“Women always are,” Cross notes.
“She’s not hard to explain. The situation is.”
Cross looks at me funny. “If she’s not hard to explain, marry her. Now. You’ve found a one in a million.”
“No shit,” Machlan adds.
I shove off the hood and start picking up stray nails. There’s no way to tell them Mariah doesn’t have a damn thing about her that makes her undesirable or off-limits or makes me not want to see her again. They won’t understand.
“You’re scared shitless, aren’t you?” Cross cracks.
Peck just watches me from his perch, a hammer dangling from his hand. He raises a brow but chooses to remain silent.
“You’re not getting any younger, you know,” Machlan notes.
“Yeah, I know. Thanks for pointing that out.”
He shrugs.
“Believe it or not,” I say, dumping the nails in a discarded box, “this really has nothing to do with her.”
“Oh, so this is one of those ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ kind of things?” Cross jokes. “You better get something better than that before you go fucking up all kinds of shit.”
“Kind of.”
“You’re admitting you have flaws?” Machlan asks. “I didn’t think we’d see the day.”
“I’ve never said I didn’t have flaws. I just said I didn’t have as many as you fuckers.”
They all laugh, Machlan holding the ladder as Peck climbs to the ground. “Tell you what,” my youngest brother says. “I have a feeling there’s a lot more to this conversation than you’re letting on. But I’m not a pushy guy. When you’re ready to get slammed and pour your heart out, I’ll have an Old Fashioned ready for you at Crave.”
“Gee, thanks.”
We work together to clean up the mess. Nana calls from the house, ordering us inside for sandwiches before we leave.
“Hey,” I say, pulling my thoughts away from Mariah. “Do any of you need someone to do some odd jobs or have an apartment for rent?”
Machlan looks up from the toolbox. “Maybe. Why?”
“There’s a kid at school. He’s a foster kid. Good boy. He’s turning eighteen soon and apparently he’ll be on his own as soon.”
“No shit?” Cross flinches.
“I wanted to see if I could help him find something.”
“If not, I could take a roommate,” Peck offers. “And I bet if you call Sienna, she’d make Walker give him a job.”
We all laugh, knowing that’s true.
Machlan and Cross get in their cars and drive a few yards to Nana’s back door. Peck and I load the rest of the tools and then stand next to the bed.
“If I can do anything to help that kid, let me know,” Peck says, shaking his head. “That’s gonna bother me all night now.”
Laughing, I take off his hat and throw it at him as I walk by. “He’ll be fine. We’ll work it out.”
“What about Mariah? You gonna work that out?”
My steps falter as I make it to my car. Head hanging, spirit deflating, I sigh. “I don’t know, man.”
“Did you even talk to her?”
“I talk to her every day.”
“You’re a dumbass,” he says.
The sun begins to set, the evening air cooling. A heaviness settles around me, a sadness, almost, that I haven’t felt since my parents died. It’s not the same, not as tragic, but not entirely different either.
I’m on a precipice of losing something important to me and I don’t really have a choice.
“You ever think of adopting?” Peck asks quietly. “I mean, there are ways to build a family without using sperm.”
“I’m not against that. I think it’s a damn good idea. But that’s a choice for my life and I’m not at liberty to make that choice for her.”
He grins. “I don’t think that girl would let you make any decision she didn’t want.”
“Probably right,” I laugh, thinking of how hard-headed she can be. The toe of my boot scrapes against the ground, sending a load of pebbles scattering off the driveway.
“I love her, Peck.”
“I know you do.”
“Why am I not terrified about that? How can you be so fucking sure and so fucking scared at the same time about the same thing?”
“Because you love her,” he laughs. “I think it’s only terrifying when you aren’t sure. And if you aren’t sure, you probably don’t.”
“How’d you get so wise?”
He takes his hat off and wipes his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. “Baby, I was born this way.”
Shaking my head, I open the door to my car.
“She doesn’t love your sperm count,” Peck notes. “Remember that.”
“So eloquent.”
“You don’t pay me enough to be eloquent.”
“I don’t pay you at all.”
