Chapter 12 #2
Is this what you wanted, Eli? You wanted me broken? Well, guess what? I haven't been whole since you were taken, and it’s not okay. I hate it. I miss you. This isn’t fair. I have no one.
I hear a muffled curse as rough hands pull me out of my chair, where I land on my knees on the dock.
Tucker crushes my body against his unyielding chest, strong arms wrapping around and holding me tight.
I crumple, my defenses nonexistent after opening the box of memories I’d kept carefully sealed.
I bury my face in Tucker’s shoulder as tears I’ve held back assault me, burning my eyes and dripping off my face into his shirt while I fight for my life.
I mourn Eliana because Enzo will never know the mother he resembles so much, down to his pouty lips and fiery temper.
I cry for the future that was ripped from me, knowing my life will never look the same.
My body is wracked with sobs for the injustice of it all, and I cling to him, feeling like the only way I’ll be able to pull myself back from this whirlpool of despair is by clawing my way up using his strength.
Let him hold you up.
Stop it, Eli.
I gasp in ragged breaths that are full of clean cotton, warm skin that’s salty with sweat, and a hint of sandalwood that gives me a flashback of my shower earlier, imagining the man who’s now holding me while he was doing unthinkable things that felt incredible.
I pull back enough to rub at my eyes, forcing myself to get a grip and stop using Tucker for his abundant emotional support.
I’m a grown man who should be fully capable of managing his emotions without breaking down all over someone else.
That’s when I realize Tucker is speaking. Well, he’s whispering into my hair, and I have to quiet my inner turmoil and sobs to hear his words.
“You’re strong and courageous. You’re a good dad. You’re doing your best, and that’s all you can do. Let it out, City Boy, feel everything. I got you. You're safe here.”
Slowly, my stupid, choking tears slow, and I’m no longer struggling for breath against my sobs.
I’m simply resting my forehead against Tucker’s shoulder, listening to his affirmations, focusing on the low, soothing cadence of his voice that has a honey-thick Georgia drawl to it when he’s emotional.
His palm is resting on the nape of my neck, the warm weight reassuring.
I still have one fist balled in the back of his shirt, holding him as tightly as he’s holding me.
When I raise my head, it’s hard to look Tucker in the eye after my breakdown.
Grown men aren't supposed to cry like babies on their male friends. I have to push through the discomfort to do it, anyway. His blue eyes are rimmed red like he’s on the verge of tears for me, and his face is twisted with concern.
“I’m sorry,” I rasp, my voice hoarse and scratchy from the violence of my sobs. Look at me, having a fucking mental breakdown in the country and letting someone else pick up my pieces again.
So much for establishing my independence.
“Nothing to be sorry about. You needed to talk about this and get it out. You can always do that with me. This is a safe place for you.”
He inclines his head at me, and it’s like a magnet for my forehead to fall forward and rest against his.
The fucked-up thing about having an emotional breakdown is how much it exhausts you.
I’m hardly able to hold my head up, but he’s strong enough for the both of us and isn't afraid of me being so close we’re breathing the same humid night air.
His hand is rubbing comforting circles on my back, and it feels so good.
When was the last time someone rubbed my back who wasn’t one of the PTs for the team as part of rehab or recovery?
They sure as shit weren’t doing it softly for comfort, either.
His eyes drop to my mouth before darting up again, and I watch as his pupils get larger, darkening the blue of his irises in the fading light as he struggles to maintain eye contact this close to my face.
“Thank you. I didn't mean to go full snot-nosed cry fest on you, but I appreciate you making me feel normal about it all the same. I think I might have ruined your shirt,” I say, bringing my fingertips to the wet shoulder of his t-shirt.
Did I fucking drool in addition to getting tears and snot on him?
Wow, this is so embarrassing.
His hand covers mine on his shoulder, and I roll my forehead to catch his gaze, but it causes our noses to brush, and I stay there.
My wet face grows hot as my breath catches.
We’re close enough to kiss, our mouths inches apart, his lips parting as his fingers flex around mine.
