Page 81 of Stud

“Baby, I know it’s hard. But this is Tessa trying to split us up same as she turned my friends against me.”

I hugged my waist tighter, sure I would crumble. I couldn’t answer him or process a word he was saying. The longer I stayed silent, the more shadows drifted across his face. His cheekbones sharpened. His lips flattened into a grim line. “So this is how it is. My word, my assurance, means nothing.”

“I don’t know,” I mumbled, faint and feeble. I couldn’t form a coherent thought.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, looking as exhausted as I felt. “Thing is, Ainsley, I do know. I know exactly how I feel about you. And if you can’t look at me and see past these lies, then maybe…” He trailed off, resignation thinning his voice. “Maybe we aren’t worth fighting for.”

His admission was a fresh blow, lancing the wind from my chest. One second I wanted nothing more than to neuter him like the dog I thought he’d proven himself to be, next the air rushed from my lungs. He was giving up. He was leaving me.

Is that what I’d wanted? For him to beg my forgiveness? Pledge his first born? Sacrifice himself at my altar? None of which I deserved if he was telling the truth. It was all such a mess. I needed to leave. Get in my car and drive. Stop my head from spinning.

“I have to go,” I mumbled. Once. Twice. The same sentence over and over as I nearly tripped over my feet to reach the stairs. He didn’t stop me or chase me out the door. He barely moved. I fled, and he did nothing.

Twenty-one

Five-letter word for the wetness of concrete. Or your sad existence when you lose the love of your life.

S L U M P

Owen

I’d been bucked badly from a horse once, slammed onto the ground so hard every bone in my body had vibrated. I was sore for months afterward, each inhale reminding me my ribs had cracked. Now each inhale reminded me my heart had fractured.

It had been five days since Ainsley walked out my door. One hundred and twenty hours of lying awake and cursing Tessa and working endless hours in my shop. Sawing and sanding and staining were supposed to give me peace, calm my frazzled nerves. Nothing worked. Then I’d happened upon Ainsley’s tofu lodged behind my orange juice this morning and lost my shit. Doors were slammed. Curses yelled. My bookshelves hit the floor. My exhaustive run that followed subdued my misery, but not the constant ache in my chest.

Each day I tried convincing myself I’d made the right call, that not fighting for Ainsley was the smart move. I couldn’t have a repeat of Tessa, I’d remind myself. Wouldn’t get stuck in a relationship where I was more invested, more in love, more present than my partner. If Ainsley had loved me, she wouldn’t have walked out the door.

The mental marathons were a losing battle.

Sweat coated my back from my run. I stood, hand braced on my fridge as I chugged a Gatorade so fast it dripped down my chin. My phone buzzed from my counter. Wiping my forearm across my mouth, I glanced at the screen. Jimmy.

He’d been texting since Friday. First to tell me Ainsley was at his place in Napa, safe and sound, then to keep me updated on how she was doing. I never replied. Not to ask questions or to vent. Not to tell him to quit meddling. I was desperate for news of her, had to make sure she was okay. I almost hopped in my truck a thousand times to drive there and grovel at her feet, but I didn’t trust my heart. I didn’t trust hers.

That left me in this endless eddy, drowning.

I tapped on Jimmy’s message as I always did, pulse spurring for news of my girl—an endearment I couldn’t shake. He didn’t mention Ainsley, though.

Gwen will be driving down to spend the weekend in Napa with the girls. I’ve been kicked out. Heading to The Blue Door on Friday. You should come.

No hint as to how Ainsley was doing. Did she wish she’d never met me? Was she cursing my name or hardly giving me a thought?

Earlier this week, Jimmy had said she was upset, struggling. An image that had gutted me. I’d barely slept that night and worked on a new maple table until the sun rose. Not mentioning Ainsley now might mean she was moving on, which was what I’d said we should do. So why did the prospect make me want to punch the fucking wall?

Maybe, I replied, unsure I’d be better off in two days. Right now being in public and socializing was up there with watching reality TV. What did give me pause was his mention of The Blue Door. I’d forgotten about my chat with Cameron, hadn’t spared my brother a thought during my seclusion. A fact in need of remedy.

A quick shower later, I tossed on jeans and a sweater and drove to Emmett’s earlier than he’d prefer. Of the two of us, I was the morning person growing up, kicking a soccer ball for hours before he’d lumber from his room. Today’s seven a.m. intrusion would annoy him, but being stuck in my place alone was unappealing. With my distracted state, I’d wind up cutting off my hand with my jigsaw, or I’d stare at my jar of beach glass again.

Another bleak ritual this week.

It took three pounding sessions on Emmett’s door before he yanked it open. Flannel pants hung low on his hips, his tight wife-beater askew. His dark curls were plastered to one side of his face, and his exaggerated yawn forced him to squint. “What the hell, man?”

Without waiting for an answer, he scratched his chest and shuffled into the kitchen. I followed. His office door was open, giving me a glimpse of the posters on his wall—his most successful graphic design campaigns. My lazy brother was talented enough to work freelance, choose his hours, and never have to advertise. His place was nicer than mine, the open kitchen neater than was usual for him. His minimal furniture and coffee table were tidy, too. The way he’d been MIA, I’d expected the place to look like a crash site.

He hunched over his coffee machine while I leaned against his center island. I rubbed the exhaustion from my stinging eyes. “We need to talk.”

“Apparently. You look like ass.”

I felt like it, too. Assumed I’d look better than my brother, though. My brother, who was whistling as he poured us both steaming cups of coffee. A dash of sugar and milk later, we sat on the stools at his counter, side by side, eyes forward. “You’ve been hiding out,” I said.