53. Chapter 52
Chapter 52
Hudson
“You going to tell me what’s going on, or just sit there all night like a moody asshole and drink all my beer?”
“Tristen’s here,” I say, staring into the fire.
From my periphery, Hutch stops, beer halfway to his mouth. He looks surprised, but in typical Hutch fashion, he doesn’t give me much else.
When I don’t immediately elaborate, he sits forward, beer bottle dangling between his knees. “What does she want?”
I huff out a humorless chuckle. It’s pretty pathetic that my brother knows my ex-wife wouldn’t just be here for Paige. “What she always wants: my balls in her fucking Birken.”
I loathe that I even know what that fucking bag she carries around is even called. It’s no wonder though, she takes better care of it than she ever did our marriage or our daughter.
Deducing the situation immediately, he asks, “What happened to her rich daddy?” He throws an arm over the back of the chair he’s sitting in, knees splayed wide .
If Hutch can spot Tristen’s bullshit from a mile away, why couldn’t Finn? My stomach rolls when I think about how I sent her upstairs like she didn’t matter. I might as well have just confirmed her fears outright.
I shrug, feeling numb. “Best guess, he’s sick of supporting her. Probably cut her off.” I take another swig of my beer.
“She still dancing?” he asks, studying me from across the fire. “Timber Forge is a long fucking way from France.”
“She says she’s done.” My tone is indifferent, my shrug bone weary.
I can feel Hutch’s gaze on me, but I keep mine on the flames. The pop of the fire sends sparks into the air, and I get lost in them before I look at him.
“What are you going to do?” He asks before tipping his beer back.
I level my bleary-eyed gaze on him across the firepit. I don’t know how many beers I’ve had since I showed up here, but my words come out a little slurred when I answer, “I wrote her a check. She leaves in the morning.”
He’s mid-swallow when his surprised gaze flicks to mine. “Well, that was easy.”
Feeling miserable, I nod and take another drink of my beer. I miss my wife. Does she miss me? Is she already over it and she just doesn’t know how to tell me? Maybe this whole thing meant more to me than it did her?
“So, what’s with the sad sack bullshit? You’ve never been hung up on money, and as shit as the situation is, I know you can afford it.”
He’s right. I don’t give a shit about the money. I was going to give it to her in the divorce anyway, but she didn’t need it then. Not with her daddy’s money. Even went so far as to tell me what I had to offer her was ‘pennies.’ It used to make me feel bad. I did love her once, in some fucked-up attempt to squash my feelings for Finn. I realize how pathetic that is. Especially in light of how Tristen has always felt about her.
I grind my teeth so hard, I’m surprised my molars don’t crack. “She showed up at our place and said a bunch of really horrible shit to her. Told her she’s always been trash, taking Tristen’s sloppy seconds. Accused us of fucking while Tristen and I were married.” I take a long swig from my bottle.
Hutch isn’t often shocked, but his eyebrows shoot up. “She said all that to her?”
I meet his eyes briefly, then look back to the fire. “Some of it she said after Finn took Paige upstairs, but I’m sure she heard most, if not all of it. Tristen isn’t subtle or quiet, and she’s blaming Finn for breaking up our marriage.” I close my eyes against the image of Finn’s tear-stained face in the garage. God, I fucked up. How could I not stand up for her in front of Tristen? How could I hurt her like that?
“Shit,” he says, blowing out a long breath. “Anyone who knows you two knows that’s bullshit.”
“Of course it is,” I slur out. “Anyway, Finn left. Said all we can be is friends.”
“She left? Where’d she go?”
I hang my head. Even thinking about her alone at the B&B has crippling guilt coursing through my veins. “Timber Haven.”
Hutch sits forward, his bottle dangling between his knees once again. “Damn.”
When Finn left for the B&B two days ago, I thought if I gave her some space, we’d talk. I thought we’d be ok. But it’s been radio silence since she left. She isn’t returning my calls, and all but two of my texts have been left on delivered. I’ve driven past the B&B several times, but there’s always other cars there, and maybe it makes me a coward, but I can’t bring myself to stop. She asked for space and time, and as much as I hate it, she deserves that. Especially after learning I lied to her about her mama’s cremation. If she wanted to talk to me, she’d pick up when I called.
Finn’s words are a haunting echo in my mind .
Do you know how that makes me feel? That what we have is nothing like a real marriage?
“Yeah.” I lift my beer in a mock toast, then frown when I realize it’s gone. “So, if it’s ok with you, I’ll take you up on the moody asshole and beer.”
Hutch is quiet for a few minutes before speaking again. “You try talking to her?”
I scowl over at him. “She’s not returning my calls, and as far as I know, she’s not reading my texts either.”
This is such a mess. I’m a mess. I can’t picture a life without her in it. One where I come home to an empty house after losing my wife and best friend. But fuck, if it doesn’t feel even more impossible to fathom a life with her as just my best friend. How do I go back to that? How the hell do I see her every day, spend time with her without loving her? Without holding her, sharing a bed, a life? She’s everything to me.
