13. Daire
13
DAIRE
Rosie’s body is stiff in the bed beside me. She’s only just stopped crying, and she only gave in to the tears when she thought I’d fallen asleep.
We came home a few hours ago, after we found out my dad was doing fine. We haven’t been allowed to see him yet, so we’ll go back in the morning. This is certainly not the Thanksgiving weekend I imagined. The last thing I expected to happen when I broke the news of our marriage to my dad was that he’d have a heart attack.
For several minutes, I blink up at the ceiling, arguing with myself over whether I should say something to Rosie, and when I finally decide to bite the bullet and do it, I’m at a complete loss for words.
But I do it anyway.
With a deep breath in, I lace my hands over my abdomen.
“Rosie?” I whisper.
She probably won’t answer. If I had to bet, she’ll continue to feign sleep. And if she does, then I won’t have to come up with something else to say.
The sheets rustle, and the mattress dips. In my periphery, she rolls onto her side so she’s on her back and cups her hands beneath her head.
“Yeah?”
I swallow and rack my brain for something that will ease her pain. “Your dad will forgive you.”
She huffs a sigh. “Probably not before my mom’s finished planning the wedding.” A little laugh escapes her then, the sound slightly hysterical. “She already sent me a Pinterest board.”
I cross my right arm behind my head. “Are you okay with that? With her taking over?”
She snorts. “Absolutely not. I’ve been dreaming of my wedding for years, but…”
“But this isn’t real?” Why did that sound like a question?
“Right. But I still want it to feel like me. Not my mom. Even if it’s temporary. That’s not really what’s bothering me, though.”
“Just your dad?”
She shakes her head. “Your dad’s in the hospital, Daire. I feel so… guilty.” Her voice wavers on that last word, like she’s crying again.
My stomach sinks at the thought. I don’t know how to handle a woman’s tears.
“Don’t cry,” I practically beg. If she does, I’m worried my natural instinct will be to pet her on the head and say, “There, there.”
“Sorry.” She sniffles. “I can’t help it. That was scary.”
Her ghost-white face flashes through my mind. All the color drained from her the instant he collapsed. I’m sure I didn’t look much better.
“It was,” I agree.
She’s quiet again for a long moment, the whirl of the fan suddenly the only sound between us. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I drop a hand over my face and shake my head. “No.”
She huffs a sigh. “You never do.”
Frowning, I roll over to face her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Despite my glower and my tone, she doesn’t cower. She shrugs, the sheets wrinkling beneath her. The bed is a king size, leaving plenty of space between us. “You’ve never been good at talking about your feelings.”
My chest tightens, but I breathe through it, forcing the ache to dissipate. “Why would I want to talk about them?”
“I don’t know,” she snaps. “Maybe so you’re not holding on to every little thing that upsets you? You can share your burdens with people, you know. They’d be happy to listen. Especially about Junior.”
“His name is Sammy,” I grind out. I might not like the name, but it’s his name.
Her teeth flash in the dark. “I prefer Junior.” She tucks a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Anyway, all I’m saying is you should talk to someone.”
“I’m not going to a therapist, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
I went a few times after my mother died and hated every second of it. I have no interest in being psychoanalyzed by a stranger.
“I didn’t say anything about a therapist. Talk to your friends. Your dad. Your brothers. Talk to me. Just talk to someone.”
“Is that not what we’re doing?”
She closes her eyes and heaves out an exasperated breath. “That’s not what I was getting at, and you know it. You’re ridiculous.”
She rolls away from me, taking the blankets with her.
Biting back a curse, I yank them back over to my side.
“Hey!” she snaps.
I pull them up to my chin and settle on my back again. “Don’t hog the blankets.”
“You’re a child.”
The glower she sends over her shoulder is enough to have most people shaking. Good thing I’m not most people.
I paste on a sarcastic smile in response.
“Fuck you,” she snaps, climbing out of the bed.
I sit up so fast stars dance in my vision. “Where are you going?”
“To get a snack,” she huffs as she walks out the door without looking back.
I flop back down, annoyed.
With her.
With myself.
I lie there for what feels like hours, fighting the urge to see what she’s doing. Eventually, though, my curiosity gets the best of me, and I slip out of the bed and go in search of her.
Quietly, I take the main staircase to the first floor and trek to the kitchen. By the time I get there, I feel as though I’ve walked miles. Though I grew up in this house, it never fails that when I return, I’ve forgotten how large it is.
At the soft murmur of voices, I stop and listen.
“You and Daire, huh?”
Sounds like Cash.
A glass clinks, like maybe he’s toasting our marriage, though his tone isn’t overly congratulatory.
