Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
NOW
2 Weeks Later
Dash
T he world stopped making sense. I was set to marry who I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with, but then two weeks ago, I was thrown the biggest wrench I’ve been thrown since…
…well since Mom’s death. That’s saying something.
I wish it were me marrying you instead of Syd.
Fucking Stacey Alderchuck.
I didn’t go to Hunter’s, but being home sucks ass. The twins are here, so I’ve done my best to move around the house when it’s quiet, when I know Stacey’s taken them out. The rest of the time, I’m at work. They can’t go home for some reason. At least Stacey has the wherewithal to act like a guilty puppy about it, but is that really fair?
No. No, it’s not. He has the right to move on. The right to find someone who isn’t me.
You kissed him back, Dash. You kissed him back. You want to do it again. Worse, you want him to do everything he uttered into your ear.
I’ve also been hiding from that.
The kiss.
The kiss fucked me up more than anything to date. It turned my world upside down. I want to hunt Stacey down and scream at him for it and then goad him into doing it again. The number of times I’ve considered inviting Hunter over to fix the fence is inhumane. At least I haven’t done it. At least. But oh, how I want to.
No. I’m safer if I stay away from him.
Stacey sends me “I’m sorry” texts hourly since I refuse to be in the same room as him. Am I furious? Yes. But I’m more afraid of what I’ll do if I’m near him.
And fuck his texts. He should have fought for me. If he wants me, he should fight for me.
Is that what I want? I don’t fucking know, and the answers aren’t coming. Maybe it’s too late for us.
But I’m hungry, and they haven’t left yet. It’s my day off, so I emerge from my room at noon after having slept off another late industry night. Plus, I’m kinda craving Stacey, alright? Despite everything, I miss Stacey so damn bad. I’m so weak for that man, and it’s relentless. Even if I hate him right now for turning my life upside down, I need to see him. Our molecules are mixed by this point. Being without him forever isn’t a plausible option, so I have to find a way through this sooner than later.
Or I’ll fall apart.
The twins are in the kitchen again. They’re still not my favorite people, but I hate them a little less, knowing Stacey’s off-limits to them sexually.
It’s a small claim on him, but a claim is a claim.
One of them’s climbing the counters again. He’s gonna fucking fall if he’s not careful. But they are pretty short, so I guess they don’t have much choice.
“Get down from there. Stace … er … Hockey Daddy,” I say, rolling my eyes, “isn’t gonna like that.” If I let them get hurt when I could have tried to stop them, he wouldn’t be pleased with me either, and I wouldn’t be off the hook no matter what we’re going through.
Stacey cares about the people he’s responsible for. Deeply. I don’t know what these two went through, but it’s clear he wants to help them.
Interesting how he was okay with fucking them, but not me.
Still, I can’t hate on him for it. It’s who he is. It’s one of the many reasons I fell in love with him.
Fuck my life.
“Will you reach it for us, Dash?” they ask with puppy eyes.
I will not find them adorable. They did things to my Alderchuck, and I hold grudges. But I do reach the cereal box for them, so they don’t kill themselves. They’re way too thrilled, clapping their hands, bouncing on their bare tiptoes.
Stacey saunters from the bathroom, wavy curls damp, shirtless, gray sweats barely hanging off his hips. I don’t know why I’m watching his bare toes, but I am. I like the sure way they peel from the ground as he walks. I like being able to gaze up, up, up the length of him until I get to his perfect face.
His gaze lands on my jaw. Right where his marks are. He winces, his muscles clench.
Meanwhile, my dick threatens me with the world’s worst boner, slowly filling at the sight of my best friend. Who mauled my mouth two nights ago.
Yeah, I think of fucking you. Every goddamn day of my life…
If that’s true, he’s thinking about it right now.
I don’t mean to do it. I swear my eyes have a mind of their own. They flicker down to his crotch. Something’s there. Holy shit. Is that for me? Our gazes collide and unbearable heat burns over my skin. I’m caught looking, and I don’t know that I care. None of this helps. Anger. Anger is my only protection and it’s easy to conjure with how un-fucking-fair this situation is. I lean against the counter, seething with unspent wrath.
For some reason, I assumed he’d keep his distance. He doesn’t, and neither do I. We drift together, it’s what we do. We orbit around each other. His fingers trail over my jaw, leaving a wake of tingles, consuming what’s left of me by osmosis. The bastard isn’t sorry after all, he’s admiring the pretty marks he left on me.
“We need to talk,” he says.
He doesn’t take his hands off me.
