I want to ask him what's wrong, if there’s anything I can do. And then he says below his breath, “What do I do, Cecile?
“Who’s Cecile?”
He doesn’t even look at me. But I can’t stop looking at him.
He opens his hand, palm up, a quiet offering of pebbles.
I want to throw those damn pebbles in the lake. I’m so hurt right now. I’m thinking of him while he’s thinking of another woman.
One he obviously has deep feelings for.
Why him?
Why couldn’t I be falling for someone uncomplicated? Someone who wants my number, wants dinner, wants the ordinary things that suddenly feel impossible?
Hole up on the couch with pizza. Game night with the kids. Loud, messy, ordinary happiness.
Bliss.
I take a pebble and toss it all away. The wants. The what-ifs. It skips once, then sinks.
He doesn’t fill the silence. Just stares at the water, jaw set, his necktie discarded on the ground like he couldn’t stand it another second.
“We really need to wrap up—” I begin to say when the words die in my mouth. Whatever’s going on with Harrison is obviously impacting him.
This isn’t exactly a weepy, soft, emotional guy. This guy is solid. Something's bothering him.
So, I swallow back the words and ask, “Are you okay?”
His fingers curl around another stone, but he doesn’t throw it right away.
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
He isn’t gruff when he says it. Not overbearing in the get the fuck away from me way.
He's so tender. So battered. And all I want to do is be here for him.
I don't know why. But more than that, I don't know how.
But I know loneliness. And this man is drowning in it.
He’s strong for everyone. His children. His family. Gabe. In a weird way, even me.
Who's here for him?
“I just need a minute, Pix,” he says, and turns to face me. His voice is rust and steel, and so many devastatingly beautiful emotions at once.
And all I wanna do is hold him in this moment. Which is the voice of insanity because it would be like holding a wounded lion when he's hurting the most, fierce and ready to attack.
I keep my eyes on the pond. On the way the ripples fade. “It’s probably best if we don't work together.”
“Is that what you want?” he says, seething, the pinnacle of restraint.
No. Not even close. But what’s the point of chasing something you want when wanting it only teaches you what it costs?
My career taught me that.
So did Pierce Maddox.
