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But after ten minutes and another phone call with the same result, I was running out of the coffee shop and to my truck. I knew I was risking a lot, but I had to know she was okay. After looking up her address, which I’d stored in my phone, and putting it in my GPS, I took off for her house, but slowed to a stop a couple of houses away when I saw two cars parked in the driveway.
My tense grip on the steering wheel loosened, and I blew out a ragged breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groaned, and ran my hands over my face.
I was paranoid. I was turning into a psychotic ex who always thought the worst because of what had happened before. As much as I hated the situation she was in, and as much as I wanted to get her away from her husband, I knew I couldn’t do this to Harlow. And as I gripped my chest, I realized I couldn’t do it to myself. It felt like I was going to make myself have a heart attack with how bad I was stressing over all of this.
She told me she was fine, and would be fine. She probably couldn’t meet me because her plans changed too fast for her to be able to even warn me. And I’d somehow turned that into her needing me to save her. I was beginning to worry about my sanity.
After another look at her house, I turned my car around and headed back to Thatch.
“WHY IS IT we always find you pacing when we’ve come home the last couple of weeks?” Deacon asked distractedly when he came home hours later.
Because Harlow’s husband is home by now. Because she will have hidden the phone I bought her by now. Because now I don’t know what she needed to tell me in person, and I’m back to worrying about her safety when I probably don’t have a reason to. And because now I’m pissed-off that she never warned me she wouldn’t make it to the coffee shop or turned the phone back on to at least let me know she was okay. A laugh that sounded more like a sneer burst from my chest when I remembered: She’s married; she doesn’t have to tell me anything.
I never once stopped pacing during my inner rant, or looked at Deacon, since he usually didn’t stop on the way to his room to wait for an answer, but after a few seconds I realized he was standing there watching me with a worried expression, his phone now forgotten.
The door opened again to Graham, and I sighed in relief when Grey didn’t follow him in. She seemed to only show up recently when I’d seen or talked to Harlow, like she knew I’d done something she’d warned me against, and it was impossible for me to hide things from her.
“Why are we staring at each other?” Graham asked, but before either of us could answer, his eyes narrowed. “Are you murdering the carpet again? Jesus, what is going on?”
I wanted to tell them. Despite how everything had gone down in college, neither of them had gloated or been happy when Harlow had ended things, or when I’d finally gotten on board with what our plan had been all along for college. They’d both been more worried about me than they had in the years leading up to that point, and had even asked if I’d heard from Harlow or if she’d changed her mind a few times before they’d understood not to ever bring her up again.
I knew they were trying to protect me back in college. I knew it now, hated it then, but it didn’t stop me from feeling like one of them was going to unleash some seven-year, built-up wrath on me whenever I even thought about Harlow. And even though Jagger and Grey had warned me to stay away from Harlow, everything was different now that I knew the truth about her marriage.
But I was choking on the words, not sure how to make them come out.
“Christ. Tell me you didn’t, Knox,” Graham said. “Tell me you didn’t get some girl pregnant.”
“Damn it,” Deacon said in a grave tone. “Is it mine? I’m not ready to be a mom or grow a vagina.”
Despite the frustration and worry that had been building, I barked out a laugh, and Graham cracked a smile, but I knew he was still waiting for an answer.
“No, no kids coming.”
Deacon gave Graham an uneasy look, then they both walked over to sit on one of the couches. As soon as they were seated, Deacon said, “We’ve been talking about you and your drastic change the last couple of weeks. You haven’t gone out with us even when you’re not working, you haven’t had anyone over or been anywhere since the one who walked out naked, and this is the fourth time we’ve caught you pacing. So I already texted . . .” He trailed off and looked at his phone to check. “. . . Melanie, and she’s not expecting me anymore. And we’re all going to sit in the living room until you tell us what’s going on.”
Throughout everything he’d said, Graham had sat there nodding, and now they were both looking at me expectantly.
“I don’t know how to,” I admit
ted, and Graham’s brow rose in shock while Deacon looked hurt.
“You’re serious right now?” Deacon asked. “You don’t know how to tell us something? When have we ever not told each other anything, no matter how fucked-up, disgusting, or ridiculous it was?”
“You sound like a girl,” Graham mumbled to Deacon, then cleared his throat and looked back to me. “But he’s right. We’ve been best friends for over a dozen years; we don’t know how to not tell each other things.”
My head was shaking slowly. “You guys don’t understand. It’s not just telling you, it’s what can happen because of telling you. It’s how I’m struggling with this just knowing about it,” I said through clenched teeth, and realized my entire body was vibrating with the need to get Harlow away from her husband. “And it’s also years of not talking about it, and then years before that of the two of you harassing me for it.”
Both looked confused but didn’t say anything, just waited for me to continue even though it took me a couple of minutes of pacing to figure out where to start.
“You know Flynn Doherty?” I asked.
“Nope,” Deacon responded immediately.
“Yes, you do,” Graham said in an annoyed tone.
“Yep,” Deacon amended.
“He’s the Benton County prosecutor,” Graham explained, and Deacon made a face.