Why do I want to kiss him? I’ve never wanted to kiss a man before, especially not after an epic breakdown.
Tucker swallows hard and gently moves his head back, removing the temptation of his soft mouth from my reach.
He slowly slides his hand off mine. I think he’s moving at a snail’s pace to keep from freaking me out, and I’m grateful one of us can think rationally through this charged moment because I was about to fuck this all up just to get a taste of him.
“I, uh, don't mind. I have a drawer full of these. Why don't we walk back to the house? We can get another beer if you want, or just switch to water so you can head home when you’re feeling better.”
I allow him to help me to my feet, his arms remaining around me the whole time, making sure I can stand on my own before he finally lets me go.
I shiver when I’m away from his heat despite the muggy evening air, and sway a bit from exhaustion.
I’m wrecked by this emotional revelation, my legs barely holding me up.
Tucker notices and puts his arm around my waist, supporting me again as we set off for his house while I lean into his strength. It takes a bit longer to get back, I think, but honestly, I feel drunker on the misery now than I did when I was buzzing on Corona.
Tucker nearly carries me up the stairs, his arm the only thing keeping me on my feet at this point.
Instead of stopping in his kitchen, he takes me down a hallway to a bedroom and sits me on a bed with a red, white, and blue quilt covering it.
I run my fingers along the quilted pattern, feeling where each shape comes together to form a cohesive unit.
Why does the quilt get to be a beautiful whole when it’s made from separate scraps, but I’m still in tatters?
“What about the quilt?” Tucker asks, gently brushing the hair back from my face with his big, rough fingers that feel far too good. I turn my face into his palm before he can pull it away, making him brush along my cheek in a soft caress when he does.
Shit, I said that out loud?
“Yeah, you’re in no shape to drive anywhere,” he says with a resigned sigh. “You're staying with me tonight. We don't need you getting in an accident or pulled over for a DUI after leaving my house.”
He kneels in front of me and takes off my shoes, his hands gripping my calves to lift my feet, tucking my socks inside and setting them next to the bed.
He’s taking care of me like a child, yet it doesn't feel like he’s patronizing me.
It feels good to have someone care about me enough that they’re thinking about my safety and well-being for a change.
“Yeah, I care about you, City Boy,” he says gently. “Why don't you lie down and get some rest? You’re drained.” He pats my thigh, and I want him to slide his hand higher.
I was drained earlier, but I could go again. Maybe he’d help for real this time?
“You need some sleep, Sebastian. Ain’t no one draining anything tonight. But if you’re a good boy, I might make you breakfast in the morning.”
He pushes on my chest until I’m lying flat on the bed. As he moves his hand away, I grab it. “Can you stay for a bit? I don't want to fall asleep alone with these memories suffocating me. I need someone who gets it, who knows how bad it feels to be alone with the pain.”
What am I even asking for exactly?
“You sure you want that? I’m right down the hall if you need anything,” he says softly, not pulling his hand from mine, but squeezing it reassuringly.
I pull until he’s bent over the bed and forced to put a knee on the mattress or fall on top of me. “Stay here. Please?”
I think it’s the please that does it because he shakes his head, even though I know he’s giving in.
He reaches down and takes off his boots, then sits on the bed next to me with his back propped against the headboard.
I roll toward him until my face is pressed into his side, his clean cotton and sandalwood scent invading my nose with reassurance and safety as I close my eyes.
He starts to scoot away to give me space, and I throw my arm around his waist to keep him in place.
I inhale deeply and let out a long breath directly into the warm fabric until all I smell is him.
His hand rests tentatively on my head, and I groan when he scratches my scalp with his fingertips.
It sends a shiver racing across my skin and has my arm tightening around his waist. His arm settles across my shoulders, holding me gently as he continues to scratch my scalp and play with my hair.
It doesn't take long for me to pass out cold with my nose buried in Tucker’s T-shirt, holding him like my personal, life-size teddy bear.
I dream of strong arms holding me all night, and it’s the best sleep I’ve had in years.