“It wasn’t a date. We’d just closed a major investor meeting. She performed well. It was a professional celebration.”
“‘Professional.’ Right. That’s why you drove her home after.”
I stop so abruptly that Zeke overshoots by three steps and has to circle back. “How could you possibly knowthat?” I demand.
“I didn’t. But you just confirmed it.” The smile melts off his face. “Basti. Brother. What are you doing?”
That’s a good goddamn question. I’ve been asking it of myself over and over again. But no matter how many times I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling and repeating it under my breath, I keep coming to the same inevitable conclusion.
“I don’t know,” I admit in a quiet rasp. “I genuinely have no fucking idea what I’m doing with her.”
“Well, figure it out,” Zeke scolds. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re either going to fuck this girl or fuck her over, and neither option ends well for either of you.”
“Thank you for that brilliant analysis.” I start running again, faster this time. “Your insight is noted and disregarded.”
“I’m serious, Bash. You can’t keep doing this thing where you get close to someone and then?—”
“Then what?” I snap. “Then realize I’m not built for it? Then remember what happened the last time I let someone depend on me?”
“Sage’s accident wasn’t your fault.”
I grimace. “I was the one who was fucking driving, man.”
“Wrong.” He shakes his head. “Black ice was driving. You were just behind the wheel when physics took over.”
We’ve had this argument a hundred times. It never gets easier. The scar tissue around that particular wound might be thick, but Zeke knows exactly where to press to make it ache.
“Look,” he continues, because Zeke has never met a moment of tension he didn’t want to fucking yap through. “All I’m saying is, maybe it’s time to stop punishing yourself. Maybe this girl?—”
“This girl is my employee,” I snarl. “She works for me. I pay her. End of story.”
“Right. That’s why you were watching her like she was the last glass of water in the desert.”
“I wasn’t?—”
“And why you know where she lives.”
“That’s not?—”
“And why you’re currently running fast enough to qualify for the Olympics because you don’t want to talk about your feelings.”
“I don’t have feelings!” I practically roar it, and a woman walking her corgi gives us a startled look and a wide berth. “I have a business to run, a brother to take care of, and a massive project that needs my complete focus. Eliana Hunter is a line item on a spreadsheet. A very expensive line item who happens to be exceptionally good at her job.”
Zeke goes quiet for a few strides, and I think maybe, finally, he’ll drop it. But then:
“You know what your problem is?”
“Please, enlighten me.”
“You think caring about someone means you’re responsible for them.” He shakes his head. “Newsflash, brother: Sometimes, people just want to be with you. Not besavedby you. Not becontrolledby you. Just bewithyou.”
A torrent of white-hot rage rips through me, and before I can stop myself, nasty words are pouring out of my mouth. “Yeah? How’d that work out for Sage? For our mother? Hell, how’s it working for you with your ongoing string of Tinder disasters?”
Zeke’s face goes carefully blank, and I know I’ve crossed a line.
But I can’t take it back. Because if I apologize, if I soften even a fraction, I might have to examine why the sight of Eliana Hunter in those ridiculous sweatpants made my chest feel like it was caving in.
We finish the last mile in silence.
