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I left him to eat, grabbed my beer, then headed for my room. Stripping off my clothes, I turned the nozzle for the shower, getting it as hot as my body could stand, and climbed in. I didn’t bother with soap or shampoo, I simply stood under the spray with one hand propped against the wall to hold myself up while I drank from the bottle in the other one, silently wishing it was whiskey.
But I knew better than to touch the hard shit when I was spiraling. I’d done it in the past, and it had been sheer dumb luck that I’d been able to pull myself out of it. It was a double-edged sword, really, that the only reprieve from pain—no matter how temporary—was something as dangerous as booze. There was no winning. Flush your life down the toilet by becoming a drunk or live with the agonizing realization that you’re never going to see the people you loved most in the whole goddamn world ever again.
Sleep was cruel, because more often than not, you woke up having forgotten that the people who made up your world were gone.
Time really was the only thing that helped; however, it took its sweet fucking time, that was for sure. There were still things that could send you into a tailspin, such as thinking the woman you swore to yourself you wouldn’t fall in love with was hurt, and you were on the brink of losing yet another person you cared for.
I’d been in a really bad fucking way since getting back after the call to Hardin’s house. I’d known if I attempted to sleep, the nightmares would overwhelm me, so I didn’t even bother. While the rest of the crew headed back to the bunk room, I’d stayed downstairs until the next crew showed up to relieve us. Then I’d gotten the fuck out of there.
Now, here I was, licking my wounds and wishing I’d never let Hardin Fucking Shields burrow beneath my skin, because maybe then I wouldn’t be hurting so goddamn much.
The pressure that had been building inside my chest since the night before finally became too much, and the only way I knew to release it was to throw my head back and roar out the agony that I was drowning in. I yelled until my voice couldn’t take it, then I combated the pain in my heart with physical pain, taking my fists to the tile walls of my shower until blood from my busted knuckles streaked across the stark, clean white.
I was losing it, and I didn’t know what the hell to do to pull myself back.
The water eventually turned ice cold, so I climbed out and dressed in a pair of sweats and a Grapevine FD T-shirt and started for the kitchen to get my third beer of the morning. Only, as I passed the hall closet, I stopped.
My body moved independent of my brain, reaching out and twisting the knob, pulling the closet door open, and reaching for the box I’d shoved high up on the shelf.
I hadn’t opened it in two years, since the last trip I’d taken down the road I was currently on. It wasn’t healthy to keep them locked away in a dark closet but seeing their faces day after day was too much. I’d tried. I kept waiting for those wounds to scab over, but they never did. They were just as raw today as they’d been that night on that godforsaken stretch of highway.
With the cardboard box in my hands, I sank to the floor in the hallway and flipped the lid off. As if sensing my mood, Otis appeared, coming in close and plopping down beside me as I tried to find the courage to reach inside and pick up the framed picture that I knew was sitting right on top.
There wasn’t a single inch of that photo that I hadn’t memorized in fear that I’d one day forget their faces. I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t.
I finally pulled it out, my hand shaking as I leaned back against the wall and held it up. At the sight of their smiling faces, my vision clouded, the tears falling silently. I wasn’t sure how long I sat on that hard, cold floor, staring at that picture before finally climbing to my feet and shuffling into the living room. But after I propped it on the coffee table, I stretched out on the couch and stared at the picture of the wife and daughter I’d lost, their golden smiles captured forever on paper. And I fell asleep with that crushing weight still pressing down on me.
* * *
Hardin
Asher had been right. I’d needed to sober up before I went to talk to Ford. It was amazing what no sleep and an entire bottle of champagne could do to a person. Especially after that person had had an epic fallout with her ex.
It had taken the shower and two additional cups of coffee to kill the remainder of my buzz, and in that time, I’d decided if I was going to show up at Ford’s house unannounced and start demanding answers, the very least I could do was bring food. In my experience food had always smoothed the way across rocky situations.
I opted for Hazel’s favorite, doubling the batch so there was plenty left for dinner. Then, with Ford’s helping sealed in a plastic container, and nothing else to procrastinate over, I climbed into my car and headed to his house. It was just after noon when I pulled into his driveway.
His truck was there, so I knew he was home, but I didn’t hear any signs of life after I knocked on his front door.
I tried again, thinking maybe he hadn’t heard me, and that time, Otis barked in response. I heard Ford curse at his dog for causing so much noise, the sound of shuffling footsteps, then the clank of the lock turning. A second later, the door opened, and I got my first look at Ford since the night before.
His eyes were bloodshot, his hair was sticking up in worse disarray than usual, and dark purple half-moons stretched beneath his eyes.
“Hardin?” He blinked, his voice husky with sleep. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh god.” I cringed, wanting to kick myself for not thinking this over. “I woke you up. I’m so sorry. I didn’t stop to think you’d been up all night and probably needed sleep.”
He cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest, the position not exactly welcoming. “It’s fine. I just passed out on the couch for a bit. I didn’t mean to.”
“Um...” I shifted from foot to foot anxiously and bit down on my bottom lip. “I made you some lunch.” I lifted the container toward his face. “It’s noodles. Well, it’s spaghetti actually, but Hazel couldn’t pronounce that when she was younger so she just started calling it noodles. And...” I managed to cut my ramble short and shrugged awkwardly, “I guess it just stuck.”
He took the container from my hands, careful not to let our fingers brush. “Thanks, I appreciate that. I bet it’s great.”
He wasn’t going to invite me in.Damn it. I’d been right to worry earlier. I’d felt like he was pulling away, and his behavior right at that moment confirmed it. “Ford,” I said on a whisper, unable to keep the sadness out of my voice. “Can I come in? I think—I think we need to talk.”
For a moment I actually thought he was going to argue, but after a few seconds, he stepped to the side so I could enter. I wasn’t sure why, but he almost seemed... resigned.
I stepped into his living room, his scent hitting me like a sledgehammer, the distinctive amber and leather that was all him wrapping around me. If I didn’t have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I might have taken the time to close my eyes and breathe him in.
