He was literally going to get a medal for being an asshole. It wasn’t her fault, but she was the easiest target. Projecting every damn feeling of insecurity and loss onto her just seemed…easier, easier then dealing with it. Seeing her in the kitchen had been a fucking nightmare.
She was pounding the hell out of chicken, for shit’s sake.
Just like his mom.
She looked nothing like his mom—nothing.
And yet, seeing her there made his chest ache and his stomach drop to his knees. And with his brothers home, the house was full again.
It was all too familiar.
With a curse, Brock tossed off the giant comforter, pulled on a pair of sweats, and walked out of the room. He needed whiskey if he was going to have any hope of sleep.
Lots of whiskey.
He’d always prided himself on his control.
Until her.
And the house.
Both of them were grating his very last nerve. Set the table? Seriously? Like his brothers both weren’t completely aware that the last meal they’d had as a family had been shared at that very table.
With a shudder, he quietly pulled the whiskey from the pantry and poured a heavy dose into a coffee cup, then made his way to the living room. Maybe he’d sleep on the couch again.
Maybe he’d get drunk again.
And just maybe, he’d forget all about how good Jane smelled and how beautiful she looked—while cleaning a damn toilet.
Yeah, he was so screwed.
Brock surveyed the room as he took a sip of whiskey. The leather couches were the only new thing in the entire house. Everything else was exactly how he remembered it, from the woodsy smell to the way the wood floors creaked when you walked into the living room.
Another slow sip and he was sinking down onto the couch.
A little squeak erupted from where he tried to sit, and he jumped back up.
“Hey!” Jane’s quick movements were almost impossible to make out in the dark, but her voice? It was clear, smooth, and it sent really irrational feelings straight to his heart. Every muscle in his body tensed.
Because that was what happened when you treated people like shit—people who didn’t deserve it.
His body, aware that things were about to get uncomfortable, braced for impact, while his brain scurried to come up with the right words that would form nice-sounding sentences, sentences that would make things better without going as far as an apology.
Dumbstruck, the only thing he could utter was, “Sorry, didn’t see you there.”
“You didn’t even look.” She tucked her legs under the large afghan and yawned behind her hand. Her dark hair was pulled into a long braid that draped over her right shoulder. A white tank top was visible beneath part of the blanket.
Her expression was tired.
As the fog cleared from his head he managed to sit across from her in his own chair. Buying time, he sipped more whiskey from his coffee cup. “Why are you out here?”
A long pause descended over them like a hot itchy blanket before she answered. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“You know, you can always switch to another room if it’s the bed.”
“It’s not the bed,” she answered in a whisper.
“Or…” He licked his suddenly dry lips. “I think I can find you some NyQuil or something to help.”
She smiled. He could see the white of her teeth as her nose scrunched up in a cute little expression that he really needed to not stare at too long—lest his body take it as an invitation and suddenly launch itself over to the couch.
“Actually,” she said, adjusting herself on the couch again. “It’s more like I keep getting texts from my evil sisters.”
“Turn off your phone.”
“I finally did, but there were things said before the phone went off, things that made it so I couldn’t sleep.”
He wanted to help her—and for some reason, thinking about her problems was a hell of a lot more welcome than thinking about the ghosts floating around the room, staring at him, begging to be dealt with. “Here.” He thrust his mug of whiskey in her direction.
With a frown, she leaned forward, her hands coming into contact with his as they wrapped around the cup. He released the cup into her care, his hands tingling from the sensation of her skin against his.
“What is this?” She sniffed, then made a face.
“Whiskey. Believe me, it helps.”
She sighed. “If you say so.” One small sip and she was coughing, her eyes tearing up as she got off the couch and handed the mug back to him.
His eyes moved from her sock-clad feet up her dangerously long legs, to short black shorts that nearly gave him a view of perfect ass cheeks. Licking his lips, he grabbed the mug and met her pointed gaze. “You didn’t have to get up.”
“Well, you look exhausted. I don’t want you to make any extra effort on my behalf, only to blame me tomorrow for being more tired than you already are.”
He winced. “I deserved that.”
“Totally.” And there was that shy smile again.
Locking eyes on her, Brock sipped from the mug exactly where her lips had been, his tongue swiping across the ceramic mug unnecessarily. Yup. Losing his mind. Or maybe just that desperate for her.
Jane’s eyes hooded before she took a cautious step back and finally grabbed the blanket, resuming her place on the couch. A safe place.
