind me of how easily I can make you melt at my touch.”
“And what about this new pair? Do you know what I was doing when I wore those panties?”
His eyes darken even as he shakes his head. “What were you doing, little minx?”
“I was completing a certain dare you’d given me.”
“The dare…” I watch realization flash in his eyes. “You mean…”
I nod and tilt my head up so I can whisper in his ear. “I wanted you to have the evidence of my… pleasure.”
I can almost see the battle between his will and his lust play across his face. He doesn’t want to give up his resolution to hold off on sex, but he’s as lost as I am, especially when I reach out and slide a hand up his stomach.
His arms catch me up so quickly that the breath whooshes out of my lungs.
“Such a dirty, dirty little tease,” he murmurs against my hair. “What am I going to do with you?” Before I can respond, he lifts me off the ground. The next thing I know, he’s depositing me on the edge of the countertop and pulling my mouth down to his.
I wrap my legs around his waist, drawing him closer, and moan against his lips as he grinds against me. He’s already rock-hard beneath his pants, and I’m getting wetter by the second. My nipples are stiff against my bra.
Calder’s hands slide beneath my shirt and press against the bare skin of my back. He grinds against me again, and I’m totally regretting my decision to wear jeans. If I’d chosen a skirt he could be inside of me already. I slip my hands between us and tug at the button on my fly. The zipper’s next, and now he’s helping me, pulling at the waistband of my jeans to help get them down my hips. His mouth is at my neck, teasing me, and I bury my face in his hair as he lifts me just enough to slide my jeans down around my bottom. I didn’t bother wearing panties tonight. That’s part of the game. My skin is blazing hot, and it burns wherever he touches me.
It burns a little hotter on my right side, but in the haze of pleasure I thrust that strange thought away. I reach down to Calder’s fly and unfasten it. I need him inside me. Now.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my neck as my fingers dip inside his pants. He pulls back slightly and tugs at my shirt, trying to yank it over my head.
Suddenly he freezes.
“Fuck,” he says again, only this time it’s not exclaimed in pleasure. “Fuck!”
I open my eyes, but he’s already yanking me off of the counter. I manage to pull my shirt back down just in time to see the oven mitt—which had been a safe distance from the stove before Calder shoved me on top of the counter—go up in flames.
Shit.
I pull up my jeans and dart around the kitchen, opening cabinets and looking for the fire extinguisher. Calder’s a step ahead of me. He grabs a dishtowel from the sink and begins beating at the fire. It’s not a large blaze, but it’s a stubborn one. I give up on the extinguisher and grab a bowl from one of the cabinets. I don’t know what else to do. I fill it with water, then turn back to the fire and toss the water at the flames. They hiss as they drown.
By this point, the smoke detector has started to scream. Calder beats out the last little fingers of flame as I go for the fire alarm, and I have to stab at all the buttons twice before I find the one that turns off the ear-splitting blaring.
When I turn back to Calder, he still looks stunned. The charred towel hangs by his side, and his shirt is soaked. Oops. That’s probably my fault.
I walk over to his side and turn to inspect the damage. Between the fire and the water, the counter is a mess. And the oven mitt wasn’t the only casualty. Judging by the remnants that litter the Formica, the blaze started with Martin’s recipe. A couple of wooden kitchen utensils suffered some damage, too, but I imagine they’ll survive with a little TLC.
The same can’t be said of our dinner. When I threw the water, about half of it ended up the pot of sauce—but honestly, the damage was already done. The marinara is burning, and it was probably past the point of saving even before the recipe went up in flames. As for the noodles…
Calder steps around me and sticks a spoon into the pot of boiling water. The pasta is so bloated and soggy that it falls apart even as he’s scooping it up.
“I think I jinxed it,” I whisper.
“Well,” he says, looking up from the pot and giving me a small smile. “I hope you like Pop-Tarts.”
The giggle escapes my lips before I can stop it. “I love them.”
We end up heating up the chicken soup as well, and Calder grabs some wine from the shelf.
“At least I have one bottle of the good stuff left.”
