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“No,” I said gently. “But I do think a lot of people react to grief that way.”
Burke was up off the floor before I could blink.
My stomach dropped cold to my feet.
“I’m not like him,” he said harshly.
Carefully, I stood. “I believe you.”
Burke speared a hand through his hair, the muscles in his jaw tight and tense. His focus never wavered, and I could see the battle play out all over his face. Something about the thread of loss—the urge to bury it, not allow it to the surface—hit a nerve.
I couldn’t apologize for saying it, because the longer I was around Burke, the more apparent it was that he still didn’t know how to process the loss of his friends.
And he needed to. No matter what that looked like for him, he had to do something with it.
Burke turned his back, facing the sink, hands on his hips.
“I’m not mad at you,” he said, his voice tense and tight. “I don’t want you to think I am.”
“I know.”
His shoulders relaxed. Burke reached forward to turn on the water.
Nothing happened.
He crouched, dropping down to open the cupboard. The pipes emitted a horrible groaning sound.
“Burke,” I warned.
Then it was everywhere.
Freezing-cold water hit me square in the face, and I screamed, backing out of the way just a few seconds too late. With my mouth hanging open, I stared in horror as the kitchen sink turned into a lovely indoor water feature.
Burke swore, running toward the bathroom to get the tool kit.
When he stormed back into the room, tool kit in hand and a furious expression on his face, I tried desperately to stifle my laughter.
It wasn’t funny. Not any of it.
But the sheer emotional roller coaster of the last hour had me feeling just a tinge hysterical.
The ends of my hair were dripping, the front of my shirt was soaked, the floor of the kitchen was slowly turning into an indoor pool, and Burke looked like he was ready to light the entire place on fire.
“This isn’t funny,” he barked. He wedged his huge frame underneath the cupboard.
“Sorry,” I said in between giggles. “I-I can’t help it.”
He pushed back, his dripping-wet face appearing. “Hand me that other wrench; this one is too small.”
I crouched on the floor and dug into the tool kit, grabbing the first thing I could find.
“The other wrench,” he yelled.
“Like I frickin’ know which one you have,” I said. I shoved it in his hands and tried very hard not to stare at the soaked T-shirt molding to his upper body. The trim line of his hips where he lay on the floor.
He cranked his arm and ground out a curse, and then the water—blessedly—stopped.
A slow dripping from the counter was the only sound in the kitchen while I waited for him to come out.
