I suck in a deep breath, but my nerves don’t get any steadier. If Maverick attempts to drink his sins away tonight, he won’t be able to reach me.
All the chances in the world say that he doesn’t have my number written on his palm or sitting in the back of his head. And even if he did, this non-relationship that we’re having would mean that he wouldn’t dare ask one of his friends to punch in my number even if he had it.
I shake all those thoughts away and push the chair back.
Something...I need to find something to do with my hands and something else to fill my mind. I turn to the kitchen and start to spin it out of order, thankful that I wasn’t shy on restocking it where I could.
There’s chicken breast and shrimp, ground beef and steak. For a short moment, I consider cooking up a storm like no one has ever seen before. And then I put that thought into action. I’ll drive myself mad if I’m not doing something.
My mind flashes to Eloise. In moments like these, my violin would act as a respite from all the bullshit life throws at me. Except there’s no turning to her. She’s shattered into even more pieces than Maverick. That thought causes my heart to throb twice as hard, forcing me to focus on the cooking and to try to forget everything else.
I pop open the oven and set a sheet on the lower rack before filling two pots with water and setting them on the stove. My mind falls into my motions as I whizz through the kitchen, cutting and chopping. Seasoning this. Seasoning that.
In no time at all, the oven’s heated and the pots are starting to boil. The aroma of lemon and spices fill the air, but they don’t help me to forget that this night just turned on its ass in a heartbeat.
I stick a spoon into the mixture I have on the stove, blowing softly and sucking it clean of all flavor. Unfortunately, no matter what I do and no matter the distractions I try to cook up, one thing remains true, I’m still just as lost as I was before all this.
It’s obvious that Maverick and I will need to talk. But, if and when he gets back home, I’m not sure how to approach him. This isn’t some squabble. This is him, admitting to something that is so far from the truth that it makes my head spin. This is him thinking that I, even for a moment, considered that what he said might have been true. I know it’s not. I know it’s not because I know, without a doubt, that he loved her. And I should have said it sooner. I should have said it immediately. I should have held on to him. Ran after him. Pinned him down with all my strength and kept him stable with my words, but instead, I panicked.
Because what 18 year old boy says something like that? And why? Why would he say something like that? And Jesus, I couldn’t breathe realizing the weight he had been carrying around his entire life.
So maybe I fucked up. But how the hell was I supposed to act with what he’d thrown at me? Again, I shake my head, this time a little harder, like I’m trying to bang my brain against the inside of my skull.
Focus on cooking.
Focus on cooking.
You’re here when Maverick needs you.
And that I am. Being here so that he can have me when he wants to need me.
I pop the oven open and check on the broccoli, giving it a little stir before sprinkling a good helping of cheese over the top. Everything is almost ready now, sizzling and steaming and wishing to be devoured. I’ve already got the kitchen counter lined with Tupperware because heaven knows, I don’t have an appetite.
I start to dish things up, cringing a little as I realize that I could have fed a small village with the food I cooked. When I’m all out of Tupperware space, my mind drifts back to the dining room. Just for kickers, but mostly out of boredom and a need to not have that boredom draw me into the darkness, I start piling silverware into my hands. I place them on the table before rushing back into the kitchen to pick up plates. The pots and pans still have half the food that was cooked in them, having not been able to fit in the Tupperware. I find cute little heat protectors still in the packaging, rip those open and balance them along with the pots and pans that I carry over to the dining table. And then, I set the table like I’m trying to win a Pinterest award. I shove away all but the two chairs at the opposite ends of the table.
In here, it’s just us. Hiding away from the world like we don’t deserve to be a part of it, when in truth, we’re proof that something beautiful can be born of something ugly. Maverick and I, we are what hope looks like.
I sit in front of an empty plate, watching as the food on the table grows as cold as the blood in my veins. Time ticks into the next hour and Maverick is still nowhere to be seen.
Still, I sit.
Still, I wait.
There’s a part of me that is angry with him because after what we’d shared, after how vulnerably I was to him, why the hell did he feel the need to run? Why couldn’t he just turn to me? Why couldn’t he have waited a beat longer for my words.
Standing, I push back my chair and am in the middle of storming out of the dining room when I hear the front door creak open. There are four square holes in the wall facing the door, each filled with decorative cram. They’re not large enough to completely skew Maverick’s face from my line of sight. I’m not sure whether or not I’m grateful for that.
Nervous as all hell, I continue out of the room and walk right up to him. About to demand an explanation or to give him one? I’m not sure. But what I see when I come face to face with him stops me right in my tracks.
There’s not just blood on his shirt.
There’s blood everywhere.
39
I didn’t just come back to my condo. I came home. The scent of lemon in the air. The steam still oozing from the oven, filling the rest of the room in a mix of aromas that my life had never been privy to until Bethany walked into it.
Instead of talking or thinking or allowing a word to leave her chewed on lips, I pull her toward me and I kiss her. I kiss her like a man starved. Like someone who doesn’t just want her, but someone who needs her.
I kiss her for what feels like it might be the very last time as well as the
beginning. A part of me is deathly afraid that it might be true. Whether or not she makes the decision, or I do, I know that sooner or later it might very well come to the point where we’re staring down the barrel at the end of us.
Beth deserves a heck of a lot better than the likes of me. When she falls into bed with the man she’s intent on spending the rest of her life with, I want her to remember when he dropped down to one knee, when he took her hand in his and promised her forever. That’s not what I’ve given her. And I know that as time trots on, I’ll steal even more of her dreams. But more importantly, nothing good happens to those who get too close to me. I don’t allow her to back away right now, though. I don’t allow her to protect her heart and shade her soul from further damage.
Right now, I do the selfish thing and I’ll kiss her until I’m dizzy and out
of breath.
“Maverick,” she whispers, her voice pained and broken.
Her hands jut out and she pushes at my chest. I grab her by the wrists, staring deep into the sadness I put in her eyes.
When she no longer struggles against me, I press my lips against hers again. Sucking and taking. Greedy in the way that I push her pants from her thighs and slip my fingers between her folds.