“I don’t think we do.”
“Dash.” He squints. A thought seems to dawn on him. “Are you afraid to be alone with me? I swear, you have nothing to worry about.”
That’s so funny, I’d laugh if I wasn’t busy trying to be angry. I’m not afraid that he’ll do something, I’m afraid I will. Hasn’t he noted the change in my breathing? A specific part of my anatomy’s gonna explode in a minute.
“That’s not … no .”
I’d punish you for being a fucking tease, punish you with my cock until your voice was hoarse from begging.
You don’t come back from that.
“I’ve sensed that you need space, so I’ve been taking them out.” The word space is ironic with him crowding all my space like he is. I grip his wrist, so he doesn’t get any ideas about moving away from me. “It’s Vancouver Aquarium Day so?—”
I don’t care about the fucking Vancouver Aquarium, especially not with his fingers tracing over the marks he left.
“Do you regret it?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. It’s clear he doesn’t, but I want to hear him say it, admit it out loud. I want more evidence that what I’m feeling is real.
“Kissing you? No. The marks? Fuck, no. I like my marks on you.”
Holy fuck. Breathe, Dash, breathe.
“Do you like them?” he asks in a new tone I’ve never heard. It’s a deep rumble, filled with desire.
“Yes,” I whisper. My heart’s gonna stop if it beats any faster. I don’t want to admit that, but it’s the unfortunate truth. Stacey’s my absolute weakness. I need … need to come up for air.
He steps away as if sensing my distress, but I don’t miss the satisfaction ballooning his chest. I know that look, it’s the same one he gets after a satisfying hit on the competition.
“You’ll have the house to yourself,” he says.
How can he leave me like this?
But maybe that’s for the best. I’ve only been in his presence for five minutes, after two weeks of avoiding him, and already I need a break. Separation usually has me clinging to him like he’s the air for my lungs. I thought we were intense before, this is a new level of inferno.
Maybe I’ll pull out the old journal. Haven’t done that in a while. I used to journal with Stacey. He’d make me a bowl of my favorite movie mish-mash—gummy bears, popcorn, and M&Ms—even though he’s always been disgusted by it, and we’d sit on the couch, my feet in his lap. He’d have to use a pillow as his writing surface, leaning it against my calf. It wasn’t conducive to neat writing, but he liked my feet there.
My fingers find my engagement ring, my reminder that I’m not a free agent. That kiss was way out of line.
They eat, and they leave. I can breathe again.
M y journals aren’t where I left them. Or they could be, and I simply don’t remember where that place is. I rip my room apart. I search the house, even risking going into Stacey’s room where I know he’s staying with the twins. He hasn’t moved them to Casey’s room, a perfectly reasonable place for them to stay while he’s gone, and I’ve been meaning to inquire about why.
But I was busy not talking to Stacey.
I don’t need those journals. I could buy new ones. Hell, I’m sure there’s a great journaling app available for purchase.
No. I need those journals. Those journals have entries. Memories. Raw fucking emotions. I might not be on a journal hunt so much as I’m on a journey to the past.
His room doesn’t smell any different than it usually does. I pull in a huge lungful of Stacey’s masculine scent.
Strong hands in my hair, his hands, his lips lighting mine afire …
My body lights with tingles and fuzzy warmth. My cock aches again. It’s my own personal hell, just like before. I’d somehow managed to shove the feelings away—finally—and he has a fucking paradigm shift.
He had to go and kiss me like I’ve always wanted him to kiss me.
On the other side of the bed, I spy a pillow and blanket on a cot. Even the cot is made, which is a telltale “Stacey was here” sign of life. I smile. Stacey’s not sleeping in the same bed as they are, he’s sleeping on a cot. One that’s way too small for him. I should feel bad that he’s uncomfortable, but I don’t. I want him punished—just a little—for ever thinking he could?—
He could what?
Find love? Soothe his aching heart? Move on from someone who’s marrying someone else?
Everything he’s done is reasonable. It’s what anyone would do when they think they’ve lost their chance with someone they wanted.
Yet, the betrayal is real.
And if I could just find my damn journals, I could read them, torture myself with the pain of those days with the intensity I deserve and move on from this bump in the road.
His closet smells the most like him. He’s only at the Aquarium, I’ll see him later tonight, but it feels like he’s so far away. Like he’s never coming back to me. Tears well in the bottom lids until they leak over and dribble down my cheeks.
