20. Alex
20
ALEX
My throat tightens, and I want to snatch the words back. I rarely talk about Courtney.
Almost twenty years later, that day feels like yesterday. Sometimes I stare at my cell phone, the memory of the call from my father that shattered our seemingly safe world fresh in my mind.
We all lost our innocence in the blink of an eye.
Katherine burrows closer, so in tune with me. She doesn’t say anything, just sits in my lap, arms clinging to my waist, waiting for me to make up my mind. But I can feel the curiosity vibrating through her. And who wouldn’t be curious?
I tighten my arms around her, soothed by the way our breathing syncs. Slow, steady inhale. A shuddering exhale loosens the tension binding my torso.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” she whispers.
I duck my head, inhaling her familiar scent. Do I want to open my chest and expose my most vulnerable parts? No. I don’t want to relive the past. I don’t want to open myself up to that. When people hear what happened, I hear pity in their voice. I see the sorrow in their eyes.
It’s a punch to the gut every single time.
No, I don’t want to relive it.
I’ve lived a good life keeping everyone at a distance. Not letting anyone get too close.
Anyone but Gabe.
“You don’t have to,” she adds, pressing her hand to my chest. “But I’m happy to listen.”
Peace washes through me, cleansing me from the inside out. Is it that simple?
No pressure. Just someone willing to listen. The epitome of support and being there. A quiet, comforting solace that doesn’t make demands may be the best gift someone could offer.
Katherine makes it easy, effortless, to crack open my ribs and let her into my heart.
“Her name was Courtney. She was my bratty little sister, and I loved her like crazy.”
Katherine’s arms tighten at my waist, giving me comfort and silently encouraging me to continue.
“She is one of my first memories. This beautiful little baby was in my mom’s arms, and my dad was telling me I had to be a good big brother and keep an eye on her.”
I haven’t thought about that in years. My throat tightens, and it takes several deep breaths before I can continue. “She always gave as good as she got, though. We used to play video games and bicker about everything under the sun. She was kind but sassy, and I loved teasing her.”
“Such a brother,” Katherine says, a smile in her voice.
“I was.” I loved being a brother. Having a built-in friend.
Happy memories come flooding back. Our first sailboat ride in Nantucket. How she decided that she was going to run the marathon with Mom, but she was far too young, so we cheered at the finish line instead. The utter joy on her face the first time she ever rode a pony.
But those happy memories give way to the saddest moment of my life, and my chest aches. I close my eyes, wishing for the millionth time that things were different.
But if I could go back and change things, would I be where I am now? Would I have leaned on Gabe? Would we have remained close?
I can’t imagine my life without him.
Would I have started my company?
Would I have met Katherine?
Suddenly, I’m not so quick to want to go back in time. Which is crazy. I should want to go back and save my sister. To go running with her so she wouldn’t have been alone on that trail. Right?
“Courtney was murdered during her evening jog. We lived in one of the safest parts of Boston, but?—”
It wasn’t enough. Evil doesn’t respect boundaries.
“I’m so sorry.”
That’s it. That’s all it takes to cleave me wide and let all the pain come rushing back, making me ache like I haven’t ached in years.
The second guessing, the anger, it’s all right there. Tangible. Strangling me.
“Breathe.”
Katherine’s quiet order jars me out of the retrospection, and I take a ragged breath.
She leans away from me, turning to rest a hand on each of my shoulders. “There you go. That’s better. Oxygen is good for you.”
Her humor lightens the moment, and I cup her cheek. How can she look at me like I’m her hero when I’ve failed so desperately in the past?
Whatever she sees on my face has her shaking her head. All those golden-red tresses slip over her shoulders, tempting my fingers. I should have kept my fucking mouth shut. I’d already be inside her.
Her eyes narrow.
“Almost got a smile out of you.” She squeezes my shoulders.
I huff a laugh because it’s impossible to do anything else when she looks at me like she’s daring me to stay silent. To stay morose.
“How do you do that?” I ask, chest full of awe.
“Do what?”
“Know exactly what I need.” Reach inside and soothe me like a healing balm.
“I’m a people watcher, Mr. Hunt. And I’ve watched you for years. Across the room at all those galas where you’d nod at people in their tuxedos. Every time you stopped by to meet Gabe after our board meetings. I always wondered why you never let yourself be happy. And now I know, don’t I?”
Her eyes twinkle like gemstones, full of conviction and warmth. Not an ounce of pity. Pain, yes. Understanding, absolutely. That’s the most beautiful part. When she looks at me, it’s like she sees me in ways no one else can. The depths of my soul feel brighter under her steady gaze. Like I can handle anything, tackle anything.
And all that time, I thought I was the one doing the watching, the daydreaming.
Would she have ever made a move if I hadn’t gone to that auction with one goal in mind?
Her lips pull up, and I realize how pointless it is to second-guess the trajectory of our relationship. We’re here now. She’s in my lap, in my arms, looking at me like she knows my every secret, and she’s okay with all of them. Every dark deed I’ve done to protect my family, my friends, my country. Every time I’ve had to play hardball. Every boundary I’ve had to set and enforce.
She tilts her head, gaze searching my face.
“You’re still beating yourself up, aren’t you?” Again, her words are gentle, coaxing. But that soft smile turns pensive. “You know one of the things I find most intriguing about you?”
I shake my head, endlessly curious about everything she thinks.
“You’re comfortable being uncomfortable. Whether it’s in a tuxedo where you’re trying not to tug on your bow tie or in a room full of silver-spooned assholes who think everyone else is beneath them. You are so used to being uncomfortable you were willing to sleep on the floor a week ago. You’re so used to being uncomfortable you just constantly live in that state of being. I admired that about you for a long time. So many people are afraid of a little pain, a little friction, but not you.”
“Why do I feel like there’s a but in there?”
“But. . . will you ever let yourself be comfortable? If not happy, content? Will you let yourself fall in love?”