“Good point,” he says, pulling a drink out of the cooler in the back of his truck. “Look, I feel invested in this relationship. I need you to tell her you love her.”
“Not happening,” I say. I climb into the driver’s seat.
Peck just shakes his head. “You’re a bastard, you know that?”
“I’m also a liar,” I tell him, starting the car and revving up the engine. “This isn’t only about her. It’s also about me.”
“What about you?”
“I’m a pussy who can’t admit my weaknesses.” A resolution slides over me. “Do me a favor and tell Nana I got sick or had to do something, okay?”
He gasps. “You want me to lie to Nana?”
“Just pretend it’s you telling her you didn’t sneak in here and eat all the leftover fried chicken last weekend.”
“How’d you know about that?”
I tap the side of my head. “I know everything.” Closing the door, I throw the transmission in reverse and head down the driveway.
Unfortunately, I do know things. Even the things I was happier not knowing. Now I just need the balls to pull the trigger.
Whipping out my phone, I search for Mariah’s name.
Me:Something came up I have to do tonight. I won’t make dinner. I’m sorry.
Before I can change my mind, I turn my phone off. Tossing it in the back seat, I take off down the road, gravel crunching beneath my tires.
Twenty-Seven
Mariah
Whitney pushes her plate to the center of the table. It’s streaked with stir fry sauce and a few pieces of cooked onion. “That was really good.”
“Thanks.” Whether she’s lying to me or not, I don’t have a clue. My taste buds are gone. That or my brain is too occupied at the moment to really taste anything. “How’s work?”
“Eh, about the same. I think I might be moving floors though.”
“We’re happy about that?”
“Yes,” she gushes. “My schedule would stabilize and I’d have more daylight hours.” Taking a sip of her water, she watches me over the rim. “Jonah asked me out today.”
My jaw drops. “He did not.”
Her laugh floats easily through the air. Mine isn’t as easy, nor is it as engaged. I just don’t feel it.
“I turned him down. I mean, you dated him—”
“I so did not date him,” I insist. “That wasn’t even a date, let alone dating.”
“Fine. But he’s not my type either.”
“But you thought he was mine?”
“I thought you were desperate,” she laughs. “He was a good starter date.”
My hand smacks my face. “Starter date? Men aren’t objects, Whit.”
“Nah, they kind of are.” She runs a finger around the edge of her glass. “Speaking of men, I’ve refrained from asking about Lance so you could bring it up. But, you haven’t and I’m tired of waiting.”
“You’re so kind,” I groan.
“Not really. Spill it. What’s going on?”
What is going on? Hell if I know, but something is because I can feel it. It’s that sixth sense you get when something is awry. That niggle in your stomach that doesn’t quite feel like you have to puke but makes you a little leery of getting too far away from the restroom.
It’s in my scalp, that prickly sensation like my hair follicles are standing on end, waiting for me to process whatever unknown that’s coming.
I’ve told myself over the past two hours that it’s nothing. From the second Lance’s text came through, I’ve passed this sinking feeling off as leftover stress from the day. The problem is, I can’t work it out enough to believe myself.
“Nothing,” I say, getting our plates together and carrying them to the sink. I busy myself with scraping leftover bits and pieces down the garbage disposal and rinsing off the rest. When I finish, she’s still watching patiently like she’s expecting more from me. I toss down a dishtowel. “What?”
“You don’t cook like that just for you. And when I showed up, it was already done, which tells me you had plans. If that’s true, then what happened to them? Because that would explain this ‘my goldfish just jumped out of the bowl’ thing you have going on.”
“Really? Goldfish?”
“Yeah, goldfish. You aren’t crying, so it’s not one of your thousand fictional cats,” she laughs. “People don’t get as attached to goldfish unless they’re like six.”
“Fair enough,” I sigh, collapsing back into my chair. “Dinner was for Lance. He was supposed to come over but I got this short text that he ‘couldn’t make it’ and then my return message wasn’t delivered.”
“So, you think he shut his phone off.”
“Yup. Or it died, I guess, but …” I flex my neck, that half-cringe thing people do when they’re working something out in their heads that I never understand. It’s like the universal delivery, the same as opening your mouth to put on mascara.