Chapter 22
“What kind of chef doesn’t have any food in his house?” Miles grumbled as he stared at the meager contents of Toby’s refrigerator; a quart of milk; some eggs; a block of parmesan; two bottles of beer; maple syrup, two sticks of butter; a shit load of condiments, which seemed to include five—eyes narrowed, Miles did a quick count—no, seven kinds of mustard.
“The kind that works over sixty hours a week,” Toby said, mild as a fucking spring day from his spot on the other side of his kitchen—which amounted to less than ten feet. “Which means most kinds.”
He continued to pour a thin stream of steaming water in a circular motion over coffee grounds so slowly and with such precision, it took what little willpower Miles had left not to stomp over, yank that fancy teapot with its super skinny spout out of his brother’s hand and dump the water over the coffee.
Instead, he settled for shutting the fridge door so hard those many jars of condiments rattled and clanked.
Crossing his arms, he turned and leaned back against the useless fridge. “I’m hungry.”
Barefoot and bare-chested in a pair of gray joggers, his hair a tangled dark mass held back from his forehead with a red bandana, Toby sent him a I don’t give a shit glance. “Then head on over to Chef’s Café. They make great waffles.”
“So do you. Even better than the café.”
“There’s cereal in that last cabinet,” Toby told him. “Help yourself.”
Today was not his fucking day.
And it was barely seven a.m.
Miles slouched back against the fridge. “I could eat cereal at home.”
“That’s still an option. Don’t let me keep you from choosing it.”
Miles lifted himself up onto the counter next to the sink. “They have these new-fangled machines now. All you have to do is pop in a pod, press a button, and coffee appears.”
“The easy way isn’t always the best way.”
“Not in the mood for any of your Zen bullshit this morning.”
Toby lifted a shoulder. “Guess you should have showed up unannounced at the crack of dawn at Urban’s then. He also knows how to make waffles.”
“You know he only makes them on Sunday. And even then, only if Verity is the one requesting them.”
Verity was part of the reason why Miles hadn’t gone to Urban’s, where he might not get homemade waffles, but he’d probably score a couple of slices of toast.
He was crazy about his sister, but he was not in the right head space to handle her sharp tongue or teen-age attitude.
Besides, she was too intuitive. She’d know something was off with him and would badger him until he spilled the details.
“If I was home,” Miles muttered, “I’d be on my second cup of coffee by now.”
“If you were home, I’d still be sleeping. Instead, here I am, making you coffee while you slam my refrigerator door, sit your ass on my clean counter, and whine about not wanting to eat cereal. Not sure you’re the one with the right to bitch at the moment.”
Lips pressed tight together, Miles scowled at Toby. “I don’t whine.”
But, sweet Jesus Christ, the way those three words came out sure made it sound like he did.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he tipped his head back to rest against the cabinet behind him. Toby was right.
Which only pissed him off even more.
He was there because the conversation with Tabitha in his car twenty minutes ago had twisted him around so much, he was no longer certain what was up and what was down.
Was no longer so fucking certain he was right.
Or that he was blameless in everything that had happened between them.
He’d wanted to believe Tabitha’s deceit, her inability to trust him was the reason why they hadn’t worked. Had told himself he’d given her everything, that he’d been some fucking paragon of integrity she’d taken advantage of.
That he’d been better than her in every goddamn way. More honest. More open. More forthcoming. More trusting.
Turned out, he was an even bigger liar than she was.
And a much bigger coward.
Because instead of telling her she was right, instead of thanking her for trusting him with those bits of her past she’d shared with him, instead of apologizing for being an arrogant asshole, he’d sat in his car, still and silent while she shut the door and walked away.
He’d let her go.
Again.
You didn’t try and get me to come back.
He’d thought his mistake all those years ago had been falling in love with her in the first place.
Now he wasn’t so sure.
“Here,” Toby said, drawing Miles’s attention from his pathetic inner musings to the cup of coffee in his hand.
Thank Christ.
Miles slid off the counter and accepted the cup, then took a sip.
It was hot and rich and smooth. Much better than anything he could’ve made at home with his one cup machine.
He’d go out and drink a bucketful of lake water before admitting it.
“Thanks,” he told his brother.
Toby nodded and leaned back with his own cup. They stood that way, side-by-side, looking across the narrow living room and out through the huge window overlooking the lake. The rain had intensified since he’d stepped into Toby’s house—a tiny, one bedroom cabin that had at one time been a vacation rental, and was in worse shape than the place where Kat’s and Tabitha’s apartments were.
But every time Urban or Willow brought up renovating it—Willow’s idea—or demolishing and building something new—that one was Urban—Toby balked. Claimed he wanted to put his time, energy, and money into Binge, even though the restaurant had been in the black for the past two years.
Miles knew there was another reason Toby was holding off. He just didn’t know what.
And he wouldn’t.
Not until Toby was good and ready to tell him.
Toby might be the easiest going out of all the Jennings, but that didn’t mean he was any less stubborn.
Only eighteen months apart, he and Toby had always had a tighter bond than they had with their other brothers. Toby had always been who Miles turned to when he needed someone to listen.
Miles knew they could stand there, in the silence, sipping coffee and staring out at the gloomy morning and not saying one goddamn thing. That Toby, with his seemingly endless patience and understanding, wouldn’t push him. Wouldn’t ask for more than Miles was ready to give.
