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“Me too.” I press a kiss to his skin, right over a tattoo of a set of angel’s wings with the initials HLE in the center. I’ve tried to examine every single line of ink and mark on his body, but Hawke is very good at evading my touch, my gaze, my questions.
I drag my finger over the letters, tracing them lightly. Hawke flinches under my hand and his muscles tense up a fraction. He probably doesn’t realize I notice the subtle signs. I’m already well aware how uncomfortable he is with me seeing him so exposed.
“Whose initials are these?” I regret the question the second it comes out of my mouth. Hawke is out from under me and on his feet before I can register what’s happening. I sit up, watching in shock as he yanks on a pair of boxers and a T-shirt.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Inside, though, I’m not sorry at all. I can have sex with him, date him, call him my boyfriend, but I can’t ask a single question about him or his life before we met? It’s a ridiculous line to walk. Yet, aren’t I doing the same thing by not telling Hawke about Nick? He doesn’t even know I had an older brother, let alone one who committed suicide. He doesn’t know that my parents had to take their son off life support and sit with him as he died.
If I’m honest with myself, I have no idea what to do right now. All I know is that our relationship is built on nothing more than a bunch of lies and hiding who we are. I’m tired of feeling like crap every time I unintentionally set him off. But the fear of backing off and having Hawke end up like Nick sends a tidal wave of icy fear through me.
“I’m gonna go. I have stuff to do,” Hawke says, searching the floor for the rest of his clothes.
I want to jump out of the bed and hold him tight, keep him from leaving, even though it won’t do any good. Hawke is already gone, his mind in a completely different place even though he’s still physically standing in my bedroom.
I shrink back from his cruel tone and pull the sheet over my naked body, suddenly feeling cold and exposed.
Don’t cry, Abby.
Nothing makes Hawke run faster than tears. Especially if he thinks he caused them, which, to be honest, he usually does. I blink back the wetness and watch Hawke shake out his jeans and step into them. My eyes rove down his legs, traveling over each line of ink. My heart leaps into my throat when I reach his calf.
“What happened?” I shout. My nakedness is no longer a consideration as I fly off the bed to get a closer look at a giant, open wound on Hawke’s leg.
When I reach out to touch it, Hawke spins around, his face bright red and angrier than I’ve ever seen it. “Jesus fucking Christ, Abby! Stop fucking freaking out over every little thing! You’re not my mother, goddamn it!”
I literally skitter back, crab walking until my spine is pressed against the side of the mattress. I’ve been afraid for Hawke before, but this is the first time I’ve been afraid of Hawke.
“Stop asking questions, stop prying, stop analyzing, stop fucking digging and picking and making me feel like shit!” he bellows, zipping up his fly.
A sob catches in my throat as I bite back the emotional storm churning inside. Hawke shoves his feet into his shoes. My pulse thrums so fast I feel slightly dizzy. Combined with the growing tightness in my chest, it makes it hard to breathe, and I’m unable to say a word.
All I can do is sit on the floor naked and watch as Hawke storms out. Once he’s gone, I fall to pieces, somehow knowing that was likely the last time I’ll ever see him.
83
Abby
Seven years later
“We’re out of time, Justin.”
I close the notebook on my lap and smile at the young man sitting across from me.
“Thanks, Dr.
Kessler.”
He shoves his hat on and exits my office. After typing up my notes, I lean back in my chair and sigh. Justin reminds me of Nick, young, conflicted, his mood swings so drastic he can’t hold a job or go to school. I push the memories of my brother out of my mind, too tired to start feeling sorry for myself.
Justin was my last patient of the week. The door cracks open and Laura, the secretary I share with two other psychologists, pokes her head in.
“I’m leaving, Abby.”
“Thanks, Laura. See you Monday.”
She waves and closes the door, but not before giving me a parting shot. “It’s Friday. Try to actually go out and, you know, have fun this weekend.”
I grin, ready with a witty retort, but Laura is long gone. After a moment, the smile slides off my face. We have a long-standing joke between us, but Laura is right, I don’t have a life outside of work. I rarely go out, and I hardly ever have fun.
