“I imagine that’s part of what’s got him twisted up then.” My eyes flick up to Waylon’s, and he frowns. “It’s none of my business. But I’ve never seen him this fucked up before. He’s a fucking wreck, so whatever happened between you two, if you go in there—be careful with him, okay? He acts like he’s fucking rock solid all the time, but he’s human at the end of the day.”
“I didn’t hurt him on purpose. And I doubt I’m what he’s so upset about anyway.”
“Mac didn’t hurt me on purpose either. Doesn’t change the fact it happened all the same.”
Andoof; does it hit me in the gut to hear Waylon say that to me. I stare at the floor for a minute, wishing I’d thought through things more on the ride over. Had a better plan for all this. But all I have is junk food and good intentions. Somehow hoping that can be translated into something that can help Easton. Because as much as we’ve made a mess of things lately, I do care about him. A lot, if I’m honest. More than I’m going to admit to Waylon.
“I’m not trying to guilt you here, Wren. I just… I asked for you to come because he wanted you. But I want to make sure that’s going to be a good thing for him and not make things worse.”
“I won’t make things worse. I promise. If it seems it’s headed that way, I’ll leave. Please just… don’t tell Kenz that I was here, okay? I haven’t told them anything yet, and I’m not ready to.”
“I don’t like keeping things from her, but you helped me when I needed it. So I’ll delay telling her, but you and East better figure things out. Then come clean. I don’t want to be in the middle any more than you did.” Waylon’s brow furrows, and I feel like a giant disappointment in the wake of the look he’s giving me.
“Okay,” I agree.
“I’m gonna leave in a few to go see Mac, but if you need anything or he does—text me. Especially if things don’t go well.”
“Will do.”
Waylon nods and then disappears into his room. I stand at the door to Easton’s, and I can hear music bellowing from the depths of it, and I worry about what that means. I tap lightly on the door, half hoping he’s asleep, and I can just leave the food here and go. But he’s not.
“Yup. Come in big guy!” he calls and pauses the music, thinking I’m Waylon.
I open the door, and I’m worried that he’s already changed his mind about wanting me. If he ever did at all. I can’t imagine after our last encounter that he really wants to spend time with me because everything project related we’ve discussed he’s been cool about. Sometimes even cold as ice toward me, despite what Tammy thinks she sees.
His eyes lock on me and his face is an emotionless mask. He studies my appearance and looks down at the bags in my hands. He looks disheveled, fucked up. Like he’s been battered around in a sea of bad news, and I just want to reach out and give him a hug. But I stay frozen in place, knowing it won’t be well received.
“Waylon said you could use some bar food,” I say, wanting to interrupt the oppressive silence and the weight of his gaze.
“Waylon said?” He frowns.
“I guess you mentioned something? Maybe you just needed cheese fries and he got confused.” I shrug because if he’s already forgotten that he wanted me here this is going to be awkward as hell.
“I didn’t fucking think he’d take me seriously. Fuck…” He runs a hand over his face and looks over at the wall.
“Well, I can leave the food and head out again. No problem.” I set the food on his desk and take a couple of steps backward.
“No. Stay.” He comes closer, leaning over me and shutting the door behind my back.
“Are you sure?” I ask. He smells like a heady mix of scotch and his cologne.
“I’m sure.” His eyes rake over my body. “Butyoubetter fucking be.”
“I’ve got a bacon cheeseburger, cheese fries, and a slice of apple pie.” I grab the bag and press it to his chest like it’s a shield because I forgot how easily I turn into a puddle in front of him.
“I’ve got other things I want in my mouth. Things I could eat. You want to hear about them?” He presses closer to me, and I close my eyes trying to remind myself I’m here to take care of him. Butfuckhe makes it hard to concentrate.
I open them again and glance at the half-drunk open bottle of scotch on his nightstand, and then flick my eyes up to his.
“You’ve had a lot to drink. You’re gonna eat food first.” I give him a stern look and press the bag harder into his chest.
A little smirk teases at his lips.
“First,” he echoes, taking the bag in one hand and my wrist in the other, dragging me back to his bed with him.
I lean back against the wall while I watch him spread the food out.
“Smells amazing,” he mutters.