That was Miles’s job. Always pushing for more, more, more.
Like it was his job to gather each and every thought the people in his life had.
His responsibility to take on their worries and fears and misgivings.
To fix their mistakes.
Who the hell was going to help him fix his?
“I was going to ask her to marry me,” Miles said, breaking the silence, his words low and gruff. He glanced at his brother. “When we were together in Pittsburgh, I was going to ask Tabitha to marry me.” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “I even bought her a ring.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“She left before I could.”
But the words didn’t feel right. Didn’t feel true.
“How long did you have the ring before she left?” Toby asked.
And it became clear why Miles’s words had felt so false.
Leave it to Toby to call a man out on his bullshit.
“A few weeks.” Another glance at his brother and Miles saw Toby was giving him a raised eyebrow look, clearly calling him out on his crap.
Miles dropped his gaze. “Two months.” He cleared his throat. “I had it for over two months before she left. I’d take that ring out and stare at it at least once a day. Then I’d hide it away again. I told myself I was waiting for the right moment. That everything about me asking her had to be perfect. But I waited too long.”
“Maybe,” Toby said after a quiet, thoughtful moment, “you didn’t want to marry her after all.”
Miles opened his mouth to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come out.
“I wanted her to stay with me,” he admitted. “I wanted a way to tie her to me forever, something binding and tight and hard for her to untangle.” He stared down at the remaining coffee in his cup. “Since she’s been in town, she’s told me, twice now, that I would have eventually walked away from her. That she wasn’t what I really wanted.”
“So she walked away first,” Toby guessed.
Miles nodded. Finished his coffee, then turned and set his cup next to the sink. Leaning down, he gripped the curved edge of the ancient yellow Formica counter. “She said it was the best thing she could have done. For both of us.”
“You don’t agree?”
“I want to think that can’t be true. That she’s full of shit and trying like hell to make herself feel better. To lessen her guilt and responsibility. I want to keep blaming her. I want to go back to believing I was right.”
Lifting his coffee, Toby eyed him over the edge of his mug. “Miles the Martyr?”
Another denial he couldn’t get out, so he kept his mouth shut.
Toby turned toward him, leaning his hip against the counter. “You said that’s what you want to believe. But what do you really think?”
“I think,” he said, slow and careful, although there was nothing cautious or safe about what he was about to admit, “that she might be right. Not about everything. Not about the way she left, but why she did. And,” he continued on a low mutter, “about it being for the best.”
“Let me guess. Instead of telling her that, you’re hiding out here.”
He glowered at his brother. “I’m not hiding.” He was doing the one thing he told himself he never did. “I’m running.”
Running from the truth. Running from the attraction he still felt for Tabitha. From the feelings he still had for her.
“And how long do you plan on doing that?” Toby asked.
Miles pushed himself upright. And told his brother the only thing he knew to be true. “As long as I can get away with it.”
“Or,” Toby said, tone dry, “you could try talking to Tabitha. Clearing the air. Maybe even admit you were wrong.”
“Partially wrong,” Miles corrected.
“It’s not a competition. You don’t get points for being less wrong.” He paused. “Or for making fewer mistakes.”
Damn it, that wasn’t what he was doing. He wasn’t keeping score. Wasn’t keeping a tally of Tabitha’s mistakes. Didn’t have a list of her sins. He wasn’t holding himself or his choices above her in any way…
His line of thought trailed off as he remembered just a few of the things he’d said to her, starting with that night at The Cockeyed Chameleon, including out on the sidewalk in front of her apartment, and especially that night in his kitchen, and this morning in his car.
“Fuuuucckkk,” he breathed, his gaze flying to meet his brother’s.
Toby clapped him on the shoulder. Kept his hand there, strong and sure and supportive. “The first step toward getting past a mistake is admitting you made one. Or, going by that completely stunned, what the fuck have I done? look on your face, several mistakes. Big ones.”
“Thanks, smartass. Now how about you tell me something useful. Like what the hell am I supposed to do now?”
“That’s easy. Do what you always do.” He gave Miles’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze before dropping his hand. “Make things right.”
Make things right.
He wasn’t sure he could.
Wasn’t sure he wanted to.
If only because by making things right, he might be making himself a whole new set of problems.
Opening an upper cabinet, Toby glanced at him. “Get out the milk, butter, and eggs.”
“Why?”
“I’m making you waffles,” Toby said, pulling down a container of flour.
“I don’t want your pity waffles.”
Another lie.
But he’d limit himself to two. Three tops.
Then he’d take the rest home and eat them later.
“They’re not pity waffles,” Toby said, pulling out a container of sugar from the cabinet. “We’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating?” Miles repeated, and yeah, he was gathering the milk, eggs, and butter as he spoke.
Pride only had so much hold on a man when he was hungry and waffles were involved.
“Celebrating,” Toby said again, shooting Miles a grin. “It may have taken over thirty years, but you finally realized one of life’s most important lessons. Something the rest of us figured out years ago.”
Miles wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
But as usual, what he wanted didn’t seem to matter. Not when it involved his curiosity.
“And what’s that?” he asked.
“That you’re not perfect. And no one who loves you expects you to be.”