Page 22 of Whispered Promises

TEN

NATE

I drop my keys onto the side unit as I ease off my shoes and leave them by the door. Bry has his phone set up on a tripod as he focuses on taking photos of some plated food on the kitchen island.

“Hey,” I offer in greeting, moving over to the kettle and filling it up with water before flicking it on. “You want one?” I ask as I drop a tea bag in.

“Sure, give me a second, and I can make them,” he responds. His attention is fixed on moving the plate slightly to a different angle, then taking another photo.

“It’s fine, I got it.” I grab another mug, add the tea bag, then open the fridge and pull out the milk.

The kettle boils, and I make our tea, adding milk into his. Leaning back on the kitchen counter, I take a sip, savouring the feel of the burning liquid slipping down my throat, as I watch Bry finish up.

He moves with ease; his confidence quiet but steady when in the kitchen. He’s like that in our lives too. He’s slightly shorter than me with a slimmer build, and his blonde hair, tinged with orange, flops down over his forehead as he concentrates. What does he call it again? Raspberry—no, strawberry blonde. Not ginger. He’s funny about that. His matching brows are dipped low on his forehead as he carefully packs away all the lighting and shit he had propped around the area to make the photos look good.

“You’re home early today. All good at work?” he enquires as he zips up the final bag. He pulls out two spoons from the drawer and hands me one.

Taking a seat at the island, I scoop up a spoonful from the plate and take a bite before answering. “Yeah, all good. Had a cancellation, so I got back home quicker. This tastes good; what is it?”

A smile flashes across his face, and his blue eyes crinkle at the corners. “Spiced carrots with sultanas and a little apple for sweetness, then a walnut-and-cinnamon crumble on top. Think apple crumble combined with carrot cake. I might save some for Rosy.”

The mouthful I’d just taken turns tasteless and dry, clogging up my throat as I try to swallow around the bitter lump rising from my gut. I want to snap out, laying claim to my girl. But I don’t.

I can’t.

Seeing Bry’s face lit up as he thinks of her has me forcing both the mouthful of food and possessive words back down, where they sit uncomfortably in my stomach. I can’t seem to provide the supportive response he wants either, and that has self-loathing twisting inside.

He deserves happiness just as much as Rosy does.

“I’m going to get ready for the gym.” I grab my mug, push off the stool, and ignore the guilt following me as I head towards my room.

Striding through the door, the sound of it closing behind me echoes in the silence. As I drop onto my bed, the plain navy sheets wrinkle beneath me. My arms settle on each knee as I lean forward, my head tipping down as I stare into the dark liquid cupped in my hands.

I need to get it to-fucking-gether.

As a kid, I learned quickly not to show too much attachment or interest in things, as they would be taken away from me. It didn’t teach me to be detached; instead, I just got better at hiding things, coveting them. Showing I cared usually got me mocked or scorned. It’s taken years to get out of the habit of hiding things in my room. This is my space now, and I’m able to have things that mean something out on display rather than locked in a box under a floorboard.

I glance up at the framed photos hanging on the wall. But still, the need to reassure myself is riding me hard, so I place the hot mug down on the bedside table and open the bottom of the chest of drawers. I finger the worn sweatshirt material, and some of the tension eases, knowing it's still there, still safe.

Blowing out a breath, I run my fingers through the short strands of my hair.

As far as I’ve progressed since leaving home all those years ago, meeting Rosy has old feelings and habits creeping back.

I know it’s because I desperately want her, but she’s not mine. Fuck, I know I can’t own a person, but she’s mine.

Anticipation churns low in my abdomen, knowing I’ll get to see her soon.

I pull open another drawer and grab a black pair of shorts and a matching T-shirt. Shucking off my work clothes, I tug them on, then grab a hoodie. Picking up the mug, I tip my head back and down the remaining tea, grimacing as the cooling liquid glides down my throat.

Nothing worse than cold tea.

I close my door behind me, the action creating some sort of safety barrier that eases the worry. Guilt resurfaces at the sight of Bry sitting on a stool at the island, laptop out as he works. I clap a hand to his shoulder and squeeze as I make my way over to the sink. Washing the mug out, I keep my back to him.

“Want me to invite Rosy for dinner?” I offer in an attempt to soften any hurt I caused by storming out earlier.

I’m not good at all the flowery bullshit.

His typing pauses at my words. “Yeah, of course. If you see her, let her know she’s welcome. I’ve got pizza dough already proofing, and we have veggie toppings, so I can make one for her too,” he responds eagerly, oblivious to my inner tantrum earlier.