Chapter nineteen
Pratt
The knock came. One rap.
I'd found "Peace of Mind" on Spotify. Sully was right about it. The loss weighed a little heavily, and the music was helping.
I crossed to the door and opened it.
He was in the hallway, wearing his winter coat. He didn't wear a hat, and his hair had been tossed by the wind. He wasn't carrying anything; no bags or bottles. He'd come the eight blocks from Carver's with both hands empty.
"'Peace of Mind'—you're listening."
"You were right about it."
I stepped back and let him through.
He walked past me into the living room and sat on the couch, but not in his usual way. He set his feet flat on the floor with knees together.
I shut the door and sat on the couch beside him. He was still breathing a little hard, like he'd walked quickly.
"I watched it at the bar," Sully said.
"I knew you would."
"I told myself I wouldn't." His right hand gripped his thigh and then released. "They ran the replay twice."
"It wasn't my best."
"Your hip?"
"It's fine."
We were both quiet, and then Sully turned toward me. He reached out for my jaw, leaned in, and kissed me. I reached a hand behind his neck and held on . The kiss was warm and wet.
He kissed the side of my neck and then reached for the hem of my shirt. I lifted my arms. He pulled it over my head and dropped it on the floor. I began to unbutton the shirt he'd worn to work. I caught a faint scent of bourbon. Maybe he'd had a spill.
His shirt opened. He was cold underneath it—the weather had seeped in beneath his coat. When my fingers touched his stomach, he flinched once and didn't settle.
He kissed me again, harder. One of his hands slipped into my hair at the nape of my neck. He leaned forward, but there was something wrong with his pacing. It was too fast, and every few seconds, I felt a catch in his movements.
I lowered my hand to between his shoulder blades and resisted the urge to pull him in further. I let whatever he was doing unfold.
He stopped with a hand open, palm flat against my bare chest. His breathing was wrong, too fast. He wasn't looking at me anymore. His eyes focused beyond my shoulder.
"Fuck."
The word was quiet, almost as if he was saying it to himself.
Then, he said it louder, "Fuck."
I didn't move, but Sully stood. His feet were slightly spread, shoulder-width apart, as he faced me.
"Bryan." He repeated it louder, and his voice cracked.
"You asshole." His voice was rough but conversational, like he was talking to somebody in the room. He turned to face the wall. "You absolute—you fucking coward. You didn't callanybody.Not even your mom. You didn't call your sister, and you didn't callme.I would have picked up. You knew I would have gotten in my car and come to you. You knew, and you didn't."
He turned back to face me. His cheeks were already damp as his eyes focused on me.
