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“Maybe those shoes are her favorite.”
“There’s always fur on her clothes.”
“She dog-walks. She’s always petting the dogs that come into the brewery,” Reid says and narrows his eyes. He’s onto me. “Those are stupid reasons to get annoyed, even for you.”
My brother glares at me so I shrug. “She just does a lot of things that make no sense, that’s all. Why is she happy all the time?”
“Um-hum,” Reid says, staring at me.
“It’s just, why does she care? Every other employee isn’t up in my business, andsheis.”
“You should ask her.” Reid is probably the sibling I’m closest to, but his deep exhale tells me he is frustrated beyond belief with me.
“She says it’s sad. The way I live my life.”
“Well, it is.”
I glare at him, and he shrugs.
“Look, you go to work, you come back to this apartment. You don’t see anyone, except for us when we force ourselves on you. You used to do stuff, man, that’s all. You ran a fucking travel blog. You know what, forget it.”
I swirl the Scotch in my glass.
The travel blog was a lifetime ago. I spent the better part of ten years in my loft in Seattle, leaving only to go to work and the gym. My co-workers were nice enough, but I socialized rarely, and dates were out of the question.
The whole time I socialized with anyone, all I thought about was her.
“The only thing I’ll say is you can’t hide forever,” Reid says. “No matter what you think, people care about you. They want the best for you. Even if you don’t want it for yourself.”
“That’s the thing. I already had the best.” My throat closes as I think about her. It aches to think about her. That there were moments in Seattle I laid in bed, giving myself headaches because I wished I could bring her back.
I can’t though. And that kills me.
“If you’ve been a dick, Shiloh deserves an apology. She doesn’t deserve your bullshit.”
“Do you think Whitney deserves an apology?” I ask.
“Absolutely not.”
“Do you want to be the pot or the kettle?”
“Shut the fuck up and drink your Scotch.”
10
Shiloh
Igrab my messenger bag in the employee breakroom and close my locker, just to see Jackson leaning beside it. The breath leaves my body as I grab my chest.
“Holy cow, you scared me,” I say with a chuckle.
I’ve thought long and hard about Jackson. He floods my thoughts at the most inconvenient times—during dog walks and hangouts with my grandpa. No matter how nasty he is toward me, I’m done letting Jackson crawl under my skin. Even if I thought I felt his hard shell softening at urgent care. His skin on mine felt like fire and consumed my wits, turning me into a lovesick schoolgirl. I say hi to be nice, but I’ve restrained myself from acts of kindness towards him. I channel it towards Ramon or my grandfather.
I’ve seen him more often at work lately. He does laps now through the taproom, and I swear he looks at me every time. He hasn’t approached me, but when we catch eyes, I smile and wave.
This feels deliberate.
Is he trying to be handsome? He’s leaning against the lockers, a classic move for a heartthrob. His shoulders fill out his Woody Finch polo shirt, the arm holes straining against his biceps. His piercing eyes study me behind his black frames, and I feel exposed. Good-looking men studying me always make me feel uncomfortable.
