Page 92 of Hard to Handle

“Smart,” I say and look out the window to the city beyond. The Manhattan skyscrapers and their lights dot the distance. A city still alive, while I’m struggling with so much turmoil.

I walked away from Hunter, from my time with the Jacks, without saying a word. I walked away, knowing full well I left my heart behind. I came back home with the bitter taste of rejection on my tongue and knowing I was letting my dad—my sisters—down by not finishing what I set out to do. Letting Sanderson win.

“Wasn’t there a game tonight?”

I nod and exhale a sigh. “Yeah, but . . . I decided to skip it. I have a shit ton to do and being in the press box isn’t going to do anything toward getting Hunter to sign with us.”

“Huh.” She makes that stupid sound I hate that says I don’t buy a word you’re saying, and then twists her lips in thought as she studies me. “So you finally told him KSM wants him?”

“Something like that.” I look at the papers on my desk and relive everything—my confession and his nonchalance—and wish my mom were here right now, as I’ve wished many times over the last fifteen years, so I could get her advice. I think I just screwed everything up. “He didn’t react, so I’m not sure what to make of it.”

I’m not exactly lying—he didn’t react—so why do I avert my eyes and blink back the tears that threaten?

“Humph.” She moves to the window of my office and looks out. Her hands are on her hips as she scans the skyline. I study her. “It never went away, did it?” Her voice is soft, gentle almost, when she’s never gentle.

“What never went away?” My mind is thinking of clients and contracts I missed while I was on the road trip. What didn’t I—

“The way you feel about Hunter.”

I freeze and am grateful her back is to me so she doesn’t see. Like with everyone else, I want to deny. Deny their observation. Deny my feelings. Deny it all. Especially now. Why can’t I tell the truth?

“You’re delusional.”

Brexton takes her time moving to my desk before setting her hip on it. “I may be delusional, but I also know you have a habit of running the other way any time you get feelings for someone.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do.”

My guard is up, my defiance front and center. “Name someone.”

“Chad.”

“What-the-hell-ever. Next.”

“I’m being serious. You were fine with Chad—content with him—because you didn’t feel anything for him. He was safe. He allowed you the appearance of having someone without you having to get emotionally involved.” She picks up a trinket on the corner of my desk—a hockey puck given to me from a client a long time ago—and weighs it in her hand. “Chad is the latest casualty. Before him that software salesman who wore his pants too tight—”

“Come on. He wasn’t that bad.” She eyes me until we both start laughing and I nod. “Yes, I guess he was . . . but his pants were too tight for a reason,” I say to try and get the focus off me.

“At least he had that going for him,” she says and shakes her head. “And before him was the baseball player. Then Gene Harsket. I never understood what you saw in him.”

“Brex—”

“No, I need you to hear me. To listen to me. I need you to see that you make a habit of being emotionally unavailable because you refuse to put yourself out there. You refuse to be hurt.”

I open my mouth and close it, because it hits me how very right she is. And then to make matters worse, why can she see that when I can’t?

“Look.” She waits until I meet her eyes, and then it’s a struggle for me to keep them there. But I do, and she continues. “It’s okay to have feelings, Dekker. Mom died, and we all retreated into ourselves. It’s natural to pull away and not want to be hurt when the last time you really loved something, you were devastated.”

I clear my throat and rise from my chair, needing to abate the restlessness her words cause me.

“You’re making me think I failed at this big sister thing. You’re the one giving advice.”

Brexton steps up beside me but we both stare at the streets below for a few seconds. “That’s the thing, Dekker. We love that you’re our big sister, but you became our mom and in doing that, you never allowed yourself to grieve. You never allowed yourself to rage. We did, and you were too busy holding us together to be able to do it yourself . . . so of course any kind of attachment scares you.”

“I grieved.”

“Sure,” she says. It’s her way of telling me she doesn’t believe me.