My eyes catch something at the back of his closet. One of his Vancouver Orcas jerseys. Why is it so far at the back? It’s clean but slightly worn. It was definitely a game-night jersey. It’s yanked off the hanger and in my hands before I can catch up with my brain. I slip it over my head, letting it drown me.
Ahhh. That’s better.
The sleeves are too long. I use them to wipe my tears away.
An idea comes. Would the journals be in the garage?
I t’s half an hour of searching before I see the clear plastic bin with “Journals and Other Shit” labeled on the front. It’s my handwriting. Must have done this ages ago, but don’t remember doing it. It’s high up, so I drag the ladder over to pull it down.
Inside, my journals are on top. I don’t know why I stopped journaling. I pull mine off the top, Stacey’s are underneath. There are other odds and ends in here. Some old birthday cards from when I first moved in, trinkets, and … photo albums? Wait, there’s another pile of journals at the bottom.
Victoria Alderchuck.
Shit. Do these belong to Casey and Stacey’s mom? They must. Has he ever read them? I organized all her stuff when I moved in and Stace insisted I was good at organizing despite the state of my dresser drawers. It’s why I always ended up as chief organizer on chore day.
But the only reason I did such a good job with his mom’s stuff was because I knew it was important to him. Clearly, I shoved all these journals into this box, probably having forgotten I’d stored his mom’s stuff here. Probably wanting to get them into a box before he made me do a better job, to be honest.
Huh. One of her journals is locked. The others are open, and I could read them, I’m dying to read them. I’d love to know the woman who raised a man like Stacey, but reading her journals without his permission feels wrong. Especially when I’m pretty sure he’s never read them.
It’s a wound. One that’s never fully healed. I scoop them up along with mine and return to Stacey’s cot where I plant myself for the afternoon. Do I do any journaling at all? No. But I fall into a hole back to the past. There’s an entry I have in mind. The one that will knock sense into my thick Stacey-obsessed head.
We’d been journaling for a long while together. We started sometime around when I moved in with him. But it was my second season playing for the Wildcats—Stacey’s third—when I thought maybe we could be more.
Again.
I’d brought it up before, but it was way too soon. Everyone was right to stop me. But that season, I was so sure I was ready.
I chickened out and waited. I journaled about it, but I didn’t take action until early into the off-season.
It was such a mistake.
Entry 46
You told me to write something deep. Your brown eyes are deep, can I write about those? Seriously, though. I try not to let you catch me staring at them too long, but I’m sure you have. You look away. Quickly, too. Why? Why do you do that? Don’t you feel it? The heartbeat of the world? It beats loudest when I’m near you.
Entry 47
This is day two of trying to write something deep. I didn’t even have a nightmare last night. I just wanted to be near you. With you. You didn’t question when I opened your duvet and crawled in. Your arms slid around me. I could do it forever, Stace. I’d be happy forever being yours.
Entry 48
Okay, day three. Deep thoughts aren’t coming. You’re on my mind. I want to tell you how I’ve been feeling, but I’m so fucking scared. I’m not even worried that our friendship would be in jeopardy. We’ve experienced this awkwardness before, but we got through it. I’m worried you’ll tell me you don’t feel the same way anymore. That I’m alone with the way I love you. But there’s a bone-bruising ache in my chest. It gets worse when you touch me. I don’t know how much more of it I can take. I used to think those old Emily Bronte-type books were crazy. Who goes mad because they’re in love? But I am. Slowly driven to the brink because you’re right there, but I can’t have you.
Entry 49
Here’s a deep thought. You, so fucking deep inside me we can’t tell where I end, and you begin.
Entry 50
I’m going to do it. I’m going to tell you.
Entry 51
I didn’t.
Entry 52
Still no.
Entry 53
Maybe I shouldn’t. I’m having second thoughts. Third thoughts. Things are pretty awesome how they are. And I thought of something today that I can’t unthink. What if I tell you, you say no, and you stop letting us be us? Technically, we can be friends without the cuddling. Without the soft touches. Without your hands in my hair. We can still be friends and hang out less. But losing what we have, the magical “this” I can’t quite name, would kill me.
You just noticed the look on my face and asked me if I was okay. We’re on the couch together, and I’ve got my feet in your lap. One of your hands is resting over my toes, keeping them warm. I said I was fine, but I know you don’t believe me. Knowing you, you’ll fish the answers out of my brain later, and because I’ll feel so safe in your arms—because I will be in your arms—it’ll pour out of me.
Please don’t say no.
Please don’t feed my heart to the wolves.
