Chapter 31 Noah
Chapter thirty-one
Noah
Ihear Tytus coming when he’s halfway down the hall, but I don’t look up from the eggs I’m cooking when he steps into the kitchen. I don’t want to spook him or scare him off.
After a beat, I turn slowly. “Morning,” I offer, even though it’s nearly noon. “There’s fresh coffee in the pot and creamer in the fridge.”
He grunts an acknowledgment but doesn’t move.
“Do you need any help?” he asks.
I don’t, but rather than discourage him, I scramble for a task he can complete.
“I’m almost finished with the eggs. Everything else is warming in the oven. I was going to make coffee for Sawyer. Could you do that? Do you know how she likes it? Not sure if she’ll be able to stomach it, but it’s worth a try.”
With a nod, he shuffles for the coffeepot. “On it.”
He opens an overhead cupboard, then another. Before he’s found the mugs, Shiloh is at his side, sniffing him and nudging his hand with her nose.
“Sorry about that,” I chuckle. “She loves Sawyer, so I bet she smells her on you.”
He slowly crouches, wincing as he goes. “She’s sweet.”
“Her name’s Shiloh,” I offer. “Just let me know if you want me to put her upstairs. I don’t want her bothering you or jumping on you and injuring you more.”
With a groan, he rises. “No, she’s fine. I’m the stranger here. This is her house.”
He turns back to the cupboard, and I leave him to it, not wanting to disrupt the precarious cordiality that’s settled between us. I want him to be comfortable here. I want him to feel like he can open cupboards or ask for anything he might need.
“I’m not sure if we can expect them anytime soon—” I say.
But as I turn back to the stove, there’s movement in my periphery.
Mercer appears in the hallway, with Sawyer right behind him. His attention is solely focused on her, so he doesn’t notice that I’m watching them. That I’m practically staring. Analyzing. Desperately trying to catch his gaze.
His eyes are puffy like he’s been crying, but there isn’t a trace of disappointment or devastation on his face.
Did they talk? Are they okay? Where do things stand? Where the hell do we go from here?
Before I can voice any of the rapid-fire questions in my mind, before I can lock eyes with Mercer and gauge his temperament, they step out of the hall. Side by side. Holding hands.
Relief washes over me.
“Uh, those might be burning,” Tytus hedges from behind me.
I whip back to the stove, and shit—he’s right.
The eggs are peppered with brown, overdone bits, and an acidic smell wafts up from the pan.
I shake my head to clear it.
Doesn’t work.
A fresh, anxious hopefulness has replaced every other lucid thought in my mind.
I’m too jazzed up about what I’ve just seen to stress about botched eggs. By the time Mercer and Sawyer enter the kitchen, I’m grinning so hard my face hurts.
“What can we help with?” Mercer claps me on the back and sidles up to me. He glances down at the burnt eggs, wrinkling his nose.
“I got distracted,” I offer by way of explanation. “Everything else is done. Just get yourself coffee or whatever you want to drink. I’ll serve.”
With a nod, he cuffs my neck with an affectionate squeeze, then moves toward the cupboard.
He’s good.
They’re good.
The scent of sweet apples with hints of spicy cinnamon replaces the burnt eggs, and then Sawyer is beside me, hesitation in her honey-hued irises.
“Hi,” she offers tentatively, wrapping her arms around her midsection.
The greeting is far too casual. And she’s not close enough.
I turn and wrap my woman in my arms, engulfing her completely.
She blows out a heavy, relieved sigh on contact, then goes soft as she gives me more of her weight, melting into the embrace.
With a kiss to the top of her head, I ask, “You and Merce had a chance to talk?”
I want to know for certain she’s okay, that they’re okay. That together, we’re on a path of healing.
She nods, nibbling on her plump lower lip.
God, she’s got the prettiest eyes. Even with all her makeup wiped off and the puffiness that hints at the rough night she endured, she’s stunning. I want to get lost in those warm brown pools of honey for all the rest of my days.
“Mercer and I talked. I had a productive conversation with Tytus this morning, too. So assuming you and I are okay…”
She trails off, head lowering a little, letting the unspoken question linger between us.
Part of me wants to assure her that we’re fine. That I understand why she did what she did and that I’m willing to forgive and move on.
But I owe it to myself to advocate for what I need.
A private conversation. A gentle but firm reckoning. The assurance that what’s gone on over the last few weeks will never happen again.
I press my lips to the crown of her head, inhaling the scent of my three-in-one shampoo.
