Chapter 41
Harrison
Devastation happens in waves.
First it takes your sleep.
Then your appetite.
Then your sanity.
Forget joy. That shit packed up and left with Pix days ago.
And apparently it’s coming for my hand-eye coordination now too.
It’s midnight. I’ve been out here for hours. Every breath fogs white in the air, and I can barely feel my fingers anymore.
Still, I dribble.
Shoot.
The basketball slams against the rim bolted above the carport.
Again.
Eighteen missed shots in a row.
Honestly, at this point it’s less athletic failure and more a metaphor for my love life.
Sweat slides down the back of my neck as I jog after the ball where it’s bounced halfway toward the street.
That’s when headlights sweep across the driveway.
An SUV glides to a stop in front of the house.
At midnight.
Fantastic.
Nobody pulls up to a man’s house after midnight unless somebody’s pregnant, dead, or the government finally found the weird shit buried in your backyard.
All four doors open at once.
My entire body goes instantly alert.
Years of SEAL training have me half convinced I’m about to get abducted by a private militia funded through Krugerrands and enough protein powder to kill a horse.
Then I spot the sleek metallic Donovan Excelsior emblem etched into the tinted window.
I grab the ball and crack my neck.
Here we go.
This is what happens when you avoid family phone calls for four straight days.
Mark climbs out first.
Then Brian.
Then Zac.
I know I’m truly fucked sideways when Gabe Alvarez unfolds himself from the backseat.
He’s my height. Younger. Faster. Alarmingly capable of felonious assault.
And judging by the look on his face, his next felony has my name written all over it.
That’s why they’re here.
He needs backup to dig my grave.
As long as nobody starts singing Kumbaya and asking about my feelings, fuck it.
With the way this week’s been going, death sounds relaxing.
Gentlemen. This way to the shovels.
“Pass the ball.”
Gabe.
Great.
He regularly kicks my ass at one-on-one. I guess my humiliation training resumes tonight.
I toss him the ball on autopilot.
He catches it one-handed and immediately sinks a clean three-pointer.
Oh, goddamn it.
We play in silence for a while.
Just the squeak of sneakers against concrete and the hollow echo of the basketball while Mark, Zac, and Brian silently watch Gabe wipe the court with me.
Gabe blows past me, sinks another shot without even breathing hard, and finally speaks.
“Ghosting my sister again?”
“I’d feel this less if you shanked me,” I mutter.
“I asked her to stay. She left. End of story.”
I shoot.
I miss.
Gabe catches the rebound effortlessly. “Why?”
“What?”
He slam dunks the ball hard enough to rattle the hoop before tucking it beneath his arm.
“Why is that the end of the story?”
I stare at him like he’s suffered a traumatic head injury.
“Because she’s in fucking Iceland,” I shout.
A dog immediately starts barking somewhere in the distance.
All four of us freeze and glance toward the house like a SWAT team monitoring a hostage situation.
Nothing.
No lights.
No tiny footsteps.
A collective exhale.
One second later, Gabe steals the rebound from me again, pivots, and sinks another shot.
“Where did we meet?”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Gabe says. “Answer the question.”
I don’t even have to think about it.
“Extraction op. Outside Kandahar.”
“And how many missions have we served together?”
What the fuck?
Does he have amnesia?
“Roughly half as many as your age,” I shoot back, blocking his next drive.
Which the kid blows past with such ease he may as well be playing a traffic cone.
He sinks the next shot.
“And did your kids just end-of-story you when you were gone?”
The realization belly-crawls through my brain until suddenly it’s right there, staring me in the face.
Gabe catches the return pass and spins the ball once against his palm.
“Show of hands,” he says. “How many of us helped take care of your kids while you were deployed for fucking ever overseas?”
Mark, Zac, and Brian all raise their hands.
Three direct shots to the chest.
It’s true.
They all stepped in.
They still do.
Gabe sinks another shot.
“Did your kids turn feral and forget how to function every time you deployed?”
Okay. That one stings.
“Not like I thought they would,” I mutter back like a complete smart ass.
He steps closer. “Did we cut you off because of your job?”
“No.”
