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“Have you seen my cell?”
He holds it up. “I didn’t want to wake you,” he reiterates, pulling out the chair next to him. I go over, lowering next to Brad.
“You should be in bed,” I say softly, and he smiles, equally as softly, but he remains quiet, not like Brad at all.
I tuck in, catching Rose’s eye at the other end of the table as she butters some bread for Daniel and places it on his side plate. “Okay?” she mouths, and I nod, observing the subdued mood around the table. Everyone is quiet. Talking between themselves.
Grieving the loss of one of our own.
“Need any help?” I ask as Brad struggles to rip some bread off to dip.
“No.”
“Stop being stubborn.” I tear some off and turn into him, dipping it in his dish. “Open,” I say quietly. He scowls but humors me, opening his mouth and taking the bread. “If this isn’t a sign that you need a woman in your life—”
“I’d rather be shot again.”
“So dramatic.”
He falls quiet once again, stirring his stew, his sadness palpable. I don’t know if any of us can convince him that this isn’t his fault. I wish we could. He peeks up, but quickly looks back down again, his stirring becoming a bit heavy-handed, making his gravy splash up the side of his bowl. I look down the table and see Pearl and Anya talking to Esther, and I hum to myself, thoughtful.
I can’t ask him if he’s okay because that’s a dumb fucking question. He’s getting more worked up the longer he’s sitting here, looking like he’s having a mental row with himself. Blaming himself.
“Brad,” I say, unable to watch him slowly spiraling again. “You—”
“I have to go,” he says, standing up abruptly, grabbing the side of the table on a pained growl. Everyone at the table falls silent, or even more silent, all attention on Brad.
“Are you okay?” I ask, and it’s impulsive. I drop my spoon and rise, moving into him.
“I have to go,” he says again, keeping his eyes and face low as he turns and leaves the kitchen, everyone’s apprehensive stares following him. I glance at Doc for guidance, ready to go after him. He must read my intention because he holds up a palm, making me lower slowly to the chair.
“He’ll be okay,” James says.
“I’m not so sure.” I reclaim my spoon, but when the sound of tires screeching fills the room, I drop it, worried, and watch as Danny gets up and goes to window that looks out onto the front of the house. I stand to see, looking on as Brad drives recklessly down the driveway to the gates. He’s got the use of one arm, for God’s sake. “He’s probably going to the club.”
“He shouldn’t be going anywhere,” Danny says coldly. “And not because he’s injured.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a few calming breaths, and Rose fills his wine glass and taps Daniel’s hand, a signal that he may leave the table, before nodding to Tank and Fury, who both stand and follow him out. She thinks Danny’s going to lose his temper.
I look at James as he slowly chews and swallows, setting his spoon down and wiping his mouth, ready to pin Danny down when he explodes. But he doesn’t. He turns slowly and calmly walks back to the table, taking a seat and looking at James, who nods his acknowledgement. They will all be going to Hiatus after dinner to sort Brad out.
Everyone gets back to eating. Small talk. Then once again silence falls when the front door opens and closes. I look at James, James looks at Danny, Danny looks at Ringo, Ringo looks at Goldie, Goldie looks at Otto, like a Mexican wave of curious looks.
“He forgot his toothbrush,” Danny muses, picking up his wine and pointing his attention back at the entrance into the kitchen, ready to welcome Brad home, as everyone around the table chuckles lightly, as relieved as Danny that Brad’s pulled his head out of his ass long enough to realize that leaving was a bad idea, if only because he’s not at full strength at the moment.
I settle back in my chair and collect the wine Brad left at his place and sip around my smile. And nearly spit it out when someone—not Brad—walks into the kitchen, cool as can be, casual, even a fucking smile on his face. And all eyes follow him from the door to the seat that Brad just vacated. So close to me, I can smell him. Clean. Fresh.
Not dead.
“Hmmm, looks yum,” Nolan says, diving into the stew Brad left a moment ago as we all stare, mouths hanging open.
“What the fuck?” Danny eventually says, slowly lowering his wine to the table.
Nolan pauses, hunched over the table, just about to take another mouthful of stew, and looks up and down at the peanut gallery all looking like... well, like they’ve seen a fucking ghost. “What?” he asks, head swaying back and forth as gravy drips off his spoon. “What did I do?”
“What did you do?” Danny seethes, standing up from his chair slowly, his fists clenching. “What did you fucking do?”
Poor Nolan is as still as an ice sculpture, and probably feeling as cold too.
“You fucking died, you moron!”
