Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Boone
“Why doesn’t he get any decent channels?” I roll my eyes at Oliver’s shitty options before turning the television off.
I don’t want to watch TV anyway. I just want a distraction. I want one so badly—need one so badly—that I even texted Ford Landry to see if he was looking for a workout partner tonight.
If anyone can distract you … and punish you, it’s Ford. He’s a beast of a man.
My text to him went unanswered.
I start to get off the couch to search for alcohol when Oliver’s garage door opens. I wait until I hear my brother enter the kitchen.
“Hey,” I say, walking around the corner.
Oliver jumps a mile. “What the ever-loving fuck?” He blows out a breath. “Why are you here? In my house?” He looks me up and down. “And in my fucking clothes?”
He slams his briefcase down on the counter.
“Easy there, Ollie. You’ll break something.”
“If I do, it’s mine.” He jerks his tie off and tosses it on the counter too. “Answer me.”
“What about?”
He looks at me as if I should know.
I march past him and open the liquor cabinet.
“Help yourself,” he says, sarcasm dripping from the words.
“I plan on it.” I grab a bottle of whiskey and twist it open.
“If you drink from that, I’ll kill you.”
“Promise?” I look at him and raise my brows in a challenge.
He plants both hands on the counter and takes me in. I consider testing him. I think long and hard about opening the top of the bottle and gulping a few mouthfuls down but decide not to risk it. I don’t think Oliver could kill me fast enough. I’d probably end up in more pain than I am now.
If that’s possible.
The hole in my chest—the spot where my heart used to be—has deepened over the evening. As night set in and the sky got dark, so did my spirits.
How the hell did I get here? How did my life disintegrate in the blink of an eye? Is this what happens to adults? Is this why everyone who takes anything seriously ends up in misery?
“Enough bullshit,” Oliver says. “What’s going on?”
“I have nowhere else to go.”
“You have a house. I’ve been there.”
I think he’s trying to wound me.
I walk around the counter and sit on a barstool facing him. He must take pity on me—or the fact that he had a pink shirt in his closet and now I know, so he wants to play nice so I don’t tell anyone. Either way, he gets two glasses from a cabinet and slides me one.
“Rosie is at Mom’s,” I say. “Or she was. Holt and Blaire are too uptight, Coy and Bellamy are too … in love,” I say, choking the words out. “And then Wade.”
“What about Wade?”
“I’m not going there,” I scoff and pour us each two fingers of whiskey. “I’m trying to find the will to live tonight.”
Oliver takes one glass off the counter. He looks at me curiously.
“Take a drink,” he says, raising his glass to me, “and then tell me what the fuck is going on.”
We both take a hefty gulp of the amber liquor. It burns as it coats my throat.
Oliver hisses through his teeth, breathing out the heat of the drink.
“Now,” he says, setting his glass back on the counter, “fill me in.”
I do. I ramble for half an hour straight, telling him about the apartment complex, and Danny, about how I was late because I was looking at puppies for Rosie tonight.
How I was trying to decide this afternoon if marriage should realistically be on the table this fast and how I was erring on yes, but now my relationship is over.
I hang my head.
“You were really thinking about marrying her?” he asks.
“Yeah. And I know we all made fun of Holt behind his back when he was all gung-ho over Blaire, but I get it now.” I pause. “When you know, you know.”
“And you knew.”
“Well, I still know, but she doesn’t. So I guess I knew. Not know anymore.”
Oliver laughs and pulls the bottle away from me. “No more whiskey for you.”
The heavenly warmth delivered by the drink fills my veins. It’s a Band-Aid covering the gaping wound in my heart, but I’m fine with taking the easy way out tonight.
Oliver sits beside me, wrapping his hands around his glass. We sit quietly.
“I think I’m done being an adult,” I say sadly. “It was a good ride.”
Amusement washes across Oliver’s face. “You can’t just quit.”
“I already did.”
He laughs. “You did not. Stop acting like a baby and grow some balls.”
I look at him aghast.
He laughs harder. “Fine. Some real talk then.” He downs the rest of his whiskey and sets the glass down hard. “If I had to get into a bar fight, which brother do you think I’d take with me?”
“Not Wade.”
He shakes his head. “Definitely not. I’d take you.”
“Makes sense. There’s a badass under this pretty face.”
He ignores me. “If I had to go to Vegas, which brother—”
“Me. This one is me. One-hundred-percent.”
“Who do you think I’d leave my kids with someday, if I ever have them, which isn’t likely?”
I immediately think of Rosie. My chest constricts. Hard.