“We don’t have to drink your last bottle,” I say. “You should save it for something special.”
His eyes bore into mine. “Isn’t this something special?”
My cheeks go hot, and I quickly look back down at my soup. Before he can comment once again on how poorly I take compliments, I say, “It’s your turn to ask me, you know. Assuming we’re still playing our game.”
I dare a glance up from my bowl and find him still watching me. My heart stutters a little in my chest. This past week I felt like he was slipping away from me, but right now he’s here, and he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world.
The corner of his mouth quirks up, but his voice is low, serious. “Which will it be, then? Truth or dare?”
If the oven mitt hadn’t caught fire, I’m fairly certain we would have broken his “no sex” rule already tonight. Maybe I can make up for it now.
“Dare,” I say. If he gives me something even half as good as his first dare, I’ll have him eating out of my hand.
Calder seems to have the same idea. He responds to my question by reaching out and running a single finger down the back of my hand. The sensation makes me shiver.
“Are you sure?” he says, his eyes darkening.
“Of course.”
He leans closer, and his finger continues its teasing strokes.
“I dare you,” he says, his voice husky, “to eat a pickle.”
Wait—what?!
I pull away from him. “Seriously?”
He nods. “A pickle.”
“That’s not a real dare!”
“Of course it is,” he says, smiling broadly. “And a pretty good one, if I do say so myself.”
“You obviously don’t know how this game is played.”
“Oh, believe me, I know it quite well. If you dare someone to do something they’d already do willingly outside of the game, then what’s the point?”
“You’re supposed to push each other’s limits. Get a little taboo.”
“Now you’re stalling. Are you going to do it, or do you forfeit?”
“Of course I don’t forfeit!” I say, standing. “Fine, I’ll eat your stupid pickle.”
I stride across the kitchen and yank open the pantry door. I can’t believe he’s forcing me to eat a pickle. Asshole.
Still, I think as I look up at his smug grin. At least he’s having fun. And he needs a little fun right now.
I take a deep breath, preparing myself, and pop the lid off the jar. The smell of the brine hits me immediately, and I try not to gag. I shouldn’t have told him how much I hate pickles. I should have known he’d use it against me.
“You should eat the biggest one,” he says from over my shoulder.
“The dare didn’t include any size requirements,” I say. I stare down at the jar. Of course it’s whole dill pickles. He couldn’t have gone for slices or for those cute little ones or anything. Still, I don’t want him to think I’m wussing out, so I decide to go for the fattest, ugliest pickle of the bunch. Slowly, I reach down into the stinky juice. My fingers are going to reek for the rest of the night, but I try not to think of that. I capture one of the smelly beasts and pluck it from the jar.
I turn so that Calder can watch. It’s only then that the idea hits me, and though it requires me to endure the taste of this sucker for longer than necessary, the opportunity is too good to pass up.
I raise the pickle slowly to my mouth. It’s fat enough that I have to stretch my lips to encompass it all, but that only heightens the effect, I’m sure. I slide the end of it into my mouth and look up at him with as much coyness as I can muster.
He frowns. “What are you…”
His eyes widen when I begin to move the pickle slowly in and out of my mouth. I don’t even flinch when the taste hits my tongue. I’m too focused on making him squirm this time. I work my lips around the pickle, making my motions as suggestive as possible.
“Lily…”
I shoot him my best innocent What? expression as I continue at my task. Calder’s getting more flustered by the second. To my delight, he’s actually looking a little pink about the cheeks. Who knew I could make the sex god blush by fellating a pickle?
“You’re supposed to be eating the pickle,” he says.
I pull the pickle from my lips. “I am eating it. Euphemistically, of course. You never specified that I had to literally eat it.”
The look on his face is priceless. I’d gobble this whole thing down—literally this time—for the chance to see it again.
It’s a full minute before he can speak again.
“Fine,” he says. “Fine, you win. Just take that thing out of your mouth.”
Happily.
“You know,” I say, “it doesn’t have to be a pickle.”
“Don’t push it.”
