He’s acting like I cut him off at the knees.
Did I?
Did I somehow overstep here?
A text from my brother forces me into action. I need to get going. I still have a full day of work. But tonight, hopefully, I can talk to Vince and make things right. I need him to see this was never about him being weak or inferior. It was simply me trying to do something good.
I’d never intentionally hurt him.
Vince has to know that… right?
That night, after dinner, I leave the back patio light on hoping Vince will come up after his shift. A part of me fears he’ll go to the in-law suite. Not even try to talk to me.
I’m not an invalid.
Those words have haunted me all day. I replay the last few months in my head, from the first time we actually spoke at the bar to the way he’d whispered my name in his sleep. I recall every look. Every touch. Question all of my offers to help.
Maybe I really did cross a line somewhere.
All I’ve ever wanted is to help. To think I’ve done the opposite… it guts me.
I hold my breath as headlights flash across the yard, and I almost cry in relief when he turns toward the back patio instead of the in-law suite. His steps are slow and more than a little unsteady, and when Vince finally comes in, he’s quiet. Tired. He looks older somehow, shoulders sagging under the weight of things he won’t say.
“Want me to warm some leftovers?”
“I ate at work,” he says simply.
I swallow hard. “Oh. Okay.”
He continues on to my bedroom, sitting on the bed with heavy shoulders. I don’t know if it’s from work, from the way we left things, or if he’s physically hurting, but Vince’s walls are back up and I’m not sure how to penetrate them. Buthe’s here, and that eases the pressure a little.
“We don’t need to go,” I say finally. “This weekend, I mean. We can stay if—”
“I want to go,” he says, finally looking at me.
I shake my head. “But this morning—”
“I want to go, Fletcher.”
I try to take him at his word, but it still feels like he’s mad at me. “Can you help me understand what happened this morning then? Because I feel like I fucked up. I promise it was never about your work ability or anything like that.”
He doesn’t explain. Instead, he reaches for the pain cream on the nightstand and gently smears some of it on one foot.
The knot tightens in my chest. Is he really not going to talk to me?
“Fine,” I say lamely. “If you still want to go, we’ll leave tomorrow after I get off, okay? Pack warm. We’re going to the mountains.”
I expect him to be surprised or show a flicker of interest. Instead, he just nods.
We leave with the air still tight between us. Vince never asks where we’re going, which tells me he only went because I asked him to.
That scares me more than if he’d argued. Does he really want this? Or did I push too far?
My chest stays tight for the entire drive. Vince keeps his gaze out the window, one hand resting on his thigh, fingers flexing every so often as if he’s bracing himself. Or maybe he’s in pain. Shit, maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s in too much pain to go anywhere. Should I have insisted that we stay?
Finally, we pull up in front of the old, wood cabin tucked into the side of the Laguna Mountains. It’s small and weathered, the planks silvered with age. With only a single window and a narrow door, it doesn’t look like much, and it definitely needs work. But it’s one of my favorite places in the world.
I was looking forward to sharing it with Vince, but now I’m not so sure.
