Standing a few steps below me, he grips the railing, his eye contact strong and steady. “It’s never too late to start over.”
My chest constricts. I did start over, and he’s standing behind Cole with enough love shining from his blue eyes to light up a whole city.
And that’s the problem.
They both love me.
We’re not broken.
We’re just…stuck.
Despite their deceptions and missteps, their intentions were neither malevolent nor selfish. Cole faked his death for me, and Trace kept Cole’s secrets to protect me.
I don’t condone their lies, but what they did is forgivable. Understandable. Which means there’s nothing to fix.
Maybe Cole’s right. Beginning again might be the only solution.
I just wish I knew what that meant.
The next five days pass in tedious stagnancy. As the shock of Cole’s reappearance wears off, I’m left in a fog of brooding, heart-searching, blame-storming rumination. I wish I could say I’m a meditating genius and discovered the path to enlightenment. But the truth is, I’m a fucking mess.
Cole and Trace are giving me space. By space, I mean they’re not breathing down my neck. They’re in my house, though, circling each other like mortal enemies and watching me with long hard looks.
And here I am, lying in bed and hiding like a damn coward. It’s after ten in the morning. I need to get up, go out there, and tell them what I want.
But what I want is the forest I can’t see for the trees. There’s too many what-the-fucks between what they’ve told me and what they’ve sworn to keep secret. I’m nowhere closer to figuring things out than I was the morning Cole emerged from the mist.
Trace goes to the casino when I do. I drive separately, and he keeps his disagreement about that zipped behind his scowl. Outside of work, his ass is planted on my couch. He took over the front room, running his million-dollar empire from his laptop.
Cole moved his motorcycle out of my dining room. When he’s not outside messing with it or looking for a job, he stays in the basement.
Neither of them have tried to corner me or get me alone. They haven’t made any moves on me whatsoever. But when our paths cross in the house, I read their thoughts as clearly as if spoken aloud.
They’re not going to back down, give up, or go away. They’re just biding time, waiting for me to tell them what comes next.
The question I keep coming back to is why me? I know hearts are involved, but at some point, wouldn’t one of them throw in the towel? Why aren’t they thinking, She’s not worth this. I love her, but she’s not the be-all-and-end-all gorgeoso of my dreams. There are plenty of other women out there, women who won’t make me sleep on the couch?
They were best friends, and they tossed that away. For me. It’s absolutely insane. I couldn’t imagine fighting over a guy. Except when I think about it, when I really dig deep, I know I’d do all sorts of crazy, irrational shit for either one of them. Letting them both stay here already classifies me as borderline nuts. It’s like pouring gasoline on a raging fire.
But I can’t kick them out. I don’t care if that makes me a pushover. In my worldview, a person can’t have too much compassion, and right now, they both need a little mercy. If they want to stay here, I won’t fight them on it. I’m not sure I could, because I want them here. Against my better judgment, I want them so badly I can’t breathe.
That said, our living situation isn’t sustainable. Something has to give, and soon.
“What am I going to do?” I ask the water-stained ceiling.
I should call my sister. Or my parents. I haven’t talked to anyone since my life went to hell. It won’t be long before Bree shows up unannounced. My sister doesn’t tolerate unanswered calls.
Cole said he has a cover story about his death. I guess I should find out what that is, because if I tell her what I know, it will only raise more questions. Questions I can’t answer.
Cole and Trace worked for some government entity that doesn’t exist. Talking about it is criminal. Telling me anything could put them in prison.
Then there’s the whole hiding-from-and-eliminating-enemies thing. What does that even mean? My imagination runs the gamut, from terrorists and international crime organizations to North Korea and missile testing. All my assumptions are wrong, because he was fighting wars no one will ever hear about.
My head starts to pound, demanding caffeine, so I drag myself out of bed.
Twenty minutes later, I’m showered, dressed, and sipping coffee in my empty kitchen. I don’t hear Trace puttering around in the front room. In fact, the house is deafening in its silence. Are they outside?
I move to the kitchen window to scope out my driveway that runs alongside my house. Cole’s motorcycle is parked in front of my MG Midget, but that’s not what grabs my attention.
Virginia stands in her backyard, leaning against the fence between our houses, completely captivated by something I can’t see. Something in my backyard.
I swallow down the rest of my coffee, slip on a fleece jacket, and open the back door to the sound of grunting. Ice forms in the pit of my stomach as I follow the angry noises around the corner. And slam to a stop.
Two half-naked grown men are wrestling and punching and going fucking berserk on my lawn. I tremble against the cold, but it’s the brawl that paralyzes me in icy shock.
Cole lands atop Trace, his arms a blur of fury. But Trace is so damn fast and nimble, very few of Cole’s strikes actually hit him. In the next breath, Trace slips from beneath Cole and backhands him so hard I feel my own ears ringing.
“Stop it!” I snap out of it and charge toward them. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
They don’t look at me, don’t acknowledge me in any way. They’re too consumed by their rage, their need to maul and hurt and make each other bleed.
Grinding my teeth, I glance at the hose near the back door. I could spray them like dogs. Or just let them kill each other.
Grass and blood cover their shirtless torsos. It’s difficult to determine who’s winning, but the amount of red pooling in Cole’s bared teeth makes my stomach turn.
Virginia moves in my periphery, waving me over.
I inch toward her, walking backwards without taking my eyes off the fight. My stomach buckles with every strike, my entire body rigid with the need to intervene.
“They’ve been at it for a while.” Virginia hooks her cane on the metal fence and leans over my shoulder, smelling like sweet persimmon soap.
“Do you know who that is with Trace?” I ask cautiously.
“Of course, dear.” She squints cloudy eyes at the brawl. “Cole told me what happened. Someone should be fired over that horrible confusion at the explosion.”
This should be interesting, since he hasn’t told me shit about his cover story. Though I’m not surprised he talked to her. He’s been out here every day, working on his bike. It’s conceivable that he’s spent more time with my nosy neighbor than he has with me.
Across the yard, Trace wraps his legs around Cole’s neck, both of them grunting as they try to grind an elbow, knee, or whatever body part they can into muscle and bone.
“Did he give you any details about the explosion?” I chew on the inside of my cheek, silently begging them to stop.
“Not much. Just that his company thought they had his body. It’s terrible that he was detained in an Iraqi prison and forgotten about for three years. What has the world come to?”
Hatred and rage and blood. That’s what my world has come to.
Cole surges to his feet and rears back an arm. I tense as Trace’s leg flies out and knocks Cole’s feet out from beneath him. Cole lands on his back, and his agonized groan shoots a sharp pain through my chest.
I jerk to rush toward them, but a gnarled hand catches my wrist.
“Let them work it out.” Virginia squeezes my arm with a shocking amount of strength.
“I can think of better ways to work things out.”
“That’s how boys express their differences. They need to get all the bad out of their blood. They’ll feel better after.”
I doubt they’ll feel anything but bruises and broken bones, but I remain where I am, cringing at the godawful din of smacking flesh.