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“Yes!” A deep voice rattles through the house from downstairs. It’s followed by a thump and a female scream. A get the shotgun, there’s a home invader battle cry.
I jump off the ladder and fly down the stairs, hammer swinging.
Izzy is standing by the couch, hopping on one bare foot, holding her head in one hand and her heart in the other, while Brett holds the front door wide open.
Being woken this way must be her worst nightmare. On so many levels.
Brett wears a shit-eating grin, staring at what looks like the end of a messy, drunken hook-up. Izzy at my place, wearing my t-shirt and nothing else.
Fuck.
“Brett, no.” I warn his mind not to wander.
“Like hell, no. It’s about time you two fucked it out of your systems. We’re all good now? You two ready to act like adults around each other?”
“It’s not what you think.” Izzy says.
She’s right. What we did last night is way worse than anything Brett could possibly imagine.
A purple bruise is forming on her shin—the thump I heard obviously coming from her kicking the coffee table at the sound of an intruder.
The thing about having a lockbox is that anyone with the code can enter at any hour. Until this very moment, it’s never been an issue because I never bring women home. The guys know that.
Of course, of all the people in the world I’d let in, it’s Princess. And of all the guys to walk in, it’s Brett.
My reasons for keeping women away are simple. I don’t want the questions. I don’t need the curiosity about the way I live. The interest in my tattoos. The pity that would follow from learning about my family.
Although . . . I did that very thing last night and I didn’t get pity. Instead of fielding a thousand questions or listening to Princess lament her sorrows of my motherless childhood, I got empathy. She rewarded my honesty by wrapping her arms around me, allowing me to appreciate the softness of her breasts, and the warmth of her cheek pressed against my back. She gave me her trust, and despite the worried anticipation of my reaction, she sank further into me.
She understood me.
I wasn’t treated like a wounded animal, inferior to others who were raised by two loving parents. At that moment, I felt like I wasn’t alone.
It’s been a long time since I haven’t felt alone.
I position myself between Brett and Izzy, trying to act as a screen. She’s sitting now with my jacket draped across her bare legs, staring straight ahead, frozen. Hiding the sheer terror of what the guys are going to think of this. She’s waiting for Brett to leave so she can scurry up the stairs and grab her clothing, then run off the premises.
“Out,” I say sharply, telling Brett that he needs to back himself up until he’s on the far side of the closed door and act like he saw nothing.
As soon as she hears the door latching in place, as predicted, she’s gone. What I don’t see coming is the void that’s left behind. As if I’m stuck in a vacuum, the air from her draft pulls me, imploring me to follow her, leading me to the base of the stairs.
What would I say if I followed her? Thank you for last night? I won’t let any rumours fly about what Brett saw?
I release the banister. “Advil’s in the medicine cabinet.”
I go about my normal morning routine by making coffee and checking my email. It’s easier than putting effort into ignoring what happened between us. I sure as hell did enough of that while she slept, snoring lightly against my shoulder on the couch where we both passed out, exhausted from dropping the weapons. Using me as a pillow while I used her as a blanket.
At some point in the early morning, the realisation hit that I can’t be angry with her anymore. I can’t blame her for refusing to sell the house to me. I can’t hold a grudge against a person who’s trying as hard as I am to hold on to the past.
I slid my way out from under her warm body and went upstairs to get work done, patching nail holes as silently as possible, letting her sleep off the drink and the disclosures. If I had known that Brett was going to come by today, I would have woken her and given her the opportunity to leave. I would have saved her the embarrassment of having to defend her honour to least honourable amongst us. It was a relief to have the walls come down between Princess and me last night; I don’t want the stress of worrying about what the guys think of her to build a fresh layer of tension.
Footsteps echo in the stairwell and I place my mug on the counter, freeing my hands for whatever she chooses. Another hug, perhaps. I wouldn’t refuse her arms wrapped around me again.
My mug lands beside her pile of quotes and I remember that last night’s heart-to-heart isn’t the only elephant in the room. They stare at me like test results I wasn’t supposed to see. Izzy eyes me warily, questioning if I read them, then slides them off the edge of the counter and huddles them close to her chest, safeguarding the information like a newborn baby.
I might be ruthless in business, but I stick to my word. I said I’d be a gentleman and I hope I proved that.
“Are you okay?” I ask. Brett storming in while Princess was asleep must have been heart-stopping.
