Page 8 of In Your Wake

I hurry to finish my beer. “I’m going to meet the boys, so I’ll pick up some things on the way back.”

I stand up, Mom still holding my hand. “I appreciate it, Chi-Chi.”

She hugs me, gentler this time, and I kiss the top of her head.

“See you later, Dad,” I say, lightly laying my hand on his shoulder, careful not to squeeze too hard.

Still staring outside, he nods, and his icy dismissal makes me believe he wouldn’t give two shits if I walked out that door and never came back.

Max

Mitchell Adams standing at the door is like a cool breeze of fresh alpine air during a sandstorm. It shouldn’t be because this is his parents’ house, after all. If anyone belongs here, it’s Mitchell. Though someone should remind him of that. The jerk hasn’t set foot in this house, or Oakwhite Bay, in over ten years.

His striking green gaze wipes away the years of resentment, filling me with a need to jump into his arms and escape the dumpster fire that is my life. Oddly, I’m also teetering between wishing his mother, Robyn, hadn’t asked me to stay and being ecstatic that she did.

The memory of Mitchell and me, of when we were practically like brother and sister, isn’t hard to conjure. Mitch was always there for me. Our mothers were best friends, so naturally, our families were very close.

Sometimes too close, I think, and that familiar resentment rears its ugly head.

I was about five years-old the first time Mitchell Adams walked into my life. From then on, I felt a certainty deep down, like an instinctive awareness that I could always rely on him. That he’d be there for me when it mattered most.

Well, I’d been wrong about that, hadn’t I?

Still, seeing him standing in front of me now, the years apart seem to vanish, just like the distance between us seems to have shrunk. And suddenly, I crave one of his notorious bear hugs, the kind that would swallow me and my concerns up.

All I can focus on is how strong his arms look; how much thicker they seem. How the fabric of his dark blue T-shirt clings to his biceps. Are they harder too, firmer than the last time they wrapped around me? He was eighteen then, so I’m sure a lot about him has changed since. One glance tells me those arms could surround me like a boa constrictor. A strong, yet affectionate boa constrictor.

Am I thirsting for Mitchell Adams?

I sure fucking hope not.

There’s a glimmer of the solace I used to love in his gaze. And he looks really good.

Fuck. Why does he have to look so fucking good?

Beneath his too-long, too-scruffy beard, is that secret smile he’d save for the perfect moments. A smile that could ease your mind and make you feel like the most important person in the room.

But it fades far too quickly.

“You’re here,” I say after what feels like minutes, but is likely only seconds.

“Of course, I’m here. Why are you?” he snaps.

I shake my head, coming back to my senses. He walks in, his wide frame filling the tiny foyer, dwarfing me, forcing me to take a step back. I should hate how overbearing it is to be around him, but I don’t. There’s something about his nearness, the familiarity of his presence, that washes over me like a cool ocean wave in the middle of summer, and it sends a very pleasant shiver down my spine.

Dammit. This is so not how I should feel.

As I walk with him toward the living room, I keep reminding myself that Mitchell Adams is the bane of my existence. He’s a prick. Someone I’d rather not be around.

Once I enter the room, the impending tension between father and son crackles in the air and hits me like a brick wall.

I leave the two men to hash things out, uninterested in being caught in the crossfire.

Robyn stops me with a gentle hand on my arm as I’m reaching the front door. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

I tilt my head, guilt settling onto my shoulders and pushing me down. “I can’t be here. They need to be alone. I’ll come by later, okay?”

Once Mitchell’s gone.