“Yeah. Of course. Still friends. Always.” With another frantic nod, she turns, but she doesn’t head back to the family gathering. She disappears down the hallway that leads to the upstairs bedrooms.
I feel like shit as I wave goodbye to a room full of wide-eyed, awkward-as-fuck family members. I don’t know what to say to them. I half expect someone to crack a joke, but no one says a word as I flee the house, and all that does is drive home how brutal that interaction was with Sloane.
Because even if there is a little part of me that thinks it would be kind of cute to go with her, I know I can’t.
She needs to go have fun at her prom. Make memories—with someone her own age. She needs to have the very best night, and I’m certain I can’t be the one to give her that.
Sloane Winthrop has grown into a woman who is smart, beautiful, and so damn talented. She has an entire life ahead of her with some shiny, rich boyfriend she’ll fall head over heels for while she pursues her higher education at some fancy, private university.
She doesn’t need the likes of me holding her back anymore.
I’ve almost convinced myself I did the right thing by the time I get to my truck. But when I pull away down the driveway, regret niggles at me. I glance up into the rearview mirror, and Sloane is there.
Sitting on that roof all by herself.
Probably realizing what I already know.
That I’m not good enough for her. Never have been. Never will be . . .
I wake up with Sloane’s forehead pressed into the center of my chest. Her hands are rolled into loose fists and clutched under her chin like she’s trying to keep herself from touching me in her sleep.
I don’t suffer from the same hesitance. I’ve got my arm slung casually over her petite frame and one leg draped possessively over both of hers.
It borders on too far. Yes, we’re friends. But we’re also a man and a woman. Alone and barely dressed on a bed that’s too small.
And she’s still wearing my jersey.
Friend. Friend. Friend.
I slam the word into my brain repeatedly like it might cement it somehow. I imagine it for four seconds, the letters cropping up like they’re being typed beside a cursor. Like it might keep me from wondering, “What if we weren’t just friends? What if we were more?”
Sure, I shut things down between us when she was practically still a kid. And even not so long ago, she made an offhanded joke that hit a little too close to home as I helped mount her TV on the wall.
I laughed even though I didn’t find it funny at all. I told her it would never happen. Again. Because how could it?
But she planted a seed that day. One that’s grown into a question I’m too scared to ask.
Now I’m lying here wondering . . . why the fuck can’t it happen? There was a time I was convinced I couldn’t be the guy to give her what she needs, to make her happy.
She wanted me, and I fucked it up—like I always do.
But that was then. And this is now. I’m not the same scared kid I was back then.
The word friend fades the longer I stare at her—the slightly upturned tip of her nose that wiggles a little when she talks. Her high, noble cheekbones that go so perfectly round when she laughs. Her lashes that are washed clean of mascara and take on more of a pale brown color where they’re fanned down over her smooth skin.
Her engagement ring, the one she’s still wearing, shines blindingly beneath her chin. And it’s the dose of reality I need.
Proof that I’m too late. That no matter how hard I work on my reaction time between the pipes, my personal life has always been one big miss. I freeze up. And while I get stuck in my head, the world keeps turning.
Because as I sit around wondering if we could ever be more, nursing all my complicated emotions, the reality is she almost walked down the aisle with another man. Any feelings she once had for me must be long gone.
Truth be told, I can’t really tell what she’s feeling right now. She can say she’s not sad, but I’m familiar with how grief works. I know it comes in waves. I know you can feel fine about something one day and it can fucking cripple you the next.
The anger always comes.
And I know that what she needs right now is Jasper, her friend. Not Jasper who’s been too big of a coward to cross that line even though he’s been thinking about it for years.
I carefully remove my limbs from her sleeping form, pushing away the swell of regret that hits me when I release her. I force my eyes to the ground, watching my toes against the hardwood floor as I reach for whatever clothes I can find.
And then I leave the room, too weak to keep myself from looking back at her sleeping form one last time. She looks small and frail—too thin. She looks exhausted and I hope she sleeps. I hope she eats.
The door shuts quietly behind me, and I take long strides down to the kitchen, not sure what I’ll be walking into when I get there.
I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t handle emotional situations well. Trauma? I’ve got enough, thanks. Feelings? Too many of those too.
I round the corner into the big farmhouse kitchen consisting of wide, worn floor planks, dark wood cabinetry, and hunter-green walls. The entire house is outdated and yet . . . not. It’s like it was transported straight off the set of Yellowstone.
Complete with two country boys sitting at the table over a cup of coffee.
“Did you get dressed in the dark?” Cade snipes at me.
Harvey barks out a laugh, and I glance down at myself, realizing I grabbed a neon pink shirt with a yellow energy drink logo on it, black and white stripes on the arms. It truly is atrocious, but it was dark last night. I think it was promotional. I’m positive I’ve never worn it before. And it really does clash with the pair of army green joggers I’m wearing.
My lips quirk. “Listen, the day I take fashion advice from someone as old as you, who barely leaves this ranch, is the day I die.”
I see Cade’s cheek twitch. Picking on each other is our comfort zone. And damn, it feels good. The days have slowly bled into a depressed normalcy. We’ve had one awkward family dinner. Harvey didn’t make any blow job jokes, and Beau wasn’t there to lighten the mood. It feels like everyone is just going through the motions. Waiting to hear something is the worst.
I go straight for the coffee maker, pour myself a mug, and take a seat at the table with the two other men.
“I think you’re just so used to everyone fawning over you that you don’t know when you look like a fucking clown anymore.”
“Adorable coming from the guy who wears his jeans at least two sizes too small.” I give Cade a big, cheesy grin, loving the feel of something that isn’t just sad.
“Willa likes them tight.”
I quirk a brow. “How long does it take her to peel them off of you? My money is on at least five minutes.”
“Bring your timer. You can watch next time, could probably teach your dumb ass a thing or two.”
Harvey’s head whips between us, an amused smile on his lips.
“I’ll be sure to give you some notice so you can get your Viagra down in time, old boy.”
“Oh, nah.” Harvey waves a hand dismissively. “The Eatons are a virile bunch. Even I don’t need those.”
“Jesus Christ.” Cade’s head drops, and his eyes stare into his coffee cup like he’s scrying for answers on how to make his dad stop saying inappropriate things.