Humming, I savor the scent. I love that she smells like me.
Pulling back so she can see my face, I say, “You and I are far from okay.”
Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open a little.
“We’re not okay, but we will be,” I go on quickly to ease her distress. “I fully intend to hear you out, but I deserve the opportunity to say my piece, too. You and I will have a conversation, honey. You owe me that much.” I nod toward the table. “Let’s eat first.”
She presses her lips together, contrition clear in the pull of her eyebrows and in the uneasiness that wasn’t there before.
I can’t sugarcoat what’s ahead for us. We won’t truly be okay until we have our turn to talk.
But I don’t want her feeling worse when she’s already low.
“Here.” I work my arms out of my flannel shirt and hold it out for her. “It’s freezing outside, and the house is drafty. You can’t be walking around in just an old T-shirt.”
I don’t bother mentioning that it’s Mercer’s old T-shirt she’s wearing. She and Tytus both appear to be wearing borrowed clothes.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, turning slowly and slipping her arms into it.
We’re not okay yet. But we will be.
“Go sit,” I encourage.
She does, selecting a seat at the far side of the table next to Tytus.
I make a mental note to dig out a few more clothing options for him. He’s broader and taller than Merce, so while the T-shirt and sweats he’s sporting mostly fit him, I suspect he’d be a hell of a lot more comfortable in my clothes.
I gather up our breakfast and set the serving plates on the table.
It’s quiet as we enjoy our first bites of food. A hum of awkwardness extends between us initially, but I ignore it. I refuse to backslide on all the progress we’re making as a group.
I take a long swig of coffee, then lower my mug and clear my throat. “It snowed quite a bit last night,” I tell them. “Eight inches at least. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen this much snow in mid-November.”
I shake my head, but I keep my grumblings about global warming to myself.
“It usually takes the plows several hours to get out this way, so for now, I suggest we all stay put.”
I look at each one of them, giving them the opportunity to object.
Merce meets my gaze, wariness in his eyes. But he doesn’t argue, and Sawyer and Tytus don’t say anything either, so I continue.
“We’ll plan to head back to campus this afternoon, before it gets dark.” Heart rate climbing, I sit straighter, arms spread wide as I grip the table. “In the meantime, while we’re all together like this, I’ve got some questions I’d like to put out there.”
Sawyer’s eyebrows fly up. Tytus’s jaw ticks in what I assume is agitation. The reaction was nearly imperceptible. He’s excellent at burying his emotions, but I’m starting to learn his tells. I’m determined to figure him out.
Merce leans forward, the eagerness in his posture warring with the anxiety rolling off him.
He and I haven’t discussed this. It’s not an us-against-them situation.
This is all me.
But I intend to get answers for all our sakes.
“You two share a history.”
Arms crossed over my chest, I zero in on my woman and then the man who’s suffered and also caused a shit ton of suffering over the last few months.
“You’re also dysfunctional as hell and clearly codependent.”
If I didn’t have their attention before, I certainly do now. No one moves. Forks are held aloft and the food is growing cold.
“I get that you’ve known each other most of your lives. That whatever romantic connection you share is somehow stained by your past. I was okay leaving well enough alone. Figured the past was none of my business. But last night? When we got into the truck?”
Sawyer’s cheeks pink at the reminder. Mercer curses under his breath.
Yeah. I’m going there.
If making everyone temporarily uncomfortable is what it takes to work through shit, then we’ll all have to suffer through it.
Tytus shifts his chair back a few inches, his focus fixed on the table, though when he senses my stare, he meets my gaze and holds it, like he’s sizing me up and considering his next move.
“Last night, a car backfired,” I say, keeping my attention on him. “You both panicked. Really panicked. Your reactions were so intense, I thought I’d have to take you to the hospital.”
I eye Mercer, who looks like he’s holding his breath. Then I focus on Sawyer, wishing more than anything I could pull her into my lap and hold her through this. But I can’t.
We have to face this. Individually and as a unit, we have to at least try to hurdle over the trauma, pain, and resentment festering between us.
Neither Tytus nor Sawyer offers an explanation. If anything, they’re more clammed up, more guarded than they were when they thought I was going to bring up last night’s exploits.
“Fuck.” I drop my head and pinch the bridge of my nose. If they’re not going to speak up, then I’ll have to push it. This is the only way through this. So, focused on Tytus, I ask point-blank, “What the fuck happened to make you two think any of this is normal or okay?”