Entry 54
My mom stopped loving me one day. I get it now that I’m older—she wasn’t well, and her brain played tricks on her. I didn’t know that as a little boy. I only knew what it was like to have her push me away when I tried to snuggle with her. What it felt like when she’d scream at me for the smallest inconvenience. When she’d tell me what a worthless little boy I was and she wished she had a better child.
That hurt less than this.
Entry 55
I hate you right now. I hate you so much. But I can only hate you this much because I’m desperately in love with you. That’s how it works. Only the people you love can wound you like this. The worst part is, I can’t even be away from you now that you know. I cling to you maybe more than before. Please don’t ever push me away. This already hurts so bad, knowing that you don’t feel like I do. I’m just … confused as hell, Stace. How do I get you to understand—we belong together. Yeah, I’m a little broken, and yeah, I’ll always have scars, but I know what I feel for you.
Entry 56
It’s been weeks since I’ve written. I know you don’t check this, so I’ve lied every time we sat down to write, telling you I had, doodling so it looks like I’ve been writing, but I haven’t. I don’t like lying to you—and I don’t make a habit of it—but I need space from you and don’t want any space from you at the same time. My only option is this weird limbo, where I pine over you while I’m right the fuck beside you.
Dirk’s pissed at you. He wants to pound on you. I begged him not to be a dick, but he’s always been the brother I never had and so it’s hard to say if he’ll listen.
Entry 57
We fought again today. I hate fighting with you, but at the same time, fighting with you is something. I know arguments between us aren’t a new thing. Frankly, a real passionate fight gets my dick hard. I don’t mind that so much, except for the part where we don’t get to have the make-up sex.
I guess I get something close to it. Marathon snuggle sessions.
But fuck, Stace. It would be so hot. So fucking hot.
Anyway, you’re a dumbass, you know that? You’re a dumbass for not choosing me. For letting the past ruin our future. I love you too much to fight with you about it anymore.
I ’m lost in a world of tears and pain. This was why I stopped journaling. It was just a bunch of wishes about us that would never come true. An unhealthy obsession. Stacey didn’t like it when I said I wasn’t doing it anymore, but he didn’t push. I suspect he knew it had something to do with him. This was a good reminder of why we aren’t. The pain was excruciating. Worse than taking a puck to the face.
The door clicks open. Shit. I sit up fast, but there’s no hiding the fact that I’m in Stacey’s makeshift bed, in his fucking jersey. And, yes, I steal his clothes all the time, but after what happened it’s a pretty big signal. Stacey’s gaze lands on me. He freezes.
Yes, I’m still in love with you, fool.
Because my heart never listened to the nonsense I tried to tell it.
“Back from the aquarium so soon?” I snap.
“Yeah. Alex was afraid of the jellyfish, and Trent didn’t like how dark it was in there. We watched the sea otters and rescued dolphins for a bit and came home. What are you doing in here?”
“Fuck. Sorry, I’m … I’ll leave.”
His eyes darken. His breathing changes. He stalks toward me and there’s no denying it—he’s predator and I’m the prey. My ribcage rises and falls in a syncopated rhythm while my heart beats a heavy staccato. Is this how a rabbit feels before the eagle descends?
I can’t move. Can only await his approach. His hand whips out, grabbing a fistful of jersey, trapping me where I am.
“Take it off. Now. ” He lets go, and I sink into the cot.
What the fuck? He’s never been opposed to me taking anything of his. Ever. Fuck that.
“No.”
“Either take that off or take this off.” He finds my left hand and my finger with Syd’s ring on it.
“That’s not fair, Stacey. That’s like saying I have to choose between you two.”
“Maybe you do.”
I’ve never seen him so hard. So cold.
“Me? No way. You don’t get to do this now. I threw myself at you like a fucking moron and got my heart broken.”
“I didn’t mean to?—”
“Yeah, I know you had good intentions. I get that. But before you demand I make impossible choices…” I grip my chest. Breathing’s a fucking struggle. The room is too small and too big at the same time. Stacey takes a step toward me, but I hold my hand out. “No, I’m fine.”
I take a few slow breaths. My fingers find the journal I’ve been reading all afternoon.
“Here, read this.” I throw it at him. He flinches, but catches the book because he’s a top-level athlete who never misses a throw or a puck pass. “Found these, too. Thought you might want them.”
I stand, shoving his mother’s journals into his arms. It’s suddenly enough that he fumbles, but his big arms can hold them all. I leave him like that, scrambling, grappling as I push past.
Taking the damn jersey with me.