Page 41 of Melt the Ice

That’s what I needed to hear.

17

scarlett

Did I steal Miller’s keys and make a copy of Lucas’s a few weeks ago? Yes. Do I feel bad about it? Not in the slightest. Especially not now, when I can see his feet hanging out from behind his couch and the brown bottle of Don Julio on the floor. “Lucas,” I whisper as I step through the door.

He’s got nothing on, the man is naked as the day he was born, and good God almighty. I’m not complaining about the sight. I bend down, gently brushing the hair out of his face as I try again, “Lucas.” His brows pinch together in the middle, but he doesn't answer.

“Come on, Goldie. You need to shower.” I say, softly jostling his shoulder.

“No, Lettie doesn’t leave me in my dreams. She always stays, she’s the only one that stays.” He mumbles, and it tears my heart right down the middle. It’s been a couple of weeks since his mom’s funeral, and more often than not, when I don’t stay over, or he doesn’t stay with me, I find him like this.

“I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere,” I say again, placing my hand over his heart.

His eyes flutter open with a groan, “Do I even want to know how you got in here?”

I laugh quietly, trying not to worsen the hangover I’m sure he has. “Probably not.”

He looks down the length of his body, then his eyes fly up to mine, widening in time with the crimson flush crawling up his neck. “You didn’t happen to take my clothes off, did you?”

“I did not.” I tilt my head to the side, rolling my lips between my teeth to keep from smiling. “Should I be concerned that you don’t know how your clothes got off?”

His hands cover his impressive package, “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.” His eyes screw shut as he sits up, leaning against the back of the couch.

Walking to the kitchen, I pull out some ibuprofen and a water bottle, pouring his crystallized lemon packet in it before padding back across the room. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

I watch in silence as he takes a sip before popping the medicine in his mouth, his neck flexing with his swallow. I don’t know why he does this to himself. He took bereavement from playing, but that ends next week.

“Have you talked to your therapist?” Leaning against the counter, I cross one ankle over the other.

He closes his eyes before resting his head on his knees. “Can we not have this conversation while my dick is out?”

“Not my fault you decided to strip in the middle of the night.”

“Yeah, well, you weren’t exactly invited over.” He snaps back.

I know I wasn’t, and I know I’m pushing a boundary right now. But unfortunately, Little Lettie, the one who doesn’t take no for an answer, is driving the ship when it comes to him at the moment. “I’m aware, but if you’re not going to take care of yourself, someone has to.”

“You’re not my mom, Scarlett.” He spits, and the silence that falls after is heavy. I watch as his shoulders rise and fall with the force of his breaths before he looks up at me, tears clinging to his lashes. “I’m sorry.” He chokes out, as one falls to the floor with a quiet splat.

Walking around the island, I find his clothes slung over one of the barstools. I hand them to him and turn around, giving him some sense of privacy. “It’s okay, I get it. But I hate seeing you self-destruct. When you’re with me, you don’t drink, you’re happy, at least you seem to be. So why do you push me away? Why do you want to be by yourself when you know this is the outcome?”

His footsteps echo through the kitchen, and before I can blink, he’s in front of me, fully clothed. He grabs me by the backs of the thighs and sets me on top of his island. He doesn’t get any closer, which I’m thankful for because the smell of alcohol seeping from his pores makes me queasy. “Because some days, I want to feel the pain. It reminds me I’m still alive, but in the same breath, I feel like I deserve it. I deserve to hurt because I am happy with you. And that feels like it should be wrong.”

Reaching out, I tuck a strand of golden hair behind his ear, letting my hand run across his jaw, softly scratching his beard. “You’ve been struggling in silence for so long, Lucas. Don’t you think you’ve hurt enough?”

A fresh stream of tears runs down his face, his eyes trained on the countertop behind me. “How do you know when enough is enough? My life is made up of people leaving. I tell myself to keep my distance from you, but I can’t. I can’t, Lettie, because I love you with every broken part of me. I feel like the very sustenance I need to live is you, and my God, Scarlett. I’m scared you’re going to leave me, too.”

My legs straighten before they wrap around his hips, pulling him closer until his hands frame my hips on either side of the countertop. “I’m not leaving,” My words are slow and intentional. Wanting to make sure he understands what I mean. Not now, not when he needs me, not when he tells me to leave. I’m here, and I’m in this, too.

Grief is a weird thing, and to be honest, I don’t think I was allowed the safe space to grieve when Nana died. Any time I tried, my dad told me he didn’t want to hear her name. When my mom would find me crying, she’d tell me it was “unbecoming” to let my emotions show. It came out in other ways, though. I drew a lot. Filled sketch book after sketchbook with pieces that reminded me of her and the ranch.

“I talked with Dr. Williams yesterday,” he says, his voice laced with the pain he’s carrying. “He said there’s no guide, no roadmap to get through this. But that I should lean on you and my friends instead of the bottle. And I want to, I want that. It’s just...”

His head falls forward, hanging in the vacant space between us. “It’s the easy way out.”