“Fine,” she says in a flat voice, as if my concern is unnecessary. As if she’s forgotten how I understand that level of fear.
She looks surprisingly refreshed given that she spent the night on the couch and was woken with a fright. Her face is freshly washed, and her hair is swept into a messy bun high on her head. She put her earrings in that dangle down her long neck, and if hadn’t seen her in the same outfit yesterday, I would think that she grabbed those clothes out of the closet. As if her things belong in there mixed in with mine. Like this is a normal morning.
My pulse stutters in my neck.
“I was going to say we should keep last night to ourselves, but,” tilting her head toward the front door, she continues, “it’s too late for that.”
Her features are so perfectly neutral, totally unreadable. It’s like she took a page from my book of ambivalence. Like we switched places.
“Kelsey is going to ask me where I slept. What should I tell her?”
“What would you have told her if Brett hadn’t walked in?”
“That I got in late last night then had an early meeting this morning.” The lie rolls off her lips like she’s been thinking her way out of this situation for some time. Thinking long enough to perfect the mask she wears to hide her normally emotive features.
“Why not tell her the truth?” I ask, puzzled that she would want to invent a lie. I’m not the most forthcoming guy, but I’m not a liar.
“You’re okay with me telling her about your mom?” Her eyebrows rise to her hairline.
I didn’t explicitly state that our conversation should stay between us, but I told her things in confidence, and she knows that. I give her an equally defiant look, serving as my response. Princess would never tell my secret. She’s too kind-hearted.
“There’s a difference between honesty and privacy.” I sip my coffee, watching her above the rim of my mug. “Tell her whatever you want.”
Would it be so horrible for Kelsey to know that she spent the night here? Am I such a monster that she’d rather lie than divulge that we finally broke the ice?
Our power struggle is off kilter, as in there’s no struggle at all anymore. Or maybe . . . she holds all the power. Princess talks with assurance and walks with a swagger like she has nothing to worry about today. Like she doesn’t care. Whereas I’m left tiptoeing on shards of glass, cautious of where I place each foot.
She strides towards the exit, and I let her leave to where she’ll order an Uber and get in a car with a stranger. I don’t stop her to offer the ride home I promised last night, and she doesn’t question my silence.
Neither of us says goodbye, nor does she acknowledge Brett as she rushes past him. She slips out of the house as if hoping to leave any memory of last night behind in these walls that will soon be painted over.
Brett’s right foot isn’t across the threshold before the questions start. “It was good, right? Those legs—”
“Cut it.” His words alone are enough; the addition of the smirk makes me snap.
Brett opens his mouth to say something more, but my fist crashing against his jaw stops him. Pain shoots through my hand and into my wrist. I better not have fucked it up so that I won’t be able to work today. I need to work today. I need the loud noise of a saw to drown out my thoughts.
“Dammit, Brett!” I yell in his face. His groaning barely overshadows my heavy breathing.
I storm out the back door to cool off, slamming the door behind me in my wake. I’ve never hit a friend before. I’ve never let a woman get between me and my friends, either.
I brace against my knees, taking giant gulps of air to force the bile down my throat. Then I inhale several more to stop my body from vibrating. It’s several minutes before I can breathe without my nostrils flaring, and several minutes more before I head inside. Brett is perched against the counter, pressing a towel full of ice against his jaw.
I meet him on the other side of the counter. “Sorry.”
“Me too.”
I stick my hand out for him to shake. He grasps it tighter than necessary, making me wince. I take it without complaint. We give a single pump, sealing the apology, then I snag the ice from him and settle it on my knuckles.
“You like her?” he asks.
She makes me angrier than Brett does on his worst day, but the thought of not experiencing it anymore makes my chest hurt more than the throb in my fist.
“She has a boyfriend.” My jaw tightens around the words. It’s an excuse. A justification for letting her walk away without saying something.
“You told her? About your mom?”
I nod.
“Good for you, man. You’ve needed to tell someone for a long time.”
I’ve always accepted the semi-solitary life that I created for myself. It gives me a sense of control over situations that I have no handle on. The fewer people I let in, the fewer people I have to consult on my decisions. Things like taking Pops from his home and putting him in assisted living, inking my body, leaving work early to spend time with my one living relative. Now I have to adjust. I have to create a new sense of belonging with myself because someone else knows my story. Someone else is curious about why I do certain things.
Someone else has the power to make me act differently.