The question is gentle, careful, weighted with everything I told him before Chris arrived at dinner—and everything I didn’t.
“I’ve been better.” I wrap my arms tighter around myself, wishing I’d grabbed my fluffy bathrobe before rushing out. All I’m wearing are thin gray satin pajama bottoms and the matching camisole top. “What are you doing here?”
“We were worried,” Chris says. “After tonight—after the way you left?—”
“And your solution was to show up at my house uninvited? To sneak around my backyard like stalkers?”
“Because I didn’t want our bosses watching us show up looking like a couple of street brawlers,” Chris mutters.
“Which is only because you punched me in the face,” Wyatt says.
I look between them, absorbing the scene. The split lip, the bruised knuckles—those aren’t from Lucia and Darius. They did this to each other.
“So that’s why you look like this,” I say, gesturing between them. “You two fought after I left?
“In Mason’s living room,” Wyatt confirms.
“About me, I take it?”
“About a lot of things,” Chris says. “But yeah. Mostly about you.”
The knowledge sits strangely in my chest. I should be angry—I am angry—about them making this about them. But there’s something else underneath. A twisted satisfaction that they cared enough to come to blows over me.
God, I really am fucked up.
“Callie read us the riot act,” Wyatt adds. “Made it very clear that we were being assholes who needed to get our priorities straight.”
“And now you’re here to... what? Apologize?”
“To apologize,” Wyatt agrees. “And to finish whatever conversation you need to have, if you still want to have it.”
“On your terms, though. Showing up unannounced, sneaking around my house?—”
“You’re right,” Chris interrupts. “That was wrong. All of it. I’m sorry. If it makes you feel better, Callie’s basically going to kill me next time she sees me. She warned me not to come.”
“We should have waited,” Wyatt adds. “Should have called first.”
“So why didn’t you?”
Another look passes between them. This one I recognize—the careful negotiation of who says what, when. I’m not sure whether to feel ganged up on or grateful the two of them are being civil after what looks to have been a serious fight.
“Because you shouldn’t have to deal with this alone,” Chris says.
“I’m not alone. I have Callie?—”
“You know what I mean.”
I do know what he means. And that’s the problem.
The November night air is cool against my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms.
“Come inside,” I say, stepping back toward the door. “Before the neighbors start wondering why I’m entertaining bloodied men in my backyard.”
They follow me into the kitchen, and suddenly the space feels smaller with both of them in it.
“Tea? Coffee?” I offer, but Chris is already filling the carafe.
“Sit down,” he says. Not unkindly. “I’ve got this.”