“Yep.” She sounds bored by the conversation. I guess it’s a good thing, but after the way he greeted her and drifted toward her at the hospital, I can’t help but wonder if they planned to meet up like this.
“I’m not buying it.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, but finally, she says, “What exactly aren’t you buying?”
“I don’t know what went down with you and my brother, but he’s a grudge holder. I can’t imagine him forgiving you so easily for whatever you did.”
She snorts, the sound pure annoyance. “I didn’t do anything to him. He’s the one who hurt me.”
I rear back, and my lungs practically seize up. What the fuck is she talking about?
Cash chuckles, though there’s no humor in the sound. “Whatever it is obviously still has you heated, petal. And you want me to think you’re happily married?”
Petal?
My blood heats at the word. At the implication.
There’s a crunching sound, like she’s chewing. Then she clears her throat. “Don’t call me that.”
My brother has a pet name for my wife? I don’t like that. Not one bit.
With a sharp breath in, I step into the kitchen, making my presence known. Instantly, my boiling blood turns to ice.
Cash has his hand on Rosie’s cheek.
And I see fucking red.
Instinct takes over, and I rush up to them. I’m too irate to register Rosie’s cry of “Daire, no!” as I cock my arm back and punch my brother in the face so hard he falls off the barstool.
He lies on the tile floor, his hand covering his face. A line of blood trickles out of his nose.
“I told you to keep your hands off my wife.”
The bastard has the audacity to laugh at me. I’ve always gotten along with my brothers. There’s never been any true animosity. Competition, yes? But never flat out hate. Right now, I think I hate him.
Cash chuckles, rubbing his jaw and ignoring the trickle of blood. “Maybe you really do care about her.”
I have to fight the urge to take another swing at him. “What does that mean?”
He says nothing, just picks himself up from the floor and turns to Rosie. “It could’ve been us.” And with that, he turns and exits the kitchen.
“What the fuck?” I turn my wrath on her.
Her shoulders are curled in on themselves, but as I step closer, she straightens and shoots figurative daggers my way. “Why are you pissed at me?” She grabs a half-eaten apple from the counter in front of her and takes a bite. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Why the fuck is Cash so into you? Did you hook up with him?”
She wrinkles her nose. “God, no.”
I clench my hands into fists at my sides. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She arches a brow, cocking her head to the side. “Your brother is hot, but no, I’ve never slept with him. Is that clear enough for you?”
“He’s into you.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“So?” she counters, kicking her feet up on the island and leaning back on the stool. “I’m married to you.”
“He has a nickname for you.” The rage that’s taken over only grows at the memory of the way he called her petal.
“You weren’t the only Hendricks I was friends with, Daire.” Her tone has completely changed. These words are gentle, like I’m a bomb she’s worried might go off.
“Petal,” I spit, “doesn’t seem to be the kind of nickname you give someone who’s only a friend.” My fists are clenched so tight the knuckles on my right hand are stiff. They’ll no doubt bruise after the way I laid Cash out. The fucker didn’t even attempt to fight back. That alone tells me he knows he’s in the wrong.
“Just because you hate me doesn’t mean the rest of your family does,” she whispers, eyes dropping to the bowl in front of her. “He asked me out last year when we were home for Christmas.”
This news is like a slap to the face. It’s ridiculous, to feel this way, but it fucking stings. “Did you go?”
She hesitates, running her tongue over her bottom lip. “Yes. But while we were out, I told him I just wanted to remain friends.”
“Why would you do that?”
She snorts. “Why do you sound so offended that I turned him down?”
“I… I don’t know.” I rough a hand over my face. What the fuck is wrong with me? “He’s a catch. You could do a lot worse than my brother.”
She shakes her head, frowning. “You are so fucking hot and cold, Daire. I can’t read you. I turned him down because you’re the one I always had a big, dumb crush on. Not him, or Roman, or any of your brothers. Just… you. You fucking idiot.”
She shoves back the barstool and stands, never taking her eyes off me. I’m trapped in her stare, my heart in my throat.
“I know you hate me as much as I hate you. I thought the stupid crush would go away when you… never mind.” She drops her head and gives it a shake, letting out a self-deprecating laugh. “But it didn’t. Don’t think for a second I agreed to this hoping it would turn into something real. I know it won’t. So don’t worry about me and my feelings or your stupid rule. But no, I’m not interested in your brother, even if he likes me. He wouldn’t be you, and I’m not cruel enough to make him second best.”
She hesitates for a second, focus fixed on the floor in front of her, like she’s warring with herself about whether she should give me a chance to answer, but she ends up ducking around me, leaving me standing alone in the kitchen.
I drop my head back and mutter to the vaulted ceiling above me. “Fuck.”