“You,” he says. “And who do you think I know will come up with some out-of-the-box solution to solve a problem that the rest of us can’t work out?” He leans closer. “You.”
I lean back until the stool gets wobbly.
“What’s your point?” I ask.
“My point is that you don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“Why are you saying this?” I ask. “What difference does it make if I leave here feeling like we had a kumbaya moment? Not that I don’t appreciate it. And not that I’m not going to use it against you someday.”
He grins. “I’m bringing it up, asshole, because this isn’t who you are. You don’t roll over and take shit. You don’t cry because you didn’t get your way.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, sometimes.” He smiles at me. “Is this girl what you want?”
I nod.
“Then make some Boone magic and figure it out.”
It sounds so easy. And I do like the sound of Boone magic. But it’s not that easy, and quite frankly, I don’t know if it’s smart.
He sighs. “You’re doing the same thing she is right now.”
“How do you know that she’s contemplating mixing whiskey with tequila?”
“Stop making jokes. I’m being serious.”
I twist in my seat. “I’m being serious too.”
His hands fold in front of him, catching his watch in the light. It, too, reminds me of my girls.
My girls.
A sting zips through me again.
“What is your reaction based on?” he asks. “Why are you reacting this way?”
“Because this can never work out, and I can’t fix it. That fucking sucks, if you didn’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
I gape at him. “What do you mean bullshit?”
“You’re just being a crybaby. Typical baby of the family reaction,” he grumbles.
“That’s bullshit.” I rub a hand down my face.
“No one expects anything from me. Not you, or Holt, or Mom—except that I’ll be over for dinner.
And even that’s a shitty expectation.” I throw my hands up.
“She … I thought she needed me and … I was somebody to her, you know? I really thought that maybe I could pull through and be the man. But I was wrong.”
Oliver sighs. “We all see it in you, Boone. As much as I hate to admit this, it’s you that closed the biggest deal in Mason history and probably the Greyshell one—if it’s not the biggest now. You don’t think we expect shit from you?” He rolls his eyes.
I need to think about this, but it’s not the point. I brush it off and hope I can remember it later.
“I tried my hardest to … be the best to her, and it wasn’t good enough. That’s why it hurts so much.” Hearing that out loud singes something deep inside me. It burns my core, chokes me out with smoke—has me cringing from the pain of the fire.
There’s nothing worse than realizing that you are the problem. Not a habit or a hair color or a way you do something. You. The very fiber of your being.
I lean up and grab the whiskey. Before Oliver can object, I pour myself more.
“Now, let’s play a game,” Oliver says. I can tell he’s going to be a dick by the tone of his voice. “What do we think Jaxi’s reaction is based on?”
I sip my drink and try not to think about it.
He hums the Jeopardy tune. I glare at him.
“Fine,” he says, sliding the bottle toward himself. “I’ll tell you.”
“I figured you would.”
The whiskey splashes into the glass.
“Jaxi is basing her reaction to this situation off what’s always happened to her.”
“I know this.”
“Then fucking listen.” He sighs, frustrated with me. “Everyone in her life has let her down. She reacted this way because this is her making what she thinks is inevitable happen. And here you are, rolling over like a damn pansy, and letting it happen because you’re scared.”
I don’t know if it’s the whiskey that’s numbing my brain so I’m more willing to accept a rationalization or if he actually makes sense. Or maybe I’m just too fucking tired to put up a fight. Or heartbroken. Now that I know it’s a real thing.
Either way, I nod. “I am scared.”
“Probably not half as scared as she is.” Oliver gets off his stool. “You need to get her back, little brother. Not tonight. Tonight, you won’t be going anywhere. Not after drinking and not in my shirt.”
“It’s pink,” I say, my words not quite as crisp as I’d like them to be.
A warm haze clouds my brain. I get off my stool too.
“Let her have the night,” Oliver says. “Let her think about things. A little time apart never hurt anyone.”
“Then what?”
“Then, tomorrow, you Boone swoon that shit.”
“Boone swoon that shit,” I repeat. I try to grin, but only half of my lips work.
“I’m going to order some food and then grab a shower,” he says. “You okay?”
I nod again. How do I Boone swoon that shit?
He clasps my shoulder and takes off downstairs. I hear his footsteps fall against the hardwood.
I lean against the bar and pour myself another drink.
I don’t know if he’s right.
I don’t know if he’s wrong.
But I know he probably made sense.
If I can remember what he said tomorrow, I’ll ponder it.
If not, I’ll be miserable forever.