A safe distance away from him.
He wasn’t so sure he liked it.
“Did it help?”
She nodded warily.
“Good.”
Another pause followed. He knew he should say something, possibly apologize, but he wasn’t even sure where to start, or how to go about doing it without laying all of his cards on the table.
So he said nothing.
He was good at that.
Saying nothing when he should say something.
“The blinds,” he finally blurted. “I think I hate the blinds the most.”
“The blinds,” she repeated in a curious tone. “Can I ask why?”
He snorted. “They always used to be open.” He flashed her a smile. “The sunlight streams all the way into the kitchen, and my mom—” His voice cracked, damn it. “She loved getting up early to make coffee and cinnamon rolls. She said that she saw heaven in this room—knew without a shadow of a doubt that it existed, because of the light.”
“That’s beautiful,” Jane whispered.
“She was beautiful.” He glared hard at the stupid wooden blinds. They were objects, stupid objects, but they still held power, made him feel weak. “They were closed the day they died. And they’ve stayed that way ever since. I hate them. They remind me that things are different. They remind me of the day my life changed forever.”
Jane didn’t move.
Nor did she say anything.
He kept talking. “It was an accident.” He stared down at his hands. “Fuck, I hate the word ‘accident’, like that makes the death part easier. A thunderstorm, followed by a plane crash. The twins were little, so Grandfather told me first. He walked into this room and shattered the perfect world I lived in.”
He swallowed and glanced back up at the blinds. “They were closed that day. I knew something was different because they were closed and my mom, she always had them open. Funny, how such a small thing can stay with you.”
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes before Jane cleared her throat. “My sisters hate me.”
“That can’t be true.” He shifted in his chair so he could see her better. “Why would they hate you?”
“I was born?” She offered with a forced laugh. “I don’t know; they always make comments about how my dad favored me, but I think he just saw a lot of himself in me. I actually cared about what he cared about, and our relationship was different because I was the youngest.” Her voice broke. “Anyway, I may have taken this job without fully telling them where I’d be and how long I’d be gone.”
“So they’re worried about you?”
Jane slumped forward. “No, it’s more like they’re pissed that nobody’s home to do all of their laundry and cooking. The last text I got called me a selfish bitch for refusing to think about their needs.”
Brock frowned so hard his face hurt. “How old are they?”
“Twenty-seven and twenty-five.”
Brock burst out laughing. “Why don’t they just order takeout?”
“Thank you!” Jane threw her hands into the air. “That’s exactly what I said, but apparently looking up the restaurants in their tiny little phones after getting their nails done is, and I quote, ‘super-duper hard.’ Then they started freaking out about having a delivery guy at the door who was probably a college dropout and looking to rob them.”
Brock shook his head. “They sound like a real…treat.”
“You have no idea.”
Guilt slammed into his chest. “Am I right when I say this was supposed to be more like a working vacation?”
She gave him a silent nod.
“Where the tenant wouldn’t be a jackass like your sisters?”
Another nod.
“Shit.”
“It’s not my fault, you know.”
“What isn’t?”
“The blinds.”
He blinked, and then blinked again. “I’m not blaming you for the blinds.”
“You are.” A sad smile spread across her lips. “I don’t know you well enough to know anything about your personality except you’re angry. And whether you’re angry at yourself, me, the house, the blinds, the only person it’s hurting is you.” She shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt to stop trying to control the memories. Maybe in order to get through the grief, you need to face them.”
“Sometimes it’s easier to offer advice than it is to take it.”
Jane visibly tensed. “It’s getting late. I think I’ll head to bed.”
“Jane, wait. I’m so—”
“No you’re not. You’re not sorry. Don’t pretend to know my story, and I won’t pretend to know yours. It wasn’t my place. I apologize.”
The blanket slid off her body into a pool on the floor. She left him alone, staring at the blinds.
They stared back at him.
And he wondered if the blinds were just that: a symbol of the day he’d decided to let his grandfather control his life—solely based on the fear of a twelve-year-old boy who’d felt he had no other choice but to hold on to the man who promised him everything would be okay.
The blinds still stared.
And he stared right back, challenging them—wondering if he pulled them open, what exactly would happen?
Would the sky fall?
Would Grandfather die?
Or would his life be exactly the same?
He stood and walked over to the blinds, lifting a shaky hand to the string that held them closed, and then jerked his hand away.
Some memories were best left buried.