I’m wringing out my freshly showered hair when someone knocks on my door. Even though I told Ava that I needed sleep, Jax’s text overpowered that sleepiness. I tried for twenty minutes, tossing and turning, before giving up and stomping to the guest bathroom to shower.
My thoughts raced as I showered.
Was Christopher messing with me?
With us?
He knew Jax and I hated each other. He witnessed it firsthand anytime the three of us were together. When he asked us to play nice for his sake, Jax and I then pretended like the other didn’t even exist. When we walked into a room, we’d say hi to everyone, except each other. I’d offer everyone but him a beer when the guys were over for football games.
So, why in the world would Christopher think we could work together?
As much as it frustrates me that he stuck me with Jax, it’s also consoling to know that Christopher thought about me, wanted me involved in the business he loved so much. Now, if only I could find a way to kick Jax out, all would be well in my new business world. That sounds selfish, I know, since they built the business together, but what else can I hope for?
Barefoot, I walk through the townhome to the front door and peek through the peephole to find the last person I expected to see. My head pounds, and I stare at him for a moment, taking in how he shifts from one foot to the other and how he runs his hand through his thick, wet hair in frustration.
He’s standing in the rain, and I contemplate how long I should leave him out in the cold before answering.
Hell, should I even answer?
Since I’m not as evil as he claims I am, I swing open the door and immediately set my glare on him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Jax rubs his hands together in an attempt to warm himself and blows out a ragged breath. “We need to talk.”
“About what? I can’t sell my portion of the business anyway, so why are you here, looking like a miserable, wet goat?” I smirk. “A little cold out there, jackass?”
“Shut up and let me in,” he grumbles.
“Eh, we can save this talk for tomorrow. Thanks though.”
He shoots his hand out when I go to shut the door in his face and stops it. “Don’t.” He inches a step closer, and his firm chest heaves in and out from his heavy breathing. “Don’t slam the door in my goddamn face.”
We stand there, staring each other down, and he ignores the rain pelting him from all angles. Our eyes meet, the porch light putting his face on display, and the hurt and frustration are clear in his eyes. I’m sure he finds the same in mine—pain and loss, mixed with confusion and anger.
A combination of every emotion that passes through me daily.
He nearly has me in a trance, so I stumble back when he pushes the door open farther, wide enough to allow him entrance, and he slides past me into my home.
“What the hell?” I shriek, scooting away from him. “You know I can, like, beat you with a baseball bat until you can’t walk, take out a kneecap for breaking and entering?”
He shakes his head to remove the water droplets from his hair before running a hand through it. “Break them then.” He gestures to his knees. “I don’t think you have the balls to do that, but go ahead, Millie.”
Rain drifts through the doorway as we stare at each other in agony. Both of us with dripping wet hair, sorrow in our eyes, and hate toward each other in our hearts.
He stands there almost tauntingly.
I point to the door. “Get the fuck out.”
“We have to talk.”
“We have nothing to talk about, Jax. All you do when we talk is throw Christopher’s death in my face and find some ridiculous way to blame me for it. So, the less you’re around, the better for my goddamn mental health and sanity. You’re like a leech, sucking any small bit of happiness out of my soul.”
His voice is icy when he says, “You can’t get pissed at someone for speaking the truth.”
I lift my hand, and before I can stop myself, I slap him across the face. Gasping, I cover my mouth with cupped hands, shocked at what I did.
Shocked, yes, but also not pissed at myself for it. I’ve heard his insults, his blame game, for too long.
“Jesus, fuck,” Jax hisses, rubbing his jaw. “What the fuck?”
“How dare you come to my home and talk to me this way! I am done being your punching bag.”
He throws out his arms and raises his voice. “He was my best friend. I’m allowed to be fucking angry.”
“And he was the goddamn love of my life,” I scream.
Jax’s mouth snaps closed, his eyes widening. We’ve never spoken about my feelings toward Christopher. That’s something I left between Christopher and me or my friends. Never Jax.
“I wish I’d never introduced you two,” he snarls.