I laugh as I toss the pickle in the trash. It’s fun to be on this side of the game for once. Calder’s shaking his head at me, but there’s humor in his eyes. I’ve surprised him by finally winning a round of our little game. And after our, uh, heated encounter before dinner, I know I’m wearing him down on the sex issue. I only hope I can continue to keep him off-balance.
When we’ve finished eating, we return to the living room, and I sit next to him on the couch, drawing my feet up beneath me so I can turn and face him.
“It’s your turn now,” I say. “Truth or dare?”
Calder looks at me for a long moment. I know he’s weighing his options. In this game, he doesn’t trust me any more than I trust him.
“Truth,” he says.
I should be able to predict his answer by now, but I’m a little disappointed.
But maybe this is an opportunity, I tell myself. Maybe it would be good for me to stop thinking about sex and try to learn more about the man in front of me. He might not want to talk about all of the swirling rumors, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t a million other things I might still learn about him.
I study his face for a few moments, as if somehow I can see past his carefully guarded expression to the man beneath. To the man who makes my heart stir and my body tremble.
“Tell me a secret,” I say softly. “Something no one knows about you.”
He looks at me for a long moment, and I can’t tell whether he’s trying to build his courage or predict my reaction to whatever he’s about to reveal.
“I won’t judge you,” I assure him.
He reaches over and takes my hand. All trace of amusement is completely gone from his face, and his fingers clutch mine a little too tightly.
“I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you this,” he says, his eyes on our interlocked hands.
Oh, God. This is it, I realize with a jolt. I wasn’t actually expecting him to open up about his family’s secrets, not right here, but I want him to know that I’m willing to hear anything he needs to say. He looks so serious, and the way his brows have drawn together makes me want to reach out and hug him. I brush my thumb across the back of his hand, encouraging him.
Calder glances to either side, as if he wants to make doubly sure that we’re alone. Even then, he leans forward and drops his voice to a whisper.
“You can’t tell anyone.”
“Of course not,” I say.
He squeezes my hand. His eyes search mine. “You must promise me.”
“I promise.”
His lips move to my ear. He’s squeezing my hand so tightly that my fingers start to tingle. He hesitates so long that I’m afraid he’s going to lose his nerve, and when he does speak, he’s so quiet I can hardly hear him.
“I’m a government agent, Lily.”
For a moment I think I haven’t heard him right. I almost ask him to repeat himself, but he’s already cracking, already fighting back a laugh. There’s a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
“Are you shitting me?” I say. “Are you seriously shitting me? I thought you were going to tell me something real!”
He’s grinning.
“Argh! I can’t believe you!” I try to punch him in the arm, but he catches me by the wrist.
“You have to admit that was a little funny,” he says.
“Ha, ha. That was hilarious.” I try to pull my wrist free, but he tightens his grip. “You’re supposed to tell the truth, you cheater. And it’s still your turn until you do.”
He raises my hand to his lips. “I just wanted to have a little fun first. You’re very sexy when you’re pissed at me.”
“Don’t you dare think you can sweet-talk your way out of this.”
His response is to pull me onto his lap and kiss me.
I’m still annoyed, but all that rushing blood only makes me hotter. I tilt my head back as Calder’s lips blaze across my cheeks and jaw. He groans and pushes me down onto my back beneath him.
“Serves you right, after that stunt you pulled with the pickle,” he murmurs.
When he kisses me again, I bite down on his lip. He growls, but the pain only seems to rile him more. His hands tear at my shirt. We’re like two wild animals, wrestling and clawing at each other.
“What are you doing to me?” he says. “God, Lily, you make me crazy.”
I respond by arching my back, pressing my body up against his.
“Tell me a secret,” I breathe into his ear. “A real one.”
He grinds against me and buries his face in my hair.
“Your skin tastes like summer,” he murmurs. “And sex.”
“No. A secret about you.”
He stops. For a moment he doesn’t move, and then he sits up, looks down at me.
I didn’t mean for him to stop. I reach up to him, trying to pull him back down on top of me, but he shakes his head. There’s something in his eyes that makes my stomach turn.
