Page 53 of Hard to Love

I move toward her. Her eyes track me until I take a seat beside her but she doesn’t say a word.

“Can I get you anything?” I ask.

No response. Nothing.

I’m not good with emotional women. Tears unnerve me. Hysteria annoys me. But there is one thing that Stevie has taught me—a lack of emotion terrifies me.

You don’t know what the other person is thinking or feeling. You don’t know how to react or respond and you spend every interaction second-guessing if you did the right thing.

But Stevie looks so damn sad. So confused. So I sit back next to her, wrap my arm around her shoulder, and pull her in close to my side.

She doesn’t say anything at all but rather rests her head against my shoulder. I don’t know how long we sit like this, with me giving comfort I’m probably not suitable to give, but at least I don’t feel as helpless as I did.

At least I feel like I’m trying to do something.

Time passes in waves crashing on the beach and the buzz of my cell phone on the table across the room, but we don’t move, nor do we speak. It’s a peaceful sound. Odd how I’ve never stopped long enough to notice that in all the times I’ve been coming here.

The waves have just been there. A constant in the background. But now . . . now they’re soothing. Peaceful. Exactly what Stevie needs as we sit here, somehow giving each other something that we can’t quite pinpoint but know we need nonetheless.

“Thank you.” Her voice is so quiet it’s almost as if she’s forgotten how to use it.

I don’t need her gratitude. I need her to stop being a ghost of herself.

“How about you jump in the shower and get some clean clothes on?” I press a kiss to the top of her head. “It won’t fix anything but it might make you feel a bit better.”

She nods.

“I think all your clothes are dirty. Do you mind if I have my housekeeper wash them and get the Las Vegas smoke out of them?” I’d thought about it yesterday but didn’t want to go through her stuff without asking, and since this is the first time we’ve actually interacted, I figured it was worth a shot. “She can take the clothes out of your bag if that’s okay, and I can give you a T-shirt and shorts to wear in the meantime.”

She nods and looks up at me. I can’t help but wonder what’s going on in that mind of hers. If the trouble in her eyes is any indication, there’s a whole hell of a lot.

“Maybe after a shower and you get something to eat, we can talk?”

Wariness etches in the lines of her face but she nods before rising from the couch. She stops at her luggage, which has been sitting untouched outside her door since we arrived, and digs through the front pockets for what looks like shampoo and conditioner before heading toward her bedroom en suite.

I head to the bags and begin to lift them when a piece of paper falls out from underneath them. I’m only being semi-nosy when I pick it up to see what it is. It’s a small, white folded card with the words Cards O’ Fun handwritten in block letters at the top and “Have a one-night stand” written in cursive in its center.

I don’t know why I stare at those five words on the card for so long, but I do know this is the reason I met Stevie that night. This is the reason we are where we are right now.

For some reason I put the card in my back pocket and then lug her suitcases toward the laundry suite for Faith, my housekeeper, to wash them.

It’s silent as Stevie picks at her grilled cheese sandwich from where she sits across the table from me.

“I know my cooking isn’t great, but you can’t exactly screw up a grilled cheese,” I say to try and lighten the mood.

Her smile flickers momentarily. I’ve missed that smile, even if it’s only a hint of the ones I’ve seen prior. I study her as she plays with her food. Her wet hair is up in a clip and there’s slightly more color in her cheeks now. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts, her tan legs crossed like a little kid on the chair where she sits.

“Stevie.” I say her name and hate that she seems pained to meet my eyes. I don’t understand her silence. I don’t understand it, because I’d be so full of fury I’d burn everything down.

And that’s what I thought she was trying to do and why I was called in by Carson . . . so this about-face is odd to me.

“I know I need to deal with it, but what if I don’t want to?” she asks like a child seeking approval.

“You can’t stick your head in the sand on this. She needs to be dealt with.” I take a bite of my own sandwich and follow it up with a sip of wine.

“I’m ignoring her. Ignoring this.”

“Just like you’ve been ignoring the passing of your father by trashing your reputation and almost your career?” She winces like I just slapped her across the face. I can’t take my words back, nor do I think I would if I could because someone has to wake her up. Someone has to make her realize this isn’t going away and she has to face it.