I am definitely an introvert, because people drain me. And now I need silence to refuel.

“You want a beer?” I ask Dalton. He shakes his head, so I stand up and head inside to the kitchen. I don’t even want a beer. I just want silence. How Sloan lives with this on a day-to-day basis and still functions is unbelievable.

I walk through the back door and the first thing I notice when I get to the kitchen is the new sentence scripted across the dry erase board. I take a step closer and read it.

He unclenched his fists and dropped her worries, unable to catch them for her. But she picked them back up and dusted them off. She wants to be able to hold them herself now.

I read it over and over, until the bedroom door upstairs slams and breaks me out of my trance. I take a step away from the fridge, just as Sloan rounds the corner into the kitchen. She stops suddenly when she sees me. She pulls her hands quickly up to her face and wipes at the tears. I see her glance at her words on the refrigerator, then back at me.

We both stand silently, just two feet apart, staring at each other. Her eyes are wide and I watch as her chest heaves up and down with each breath she takes.

Three seconds.

Five seconds.

Ten seconds.

I lose count at how much time passes while we both just watch each other, neither of us knowing what to do about the invisible rope between us, tugging and pulling us together with strength so much stronger than our willpower.

She sniffles and then rests her hands on her hips as her eyes fall to the floor.

“I hate him, Carter,” she whispers.

I can tell by the hurt in her voice that something happened when she went upstairs. I look up at the ceiling toward their bedroom, wondering what it could have been. When I look back at her, she’s staring at me.

“He’s passed out,” she says. “He’s using again.”

I shouldn’t feel relieved that he’s passed out, but I am. “Again?”

She takes a couple of steps toward me and then rests her back against the countertop, folding her arms together. She wipes at another tear. “He gets…” She inhales a breath and I can tell it’s hard for her to talk about. I walk over to her and stand next to her.

“He gets paranoid,” she says. “He starts to think he’s about to get caught and the pressure gets to be too much for him. He thinks I don’t notice these things, but I do. And then he starts using and when that happens, things…things turn bad for all of us.”

I’m warring with myself right now. Part of me wants to comfort her-part of me wants to selfishly push her for more information. “All of us?”

She nods. “Me. Jon. The guys who work for him.” She nudges her head in my direction. “You.”

She says that last word with a dose of bitterness. Her top teeth press into her bottom lip and she looks in the other direction. I continue to stare at her. Her hands are twisting into the sleeves of her shirt as she hugs herself tighter and tighter.

She isn’t crying anymore. She’s angry now and I’m not sure if she’s angry at me or Asa.

I look back at the words on the board.

He unclenched his fists and dropped her worries, unable to catch them for her. But she picked them back up and dusted them off. She wants to be able to hold them herself now.

Rereading those words and watching her right now gives me clarity. All this time I’ve been worried for her. Concerned that she was being brainwashed and had no idea what kind of person Asa is.

“I was wrong about you,” I tell her.

She looks at me again, this time her lips are pressed together, her eyebrows drawn apart in curiosity.

“I thought you needed protection,” I clarify. “I thought maybe you were naïve when it came to Asa. But you aren’t. You know him better than anyone. I thought he was using you…but you’re the one using him.”

Her jaw tightens with those words and she grits her teeth. “I’m using him?”

I nod.

Her curiosity turns into anger as she narrows her eyes. “I was wrong about you, too,” she says. “I thought you were different. But you’re a bastard, just like the rest of them.”

She turns to walk away, but I grab her elbow and pull her back. She gasps when I spin her around and grip her forearms. “I’m not finished,” I tell her.

Her eyes are full of shock now. I loosen my grip on her arms, rubbing my thumbs back and forth to hopefully put her anger a little more at ease.

“Do you love him?” I ask her.

She inhales slowly, but doesn’t respond.

“No,” I say, answering for her. “You don’t. You probably used to, but the only thing love relies on for survival is respect. And you don’t get that from him.”