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I just had to exist.
And just existing left a whole hell of a lot of room for the memories to come back, for the reality to settle down upon me.
“Maybe the wine is going to your head,” he suggested, not making a big deal out of it. “You should see if you can get some rest. Won’t do you any good to sit up worrying. No,” he said when I went to reach for the containers on the coffee table. “I’ll clean up.”
“What?” I asked, smile warm. “You’re not going to take someone else up on an offer to delegate an undesirable task?”
“Nope. I’m gonna let your bootstrapping ass go to bed, and then I will show you that I am more than a pretty face.”
I moved to stand, reaching to squeeze his hand, glad for a chance to go to bed without cleaning up, a luxury I hadn’t been afforded in all my adult life.
“Just wondering. You know, for a friend,” he said, making me turn back in the hallway. “That rectangle thing in the sink, that is what is referred to by the commoners as a ‘sponge,’ correct?” he teased, not able to keep a straight face.
“I have faith in you,” I told him, giving him a smile that felt slow in my tired body. “Goodnight, Fenway.”
“Goodnight, Aven,” he called back from where he was bent over, stacking up the to-go containers.
I went into my room, washing my face, then carefully prying off the butterfly sutures, the cuts sealed up, even if they were red and ugly still. The bruises weren’t any less prominent either. I tried to avoid looking when I passed by the mirror during the day. I didn’t want to obsess over it seeing as there was no fixing it.
Just a few more days, I reminded myself.
Then they would be light enough to cover with just a little cover-up, and some full-coverage foundation. No more of that godawful stuff that Jules got me that was most often used to cover tattoos.
I took a deep breath, pulling off my clothes, and slipping into the shower, trying to wash the residual tension down the drain.
By the time the water ran cold, my eyelids felt weighted, making my blinks slower, making we quickly brush my hair, slip into panties and a tee – since Jules bought me PJ pants because no one really ever wore nightgowns anymore – and climbed into bed, lulled by the sound of the sink running a few rooms away, smiling a little at the idea of Fenway getting water, soap, and food gunk on his expensive suits.
It was the little things, sometimes, that helped the most.
Then, sometime around midnight, I slowly drifted off to sleep.
TEN
Quin
What I really needed to do once Aven and I got back to the office was drag myself back to my place, have a glass of whiskey, and get some fucking sleep already.
Really, that was the only explanation for my actions.
Not only did I tell her about how alone I felt last New Years – something I would never have admitted to anyone else – but then I went ahead and invited her to my apartment in the city for this one.
If she was alone.
Lord knew I would be.
I usually stayed way the fuck clear of Times Square anytime from Thanksgiving until Groundhog Day. I wanted nothing to do with the droves of tourists going to see the tree or the Rockettes, or the ball drop on New Years, wearing fucking adult diapers, so they didn’t have to try to find somewhere to pee all night.
And since my apartment was right on Broadway where the masses would be gathered, yeah, no.
That was not where I wanted to be.
And yet, I agreed to be there.
For her.
What the fuck was that?
That was what a week-long tired did to a man.
Or so I was going to go ahead and try to believe.
“Yo, finally,” Smith greeted as I went into my office.
“I had my cell if you needed me,” I said, shaking my head. “What?” I asked at his raised brow.
“Wasn’t interrupting your date.”
Fucking Christ.
I liked working with a high ratio of men since they tended to keep the drama down, but it also meant one had to endure ribbing over every little thing in life. I’ll never forget the time Kai wore a striped shirt to work and got called The Hamburgelar for three months.
“What next, Smith? Gonna do that sitting in a tree song?”
His lips twitched at that. “Don’t tempt me.”
“What did you need me for?”
“Found the sister,” he said, tossing a file onto my desk. “Mary Hill. Forty-eight. Never married. Lives alone in a shack much like her brother’s, but on Third Street turf, just five streets that way,” he said, waving a hand to his left. “Get this though,” he said, flipping the pages. “Not only was Jacob in therapy since he was seventeen, so was Mary. I’m no shrink myself, but I’m thinking that says some fucked up childhood shit.”
