“Careful, Gable. You’ll use up the small amount of humor you have,” she says. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?”
“I don’t even want to be here,” I snap. “I hate brunch.”
“That’s convenient, because I hateyou.”
I lean forward. “And I?—”
Asher clicks his fingers. “Stop it, both of you. Brunch is supposed to be fun.”
Ella glares at me. “It would be fun if Gable were just nice. The only reason we’re here is because my dad is convinced you”—she points her fork at me—“are suspicious as all hell.”
“Why? Because I’m not salivating at the idea of being around a fucking cop? I don’t like cops.”
“That’s unfortunate.” Guy appears at the table and sits. “I’m quite fond of them.”
This is a fucking nightmare.
I don’t date. I don’t like the idea of being exclusive to one woman; it’s never appealed to me, and it never will. Some therapist would link it back to my piece-of-shit mother bouncing between one piece-of-shit boyfriend to another until she eventually abandoned me, but whatever. Regardless of the reasons, I don’t date, and I don’t meet parents, so why the fuck am I meeting my brother’s fake girlfriend's dad? I don’t want to impress Guy Gibson; I don’twant to ease his worries about who I really am. It isn’t my fucking issue.
The only reason I’m here is because I made the unfortunate mistake of meeting Asher twenty years ago and now see him as family.
Stupid fucking twelve-year-old Gable.
“So,” Guy says. “You don’t like cops?”
“Exclusively,” I say.
Asher sighs. “Gable, just be polite.”
“It’s okay,” Guy says. “Not a lot of people do. I’m not gonna hold it against him.” He opens the menu. “Probably.”
Asher exchanges a look with Ella, and guilt twists in my gut. I know that look. He’s apologizing to her for my behavior.
Fuck, stupid feelings. This is why love is an issue. If I didn’t love Asher so damn much, that look would mean nothing. But he’s the only family I have, and even if he’s only going to be happy temporarily, I should support that, right?
Fuck.
I clear my throat. “I’ve just had bad experiences with them, so they make me nervous. That’s all.”
I don’t look at Asher, because I don’t want a silent “thank you,” either.
“What experiences?” Guy asks.
A lie is easier to tell when it’s woven with the truth, but the truth is difficult to talk about when your life is Trauma 101.
“My mom had a boyfriend who was a cop. He didn’t like me,” I say, focusing on the menu. “And he decided to take that dislike out on me after a drink.” Not brunch etiquette, but fuck brunch. I order three more mimosas while theGibsons absorb this new information. “So yeah. I see the uniform, I get skittish.”
“I’m not in uniform,” Guy says.
“No, but you were the first time I met you. That shit sticks.”
Okay, maybe I’m losing any ground I’d gained but … baby steps.
“You’re foster brothers, right?” Guy asks.
“Kinda,” Asher says. “We met in a foster home when we were kids and kept in touch. When we got out of the system, we stuck together.”
I fidget in my seat, staring hard at the menu but taking nothing in.
