I hop up and half-run like a lady toward the door.
Me: He’s here. Gotta go.
Gianna: Go get ’em, tiger.
I pause to give myself a second to catch my breath before swinging the door open.
Brooks comes inside, and instantly, I know something’s wrong. A forced smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Hands in his pockets instead of reaching for me. Not one singular glance at my cleavage in the lowest cut shirt I could find in Astrid’s closet.
I’m acutely aware of the sounds of my breath. I’m cognizant that my heart is beating too quickly. My body is heavy, like it wants to be rooted in place instead of following him into the kitchen, and I fight past the lump in my throat that popped up out of nowhere to block a surge of emotions.
How was I so happy two minutes ago, and now feel like I’m being dragged to certain demise?
“Is Otis okay?” I ask carefully, moving more slowly than molasses into the cabin.
He stands by the table. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t lean. Doesn’t get comfortable at all.
“Yeah, he’s fine. Why?” he asks.
“Well, you look like someone might’ve run over something of value to you, and all I can think of to fit that bill is Otis.”
One corner of his mouth curls, and whatever war he’s fighting is broadcast across his face as plain as day.
I wipe my palms down my thighs.How hard can your heart beat without exploding?
“It looks like you have something to say.” I take a deep breath. “So, why don’t you put me out of my misery and say it?”
He runs both hands down his face, mumbling something I can’t make out. His jaw that I love to watch flex while he’s falling apart inside me isn’t as sexy now. Actually, it’s downright terrifying.
Brooks clears his throat. “We agreed yesterday that we weren’t expecting to come home feeling that way we did, whatever that meant to us individually.”
What?
“And I suggested we take some time to clear our heads last night and then discuss things this morning,” he says, his gaze shifting all over the room—to anywhere but me.
Tears clump in the corners of my eyes.
“Hey, don’t cry,” he says, clenching his fists at his sides.
I laugh sadly. “This isn’t a voluntary reaction. My body systems understand signals and historical patterns and try to get ahead of big emotions.”
“Audrey, I’m sorry.”
Audrey? Oof.
The first tear breaks free and rolls down my cheek. It’s utterly ridiculous to have tears shed without a reason, but that reason is coming. The elephant is already in the room with us, and it’s standing on my chest.
“Okay,” I say, drying beneath my eyes with my fingers. “What are you sorry for?”
“I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
His evasiveness burrows beneath my skin, and it burns like crazy. The man who demanded that I tell him exactly what I want is suddenly unable to form more than one sentence?
What the hell happened today?
We texted throughout the day yesterday after he dropped me off, and last night he called me before I fell asleep. I haven’t had time to be annoying, or childish, or to say something foolish enough to turn his opinion of me.
Was he playing me all along? Did I read him wrong?
