He nods. “Someone waiting for you at home?”
The one woman I can’t have—the one who’s just out of reach.“My wife.” Something in my face feels weird as I say it.
“Yeah, go home and smile at her like that.” And he collects his twenties and points me toward the exit.
When the Uberdrops me off, there’s a car sitting directly out front of our house. Who the fuck parks like that if they don’t live there? Worse, it’s a new hybrid, the kind with a little green leaf logo on the back that brags about its gas mileage. The kind I didn’t get because, when I wanted something more fuel efficient than my old truck,Bradhad things to say about men who drive those kinds of vehicles. So I just got another truck.
Around me, the neighborhood is quiet, the houses all asleep. A single window beams light onto the street. Savannah’s room.
Maybe she’s waiting up for me.From the way she left, that seems unlikely. Still, I imagine her outline against the window. Her cute little matching pajamas she sometimes wears around the house. She was embarrassed to be out in sweats, worried that people were staring.I can’t take my eyes off you, I wanted to say. But I didn’t.
If she’s still awake, it’s not because of me.
So I let myself in the house, opening and closing the door quickly so I don’t wake her. Above me, the floorboards creak like someone’s moving around. Maybe just the house settling.
The tonic water sobered me up enough that I’m in that strange in-between stage: drunk enough to be unsteady, sober enough to realize it. I should go to bed. I can’t sleep with her in the next room, thirty feet and an infinite distance away. Not when I’m getting the urge to knock on our shared door and say—what? Of all the things I’ve screwed up in my life, the worst is asking the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met to marry me—and agreeing not to touch her.
Instead, I go to the kitchen. The cabinet is already open. I pour a drink. Whiskey should go down easy. But I raise the glass to my lips without drinking. What’d that bartender ask? If I was there because I wanted to be—or because something inside meneedsto be?
I put the glass down, undrunk. No, that won’t work. I dump most of it out in the sink, run water to get rid of the smell. Better.
Now that I’m not focused on a drink, something about the room seems…strange. Savannah’s wedding ring was left on the counter, glinting in the ambient light from the window. There’s the thump of the washing machine coming from up the hall. A metalbaton the countertop.
I examine it. It’s not one of mine, I don’t think. I have a small indoor batting cage down next to the home gym with a few metal and wooden bats. This one is longer than I’d use normally.For someone taller.
Maybe it’s a present for me. No, the bat looks too dinged up, the grip-tape bearing the faint impression of someone’s hands. Does Savannah play softball? I can’t remember and I can’t remember if I ever knew in the first place.
I should go ask her. No, I kick that thought away. What she doesn’t need is me waking her up in the middle of the night to bother her.What she doesn’t need is me at all.
I should stay away from her for both our sakes.Two years. Of touching in public and pulling away in private.Go slow,I toldher when I asked her to explain what she’s studying. We only have two years together, and it’s already going by too damn fast. A strange feeling works its way into my throat, an ache I can’t fix right now.
For now, I climb the kitchen stairs up toward our bedrooms, hoping that when I wake up tomorrow, I can be someone different. Someone who Savannah won’t walk away from as easily.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Savannah
When I wake back upafter having been out for—I check the clock—four minutes, Asher is standing in the middle of my bedroom floor, pulling on his pants. I sit up. I’m still naked, and I feel more naked than I did even a few minutes ago. I grab a handful of the comforter and wrap it around myself. “The door?—”
But Asher already shut it.
I propel myself off the bed to the dresser, grab clothing at random. Pull on a shirt. The tag scratches against the front of my throat. Well, Brayden probably won’t look too closely…right?
I can hear him stumbling around downstairs. Is he noisier than usual? Is hedrunkerthan usual?
“He come home this drunk a lot?” Asher situates himself between my bed and my bedroom door as if he’s going to intercede. As if Brayden—who pulled back from me earlier—is a threat. Tome.
“No.” Because it’s true. Why is tonight different? “He doesn’t…”Like me like that.“He doesn’t give me a hard time, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Asher’s face goes dark. One of his hands balls into a fist, but his anger is very clearly directed out the door. “Yes, that is what I’m asking, Savannah.”
Not princess. Not Mrs. Forsyth. Savannah.“He’s never put a hand on me.”
“There are other ways—” Asher shakes his head. For the first time since I’ve met him, he seems like he’s struggling to find the correct words. “That’s not the only way to hurt someone.”
“Hey.” I go over to where Asher is standing by the door. “I know you don’t like him. Is it because of something he did?” I think of the brief Wikipedia page detailing Asher’s life, the mention of his mother, the absence of his father. “Or is it because his behavior reminds you of someone else?”
Asher shakes his head, not like he’s answering, more like he’s clearing his mind. “If you say you’re all right, I believe you. But if you ever need anything…don’t keep it secret, okay?” Something in his eyes flares momentarily, sincere and a little searching.
