Chapter Twenty-Six
Adam
“I can’t believe I sold my house,” I say, reaching for the shot glass the bartender put in front of me.
“Here’s to selling houses,” Emmet says loudly, raising his glass.
I tap mine to his, and we take the shots. It burns as it goes down, so I chase it with a sip of my Jack and Coke which is less harsh and not nearly as strong as the ones Pete makes.
“I haven’t drank this much in years,” I comment with a shake of my head, which only makes me feel dizzy.
“Why the hell not?”
The alcohol is warming my body from the inside out, and though there isn’t anything to smile about right this second, all I want to do is smile.
“Because I’m fucking boring,” I admit.
“Nah, you’re not boring.”
I nod, grabbing my drink. “I’m definitely boring. A boring, nearly-divorced jobless dad.”
“Hey,” Emmet says harshly, pointing a finger at me. “Some of those things may be true, but you’re not boring. Also… why nearly divorced?”
“I don’t know.” I rub my forehead. “I haven’t gotten around to it.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to do that? You know, get things in writing?”
“Not if things don’t go in my favor.”
“What do you mean?”
“If she fights me on anything, she’ll win. She’s the mother, and courts always go in their favor.”
“I don’t think that’s true anymore, Adam,” he says sympathetically.
“It’s not worth the risk.”
“So are you just going to let her drag you around by a leash for the rest of your life?”
I frown at him, not liking the way that comment makes me feel. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“Sorry,” he says, gesturing toward the bartender and holding up two fingers.
More shots. Just what we need.
Emmet stumbles into the elevator, and I go in after him. He turns just in time to catch me from slamming into him. He throws his head back and laughs, the sound like music to my ears. He has such a rich, hearty laugh—when he truly means it.
His hands are on my hips, fingers searing my skin through my shirt. My gaze goes to his lips, and I lick mine before saying, “You should laugh like that more often.”
“Like what?” he says, his hands falling from me as he stumbles toward the buttons. “What floor are we going to?”
I huff out a laugh and walk over to press the six. “Like you just did.”
“I don’t know how I laughed. I just laughed.”
“Like you meant it.”
Emmet leans against the wall, grinning at me with half-lidded eyes and rosy cheeks.
He’s so beautiful right now.
So dangerously beautiful.
With the alcohol in my veins, my brain is quiet.
There is nothing in my head telling me not to think of Emmet like that.
After all, we were together for a long time.
Doesn’t that give me the right to think about it?
To think about us when we were together?
They’re my memories too, and I have a right to them.
I can think about them whenever I want, without a single person knowing. But right now… I want him to know.
I’m suddenly remembering all the nights we were together, the way we kissed and hugged and touched and loved.
There was so much passion, so much emotion, so much feeling.
So much, so much, so much.
So many things I haven’t felt in years.
How is it so easy for him to bring this out in me?
When I’m with Emmet, I feel good. Happy. Free. I don’t feel dull and boring, even if I still am.
The way he looks at me, smiles at me, it makes me feel important.
Seen. I’m not invisible when I’m with him, and he made that very clear from the first day I met him.
On the worst day of my life. It all happened so fast that it felt like I had whiplash.
I barely remember the day, but I certainly remember him.
“You’re going to live with me now, but we’re not brothers, okay?”
“Okay.”
I didn’t live with him for long, but we stayed friends for years.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, his voice raspy, jaw set.
I blink and he comes back into view, the smile on his face gone.
“Huh?” I shift my feet because I’m leaning to one side, and I’ve had so much to drink that I may fall over.
He shakes his head, and the elevator doors open. He pushes off the wall and walks into the hallway, nearly bumping into the opposite wall. I follow him, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other so I don’t trip and fall on my face.
We get into the room, and he goes to the small fridge, pulling out two bottles of water and hands me one.
“I don’t want that,” I say, shoving his hand away.
“Okay.”
“I want to know why you said that.”
He takes a long sip of his water, then asks, “Said what?”
“How was I looking at you?” I demand. “Tell me.”
“Forget it,” he says, putting down the bottle of water and going toward the bathroom.
I put my hand out before he can shut the door.
“Don’t walk away from me, Emmet. Tell me what you meant. How was I looking at you?”
He turns toward me, catching his balance with his hand on the door frame. “I have to piss, if you’ll excuse me.”
I cross my arms and plant my feet, not planning on moving an inch.
“Fine,” he says, unzipping his pants. “If you want to watch, who am I to stop you?”
I wish I could say I look away when he starts to pee, but I don’t. Like a creep, I take the moment to check him out.
Strong calves and thighs. Trim waste. Wide shoulders. Toned arms.
Fuck, he’s hot.
His back is to me, and I so badly wish I could see his dick from here.
Because I miss it.
“Wow, you’re still here,” he says with a laugh as he walks to the sink to wash his hands.
“Tell me what you meant,” I say, my voice not as strong as it was before.
“Adam, forget it,” he pleads, drying his hand on the towel.
He goes to walk by me. I grab his forearm.
“No,” I growl, moving to stand in front of him. I loosen my grip, sliding my hand up to his bicep. “No,” I repeat, this time softer, my gaze going to his arm.
He grits his teeth, looking past me.
“How was I looking at you?” I ask, brushing my thumb along the soft skin beneath the sleeve of his shirt as my gaze goes back to his face. “I want to know.”
His eyes fall closed, and he takes a deep breath. “Like you care.”
All the air leaves my lungs. “I do care.”
He gives a small shake of his head. “Not like that.” His voice breaks as he says the words, and it hits me.
Oh.
“Emmet, I—”
“I told you to forget it,” he says, shoving out of my grip. By the time I turn around to follow, his shirt is already off and he’s working on his pants.
“Can you let me finish?” I shout.
“Sure,” he says, but sounds like he has no interest in hearing what I have to say.
He gets his pants off, tossing them away, and I stare at his bubbly ass as he walks around to the side of the bed to get under the blankets.
He looks like he’s about to get into bed and go to sleep, and that has me panicking.
Why? I don’t know. Because I have the courage to say how I’m feeling? Because we’re talking about something we may never talk about again? Because maybe this isn’t just the alcohol talking, but something I need to get off my chest?
I hurry around the bed and grab Emmet again. “I do care,” I repeat, this time more firmly.
“I’m tired, Adam, and I really don’t want to do this right now.”
He shrugs me off, but I step in front of him again, gripping his face.
“Why aren’t you listening to me?” I plead, searching his eyes. “You’re not listening. You always listen to me, but right now, you’re not listening.”
His eyes go sad, and it kills me. I don’t want to be the reason he’s sad. Ever.
I don’t like that I made him feel like this, but he really isn’t listening. I’m trying to tell him something.
“You’ve had a lot to drink,” he says.
“So have you.”
“Which is why I just want to go to sleep.”
He still isn’t listening. He’s not hearing me. So I do the only thing I can think of that’ll get his attention.
I kiss him.