“You know,” he says, “I did want to be a spy when I was younger.”
All of the fire and mischief of a moment ago are gone. Calder moves off of me, and I scramble back into to a sitting position.
“Calder…”
“I guess it was all of those spy movies my father made me watch. I always assumed I’d be just like that when I grew up—driving flashy cars, sleeping with beautiful women, saving the world again and again.” There’s a wistful, boyish look in his eye, and he refuses to meet my gaze. “When I was nine I even managed to convince the pilot of my father’s private plane to take me up to Washington D.C. I told him it was because my father wanted me to learn more about our nation’s history, but in reality I was trying to find out how to be recruited by the CIA. As you can imagine, it did not end well.”
I shouldn’t have asked him. It was never my intention to make him relive some unhappy memory, but I want to hear it. I want to know. I reach out and tentatively touch his cheek.
“Fast-forward a few more years,” he says without looking at me, “and I realized that I didn’t need to be a spy. I could have the cars and the women and the fancy suits without having to put myself in any danger. I got to travel all over the world, and I wasn’t burdened by having to do a job or protect anyone or anything like that. I wasn’t a spy, but I knew who I was, and I was happy with it.”
His eyes finally meet mine, and I feel like I can see his entire world shattering in their depths. He reaches out, brushes hair away from my forehead, but it’s a hollow gesture.
“But who am I now?” he says. “My whole life has been completely useless. I’ve never done anything of any real importance. And everything that used to define me is gone. Nothing’s left.”
“Don’t say that.” I touch his cheek, trying to draw him back to me. “There’s plenty left. Your means have changed, but you’re still the same person.”
“And what kind of person is that? I built my life on money and lies. On empty, superficial things. And that’s all it is—an empty, superficial life.” His eyes finally seem to focus on me again. “You deserve more than that, Lily.”
“You’re selling yourself short,” I tell him. “You’re—”
“Don’t argue with me,” he says. “My entire life, I’ve only bounced around from one pleasure to the next. I had the resources to do anything I wanted, and I never did anything of importance. Look at my sister. Look at my father, even. What did I do? I sat around and bullshitted my way through positions on a couple of museum boards—and only because my father insisted on it.” His gaze drops back to me. “Now I’m just a man with no job, no money, no special talents. All I have left is my name, and that isn’t necessarily a good thing these days.”
He’s scaring me. I try to sit up, but he shakes his head and holds me down.
“Is this really what you want, Lily?” he says. “A man who is nothing?”
“You’re not nothing!”
“When I’m with you, I can pretend like I’m my old self again, but I’m not, am I? It’s just another indulgence, another way to distract myself from dealing with all this shit. I can’t be everything you need right now. And it’s not fair to you.”
“What you’re giving me is more than enough,” I assure him. I take his face between both of my hands, forcing him to look at me. “You don’t have to give me anything else.” I need him to see that. Need him to see me.
“Some things are beyond help.” He sighs. “It was selfish of me to let things get even this far. You deserve someone who can give you more than just a little piece of himself. Someone who doesn’t just use you to keep his mind off of the things he’s too much of a coward to face.”
I feel sick to my stomach.
“No,” I say. “No. I don’t know what you’re trying to say, but you’re not a coward. And if you think you can scare me away by telling me that I’d be better off without you, then you don’t know me very well.”
“Then you’re a fool,” he says. “And I’ve been too selfish.”
I shake my head, but I can’t seem to form any words. I know where this is going, and I don’t want to hear it. I can’t bear to hear it.
“I need time, Lily,” he says. “I need to figure some things out.”
“Time,” I repeat, completely numb. “How much?”
He doesn’t answer, which is an answer in and of itself.
He’s dumping me.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I can’t breathe. I can’t speak. I can only nod, and even that feels like a betrayal of the emotions rushing through me.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. He sounds completely defeated.
I want to argue, to insist that I can help him. I want to tell him that he doesn’t have to deal with this alone. But there’s a lump in my throat that won’t let me, and I can only be grateful that I’m strong enough to hold back my tears until I reach my car.