Chapter 14 #2
Braden’s smile faltered. He put his beer down, his expression shifting from teasing to something more serious, more concerned.
It was rare to see him drop the easygoing facade, and it caught me off guard.
“Hey. Okay. Seriously, man, what’s going on?
You’re… you’re wound tighter than I’ve seen you in a long time.
You look like you’re terrified to let yourself have something good because you’re already convinced it’s going to end.
Trust me, I know the look. I wrote the damn book on it, remember? ”
“Too bad we’re not talking about you, huh, asshole?” I snapped.
Braden held out a hand, then added, his voice softer, “I’m just saying, I have a feeling you’re thinking about the past. Which always makes me a little worried…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. We both knew what he meant.
The air in the kitchen thickened, heavy with unspoken things, with old ghosts. The casual, sunlit space filled with the shadows of the past, shadows I’d spent years trying to outrun. Or bury, whichever was easier at the moment.
I turned away from the window, my fists clenching and unclenching at my sides. “I’m fine. Just… a lot on my mind. Boat stuff.” It was a weak excuse, and we both knew it.
Braden didn’t call me on it. He just nodded slowly, his gaze still searching, still worried.
He picked up his beer again, but the earlier lightness was gone from his expression.
“Uh-huh. Boat stuff. Well, if the boat stuff gets too heavy, you know where I am. Or Eli. Or even Ben, when he’s not trying to save the entire population of Monroe County one call at a time.
” He gave me a brief, conciliatory smile.
“We’re still your brothers, Austin. Even when you’re being a world-class asshole. ”
The unexpected gentleness in his tone, the quiet understanding, was worse than the teasing. It chipped away at my anger, leaving behind a raw, aching vulnerability I didn’t know what to do with.
“I know.” My voice was barely a croak. I cleared my throat. “Sorry for snapping. Just tired.”
“You’re forgiven. Get some rest, man,” Braden said, draining his beer. He clapped me on the shoulder, a brief, solid pressure. “And maybe lay off the neighbor’s cookies for a while. Sounds like they’re giving you indigestion.”
He tried for another grin, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. Then he was gone, leaving me alone again with the silence and the relentless, consuming thoughts of Iris Holloway.
Braden’s visit and concern had somehow made it worse.
I paced my house like a caged animal, the four walls now feeling like a prison.
I couldn’t read. Couldn’t focus on the TV.
Couldn’t even stomach the thought of food.
Every sound from next door amplified the edgy, humming energy that was making my skin itch, making my blood heat.
Because I was acutely aware of her.
I stopped pacing in the middle of my living room. A sudden, almost deafening stillness descended in my head. The internal argument, the constant battle to suppress and deny, simply ceased.
And a single, stark realization hit me with the force of a snapped anchor line in a storm.
I couldn’t fight this anymore.
I didn’t want to fight this anymore.
The energy it was taking to resist, to maintain this constant, exhausting state of vigilance against my thoughts, my body, was more depleting than just giving in.
“Enough.”
The word was a murmur in the hushed room, but it sounded like surrender.
To what, I wasn’t entirely sure. To her?
To this… this consuming, relentless craving that had taken root in my body and refused to be dislodged?
I didn’t care anymore. The control I’d maintained over my life, over my emotions, for thirteen long, hard years had finally, irrevocably, shattered.
I needed this to stop. I needed her.
The thought was terrifying. Liberating.
And utterly reckless.
A grim sort of acceptance settled over me, cold and hard as a submerged reef.
Let it happen. I yanked open my front door, the familiar scrape of wood on wood a jarring sound in the sudden, intense focus of my new resolve.
I didn’t grab a tool. Didn’t concoct an excuse.
Didn’t even pause to consider the monumental risk of what I was about to do.
I just started walking.
My stride was heavy, purposeful, each step a deliberate act of will. It carried me across my neatly edged lawn, through the narrow gap in the hibiscus hedge that separated our properties, onto the overgrown, chaotic territory of Heron House.
Toward Iris.
The unforgiving late-afternoon sun beat down on my face, but I barely registered it. The crunch of shells and dry, untamed grass under my boots was a rhythmic counterpoint to the frantic hammering of my heart against my ribs.
Heron House loomed larger with every step. But it wasn’t the mansion I was focused on. Iris’s shadow crossed behind a third-floor window. One of the demolished bedrooms.
No more thinking. No more fighting it. I was going inside and straight upstairs. No knocking on the front door this time.
And whatever happened, happened.
I was beyond caring about the consequences. I needed the consuming, relentless fire in my mind and body to either be quenched or to burn me straight to the damn ground.