“Was it easy being away from your family?”
What is this? A Spanish Inquisition?
Outraged, I blow up. “They’re my fucking life.”
Gabe pokes me in the chest.
“So how the hell do you think Ava feels?”
The realization hits in successive waves.
Full force.
Like shrapnel to the chest.
Fuck.
Blood drains from my face so fast my ears begin to ring.
“I’m an idiot,” I grit out.
“Self-destructive.” Brian shrugs.
“Emotionally constipated.” Mark rubs his chin thoughtfully.
“I was personally leaning toward the classic dumbass,” Zac says.
Wow.
Apparently we’re doing a group performance review now.
Harsh and honest.
And I deserve every word.
Gabe spins the basketball once against his palm.
“The kids talk to her three times a day,” Gabe says quietly. “You haven’t spoken to her once.”
“I know.”
The words scrape out of me like broken glass.
Silence settles heavy around the court.
I don’t tell them about the meeting with Henry Bloom tomorrow morning.
About the paperwork probably waiting on his desk.
About the kind of man who sits in a lawyer’s office preparing to lose the woman he loves.
Or how it rips my heart out every time I picture Pix being the one who asked for it.
Somewhere over the last four days, I’ve come to one brutal realization.
Pix should have whatever she wants.
Even if what she wants…
is out.
I stare down at the cracked concrete beneath my shoes.
“I want what’s best for her,” I say.
The words nearly hollow me out.
Gabe studies me for a long moment.
“Do you want her back?”
“Yes.” The answer punches out instantly.
My throat burns.
“I would give anything to get her back.”
Gabe nods once.
“Then stop acting like she’s already gone.”
But what if she is?
I’m still standing there motionless and drowning in regret when Gabe steps directly in front of me and hands me the basketball.
“Hold this.”
I do.
Gabe’s fist crashes into my jaw, an explosion of light and pain.
Heat detonates across my face while I stagger back, the basketball still clutched against my chest.
“You want her back?” he blasts. “Then snap the hell out of it and fight for her.”
The second punch lands even harder.
Hard enough to hurt.
Hard enough to knock me flat on my ass.
And just hard enough to finally knock a little sense into me.
Because somewhere beneath the panic and heartbreak and impending disaster waiting for me tomorrow morning in Henry Bloom’s office…
Gabe’s right.
It’s not too late.
It can’t be.
Gabe looks ready to swing again.
I raise a hand quickly.
“Okay. Okay.” I spit blood into the grass and choke out a rough laugh. “Message received.”
I shake my head. “Is this your version of therapy?”
“A little,” Gabe says. “You did make my sister cry.”
He offers me his hand.
I take it as he helps me to my feet.
“We good?” I ask hoarsely.
Gabe studies me for another long second.
Then nods once.
“Now we’re good.”
Gabe yanks me into a bruising bro hug that literally pops my spine.
“Ow,” I grunt.
“We’re getting in touch with our feelings,” he says. “Stop bitching, old man.”
Zac immediately gags.
“Jesus fucking Christ. Can you two just slip each other some tongue already so we can all get inside before hypothermia takes out our balls?”
We all crack up.
The laughter echoes out into the cold night for the first time in days, and even with the neighbor’s dog losing its damn mind somewhere down the street… it feels good.
Mark grabs the basketball and tosses it back to me.
“We’re not going inside until you make one.”
“Seriously?” I groan.
Zac points toward the hoop. “The universe needs balance, man.”
Brian crosses his arms. “Right now your shooting percentage is depressing everybody.” He pauses. “And feels like a metaphor.”
They all snicker.
Gabe jerks his chin toward the basket. “Shoot.”
Jesus.
It’s high school all over again.
I take my spot near the edge of the driveway.
“Evans,” Zac starts quietly.
Then, quietly, they all start chanting.
“Evans.”
“Evans.”
My brothers.
Building me back up.
I take the shot.
Swish.
The idiots erupt like we just won the NBA Finals.
Laughing, they all pat my back.
I jerk my head toward the house.
“Coffee?”
Brian snorts. “For the emotional breakthrough of a caveman? Beer. Definitely beer.”