His words are a slap in the face. Tears well in my eyes, and I close them to gain my composure. “Of course you do. You had it out for our relationship the moment we started dating, like some jealous toddler forced to share his toys. You acted as if Christopher couldn’t be close with anyone but you!”
We’re in the small space of my entryway, our faces merely inches apart, screaming our hurt and anger out toward the other. This seems like it’s the closest we’ve been in years—the closest we’ve allowed ourselves to be.
Jax’s face is red from not only my slap, but also from his blatant anger toward me.
“That’s such bullshit. You know that’s not the reason.” Spit flies from his mouth. “You meeting him would’ve been inevitable, but …” He trails off, his words ending, and pulls at the roots of his hair. “Fuck!”
I cross my arms. “Exactly. You’re the reason we met, but it would’ve been inevitable, no matter what.”
Jax tilts his head down. And for what seems like the first time in a long time, he looks at me. Yes, we’ve glared at each other, shot looks of disgust toward each other, but we’ve never locked eyes long enough to truly understand one another.
There’s a sadness in his eyes that matches mine.
There’s also fear.
It’s as if releasing our anger and hate toward each other has made us lighter for only a few stolen seconds. I gasp when his cold finger swipes over my cheek, wiping away a tear. I slightly open my mouth. It’s wrong—I know it’s wrong—but I haven’t been touched by a masculine hand in so long. Even just a simple wipe of a tear feels like something I’ve been longing for.
His finger slides from my cheek to my lips, and he runs the tip of it along my bottom lip. A light moan escapes me, and it’s exactly what we needed for him to pull away. It’s the reality check we needed to tell us whatever emotion flooding through us is wrong.
He reverses a step, his back hitting the wall. “Go put on some goddamn clothes.” He gestures to my towel, and his shoulder brushes against mine as he spins on his heels and walks farther into the townhome.
Shit.
It’s this moment that I realize I’m wearing a towel. I’m surprised Jax didn’t comment on my lack of clothing before.
I tighten the fabric around me before stomping into the living room, where he’s standing. “In case you’ve forgotten, this is my home, and you showed up in the middle of the night. Don’t come in here, barking demands.”
I planned to change out of the towel, and I will, but I don’t like him telling me what to do. I’ll stand here all damn night in this towel to go against what he wants. His back is to me, and he’s frozen in place, standing next to the couch, as if he were surveying a crime scene.
Jax hasn’t been here since Christopher’s death, but his friend is everywhere. There are endless framed pictures of Christopher and me, Christopher and Jax, and some with our friends and Jax’s family. My therapist suggested I take them down for a month to see if that would help with my grieving, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
Minutes pass as silence fills the room, and when I take a step forward, the floor creaks, causing him to peer back at me.
“We can’t work together,” he says, almost pained.
“We have no choice but to do it,” I reply, sniffling. “At least give Christopher what he wanted for ninety days. Then, we’ll go our separate ways.”
I’m unsure of what I’ll do with the brewery, but for now, I want to grant Christopher his last wish. I’ll give him what he wanted because it is the only thing he ever asked of me, and as far as I know, we’re the only people he asked anything of.
“We can’t work together, Amelia, and you fucking know why,” Jax yells.
The pain is clear in his eyes.
The guilt.
Something he’s carried—we’ve carried—for years.
At times, I wonder if it’s something we should feel guilty about.
But do we feel guilty about our actions or for keeping them a secret?
Our hatred for each other aided in us not telling Christopher—or anyone really—the truth. If we hated each other, we didn’t have to think about it. People wouldn’t suspect us to have the history we have. And Christopher would definitely never suspect what happened.
Jax and I have always been toxic.
Even when we tried not to be.
At one point, I thought it might be love, but we were stupid kids.
“You can sell me your share,” I finally say. “Then, it’s done.”
He smacks his hand across his chest and takes two steps toward me. “Over my dead body will I sell you what Chris and I worked our asses off for.”
I cross my arms. “Then, that means we’re partners.”
“I won’t make this easy on you,” he snarls.
“And I won’t make it easy on you.”
“I’m going to make your life hell until you sell.”
“Samesies.”
“I always win, Amelia. Always.”
“We’ll see about that.”