He holds up his hand, shaking his head and pointing to the fridge.
Um, okay. What does that mean? I notice his hand is bleeding. “Oh my God, your hand.”
“It’s fine.” He moves past me and opens the door to the refrigerator. Reaching for the Southern Comfort in the freezer, he unscrews the cap and lifts it to his lips. Our eyes meet. Hold. Drinking straight from the bottle, he does two shots and then sets it on the counter. He’s surprisingly… relaxed. I try to decipher the expression, the pursed lips, his breathing, all of it, but I can’t. Truth is, I don’t know this guy that well. Maybe he’s one of those guys who masks his emotions and then explodes on you when you least expect it. My dad was one of them.
Biting my lip, I fidget with the sleeves of my sweater, wondering if I could suffocate myself with them and not feel this pain. “You’re probably so mad at me.”
“I’m not mad,” he whispers, staring at the bottle as he shakes his head back and forth. He looks me in the eyes, his lips in a firm, agitated line. “Okay, I’m mad. But I’m curious… did you know when you showed up here?”
“Knew who you were? Not technically. I knew of you.” I look at him, and his eyes lift to mine. Taking a seat next to him, I ease into my explanation. “I didn’t know when I was driving through town. I swear. I was simply driving, and then that storm hit out of nowhere, and the buck… I had no idea where you lived.” I sigh, knowing that’s not entirely the truth. “I knew you lived here in Amarillo because I mailed the papers to you a couple times, but it’s not like I memorized your address and I wasn’t coming to find you or anything creepy like that. When you said your name that night, that’s when I put two and two together.”
“I figured it was something like that.” He inhales a deep breath as he stands and begins pacing the kitchen, the bottle of Southern Comfort still in his hand. “But that’s the night you should have told me. Before this went any further.”
“I know, but I didn’t.” I remain sitting at the kitchen island, afraid to move. My words hold no authority when I say, “In my defense, I tried to leave. A few times.”
He steps closer to me, and I stand. Setting the bottle on the counter, I notice he’s keeping his composure but still angry. His dark eyes search mine. “Why didn’t you just come out and tell me? I probably would have laughed it off, but now it feels like you did it on purpose to hurt me.”
“I never meant to hurt you,” I plead, hoping he understands. My words are desperate, begging, because I can’t bear for him to think I used him. “I wanted to tell you, but every time I tried to, the timing was off, and I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”
He cautiously lifts his hand, his thumb brushing my cheek. He stares at me silently, studying me. It’s as if he’s evaluating my honesty. “I wish you would have told me the truth before you involved them.”
Them? His girls. My heart dives at his words. I wince. His statement crushes me so deeply it feels like a thousand pounds of steel hold me to the ground. My apology catches in my throat, but I manage to say, “I’m so sorry.”
Reaching for the Southern Comfort, he takes another shot straight from the bottle and then sets it on the counter with a thud. “You said that already,” he snaps and takes another shot.
And another.
He sets the bottle back down and sighs.
I swallow, tears burning my throat. “I should go. I can go.”
Silence fills the space between us, and I’m paralyzed, unsure what to say or do next.
His brow lifts, his breathing light and easy. “Don’t be like her.”
The words cut me. Deep. “What?’
“Don’t come into their life and leave right before Christmas.”
I blink rapidly, trying to understand what he’s saying. “You want me to stay?”
“I… don’t know what I want,” he admits. “I don’t even know how to comprehend the last hour, but if you leave them, I know it will crush them. So don’t go. Stay. And then we can talk about it after Christmas.”
Tears slide down my cheeks. His armor weakens, and he shifts his stance closer. He chews on his words before he shakes his head. “Don’t cry.” He whispers the words as if the idea of me crying pains him.
“I feel like a complete fucking asshole.” I sob into my hands.
“You kinda are one.” He snorts but then laughs, the sound forced.
I drop my hands and stare at him. “Did you just call me an asshole?”
“I did.” He brings the bottle of Southern Comfort to my lips. “This might help.”
I take the bottle, throw back a few shots and then stare at him. He’s right. It does help. “Are you sure you want me to stay? I can go. I would understand if you never want to see me again.”
He touches me, his hand against my cheek. “You know what pissed me off more than anything about her being here?”
I’m dying to know what they talked about, but I figured it was between them. I also can’t ignore the protective stance he took when the girls were near Tara. He stood directly in front of them.
“Her seeing the girls?”
“That.” He nods, running his hand through his hair. “But her acting like you weren’t good enough.”
My lips tremble because, for the first time in my life, someone pierced through my façade. The girl who’s always up for a good time, the life of the party, and quick to make fun of herself does it because it’s the only way. I don’t want to infect anyone with my sadness I bury deep inside. I hide behind humor because somewhere along the way I was told over and over again, you’re not enough, Kacy. Not skinny enough. Lips aren’t perfect. Hair too thin. Body too curvy. Teeth too crooked. All things my mother criticized me for. I wished my voice would have been louder than she was.
My breath catches when he stares at me. Waiting. My pulse quickens, my cheeks flush, and I instinctively look downward, unable to hold his eyes. He’s known me a month, not even, and already knows more about me than most of my family.
Barron lifts my chin up, and a sickening feeling stirs inside me. “You are enough,” he assures me. “Anyone who doesn’t see that is a fucking idiot.” Before I can comprehend his statement, his lips press to mine. Once.
“I’m sorry,” I rush to say, again, because I think it’s needed, but I also don’t pull away from him. I’m eager for assurance. Still. Always.
He shakes his head, cradling my face in his hands. “Don’t say that anymore.” There’s still a hint of anger in his tone, and I’m not sure if it’s because of me or her, but regardless, I keep my apology to myself.
He drops his hands and I can feel the tension rolling off him. I want to comfort him because fuck, his wife just showed up out of the blue, and I know he’s dealing with some shit. Not just what’s going on between us. “What did she say?”
“She wanted me to sign the divorce papers.”
“Why haven’t you?”
He sighs heavily and it’s not one of relief. “Because she wanted joint custody of the girls and there was no way in hell I’m letting that cunt have anything to do with my kids.” He draws in another breath. “Did you know about them?”