“Don’t. They’re amazing.”
She laughed, sounding disbelieving. Nervous.
I put the bags down in the kitchen. “I think you can pretty much have whatever you want. Your choice.”
“I choose an explanation.” She stood with her arms folded, her eyes glistening like the blades of daggers.
“Shit.” I was hoping to feed her first. I’d found that worked best with irate females: being full.
“Jack, you ghosted me. We slept together – and you know my history with men, you knew what I was worried about – and then you fucked off and went all business-like with me, only communicating when you had to. Even if the sex was that shit, I still think I deserved something more.”
I placed both hands on the kitchen worktop and braced myself because I hated admitting when I’d fucked up.
“Sim, the sex was fucking amazing. It’s me who was a complete twat afterwards because I didn’t want you to know about my brother.”
She gave me the cool, steady glare she’d perfected in the restaurant. “Are you ashamed of him?”
I laughed. That couldn’t be further from the truth. “I’m ashamed that I can’t help my brother. That he lives on the streets instead of with me or somewhere I can find from him.”
She nodded. “But that’s his choice. He’s entitled to a choice.”
“I know. But…” I looked at her. “How did you find out about him? It isn’t something I talk about.”
“But people do know. And I went to the centre. The social worker there told me about him. And you.”
“Casey and her big mouth.” I tipped my head back and looked to the ceiling.
“She did you a favour. Kind of. Why did you rush off like that when we saw someone you knew?”
“Do you want a coffee?”
She smiled, half-laughed. “Yes. Then I want to know why because you made me feel like shit, Jack and I don’t know if I can like you after what you did.”
I wished I had that punching bag, preferably with a picture of my own face on it. The woman who had occupied most of my thoughts for the last few weeks owned more than just a part of my mind, she had part of my heart as well.
I moved about her kitchen using muscle memory. Beans, machine, cups, cream. No sugar. The aroma of the Jamaican blend seeped through the room, giving me something to try to focus on.
“Here.” I put a mug down on the breakfast bar in front of her. I sat down on one of the stools. Her hair was mussed, almost how I remembered it from when she’d stayed at mine. She was wearing a large t-shirt and sweats and she looked tired. It was probably my fault.
“Talk.”
“It’d be easier if you asked questions.”
“I’m raw, Jack. You’re the first man I properly trusted in years and you ran off making me think I’d done something wrong.”
I shrugged, sipping coffee that was too hot to drink but it was something to be distracted by. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“So tell me how.”
I looked at her and saw the brown eyes and the high cheekbones, soft skin which I remembered touching. “My brother didn’t come home for leave because we’d rowed. It was stupid. When he should’ve been at home he witnessed an atrocity in Afghanistan, in a building he couldn’t escape from. I don’t know the finer details because he’s never spoken about it. When he came home he refused help. I secured flats for him, paid six months’ rent on them, but he’d never sleep there. Told me I was wasting my money. We rowed. I didn’t get it. I understand but I don’t at the same time because I feel like he doesn’t want to help himself.”
“So why not tell me this when we saw his friend?”
“Because I’m one of your employees with a teenaged daughter, a small house and a brother who I’ve let down. I figured I’d let you go before you politely declined another date.” It kind of summed it up.
She wrapped her hands around her coffee and looked at me as if I was a curio in a museum.
“I have two ex-husbands, one of who’s in jail for murder. I’m not quite seeing who wins this pissing contest.”