Can we really come back from this? Can we really just be friends after everything we’ve been through? Every touch, every second I’ve spent inside her? Is that really possible? I’ve spent so fucking long fighting my feelings for her, and I swore I would never cross that line. And not only did I cross it, I goddamn obliterated it. How the fuck did Hank do this for nearly twenty goddamned years?
“Did you think to go over to Timber Haven? Make her see you?” Hutch’s words cut into my mind.
Like I wouldn’t have thought of that a million times already. Like I haven’t been doing everything in my power to fill the giant, gaping hole she left in my chest when she got in that car and drove away without a single look back. I’ve wanted to. Dozens of times over the last couple of days. Every night, I lay in that lumpy-ass, thirty-year-old twin bed in my childhood bedroom and fight the urge to drive over there and make her see me, make her talk to me.
I shake my head. “I’m trying to give her space. ”
He nods. “I get that, but… You don’t think the money shit with Tristen changes things? Her leaving tomorrow?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, slowly straightening up to get another beer. “It’s what she wants.”
I sway on my feet and Hutch stands, too, guiding me back down into my chair. But instead of grabbing more beer, he crosses to the VW and pulls out a half bottle of Patron and a shot glass, before settling into the seat beside me.
I eye the bottle of liquor. “Patron? Really? Where’s the good stuff, fucker?”
He unscrews the lid on the bottle and fills it almost to the top, then leans forward and hands it to me. I throw it back.
“You really think I’m letting you shoot two-hundred-dollar Don Julio?”
I glare at him, then shove the shot glass back toward him in a silent bid for another. He obliges, taking it from me and refilling it. As he does, he goes on. “So, friends, huh? That all you want with her? You gonna be content just to hang out on nights and weekends, watching old action movies and drinking beer while you crash on her couch? Eventually, she’s gonna find someone and you’re gonna be standing there with your dick in your hand, wishing to hell you’d made more of an effort.”
I glare at him. “Fuck you, Hutch. You don’t know shit about the effort I’ve been putting in.” I move to stand, but stumble sideways, catching my ribs on the back of a neighboring Adirondack chair. I wince. Motherfucker .
He reaches out and shoves me back down again. “Sit the fuck down, you drunk bastard. I’m not done talking and you’re gonna fucking listen.”
I glare at him through watery eyes and rub my ribs. Fuck, that hurt.
“I was at her wedding, Hudson. I saw how much it killed you to watch her marry that arrogant asshole.” His expression is hard, his nostrils flaring a little as he watches me. “You gonna be able to do that again? You know it’ll happen. She’s got no one. You wanna watch her date someone else, and then stand there while another loser puts a ring on her finger? You gonna walk her down the aisle to him, then go home and jerk off like a fucking twat while she fucks someone else?”
I grit my teeth against the thought of that. My eyes drop to the forgotten bottle in my hand before I launch it across the space. It shatters against a rock three feet away. “Fuck!”
Hutch pours again, handing me another shot. I immediately throw it back, grimacing. I know he’s baiting me, purposely throwing shit in my face to get under my skin. It’s working. He’s knows me well enough to know what pisses me off, what will get me to move my ass.
“Talk to her, man. Tell her how you feel. Especially with all this Tristen shit. Don’t be stupid.”
“That’s really helpful, asshole.” I gesture to the bottle again. He loads up another shot and hands it over. “I already told her. I can’t force her to want me.”
“You’re not forcing shit.” He takes the empty shot glass from me, loads up another, and throws it back himself. Then, he sets both on the ground next to his chair. “Listen, I don’t know what the hell she sees in you—God knows you’re annoying as fuck—but even on your worst day, that woman would walk through fire for you. She puts up with your childish bullshit and gives it right back. If you don’t talk to her and figure this shit out, it’s gonna be your biggest regret.”
I shake my head. “She’s also really fucking stubborn. What if it isn’t enough?”
He sighs with a roll of his eyes and a scratch to his short, cropped beard. “Jesus, Hudson. Do you want her or not?”
“You know I do,” I grit out.
He lifts his chin, daring me to contradict him. “Then stop being a bitch and don’t take no for an answer.”
I scowl and grumble out, “Give me another shot. ”
He shakes his head. “You’ve had enough.”
“You’re a real asshole, you know that?”
“Yeah, and if I give you anymore, you’re gonna drop dead from alcohol poisoning and I’m too fucking tired to bury your ass.” He stands up, kicking my foot with his boot. “Get up, fucker.”
I slowly climb to my feet and he grabs my arm, walking with me to his van. Sliding the door open, he points inside. “Take your shoes off and get in.”
“Why?” I sway into him, and he fists the back of my flannel to keep me upright.
“Putting you to bed. Unless you wanna freeze your ass off in the bed of your truck all night?” He cocks an eyebrow at me.
“Are we gonna snuggle?” I slur with a smirk.
He rolls his eyes skyward and scrubs a hand down his face. “For fuck’s sake, just get in the goddamn bed.”
“Where you gonna sleep?” I ask, climbing up and flopping down on my ass on the surprisingly comfortable mattress. I bounce a few times, then think better of it as nausea rolls through me.
“I’ll take the couch in the shop.” He yanks a blanket out from under me, causing me to tilt to the side. A wave of nausea hits me again, and I clutch my stomach.
“I can sleep there.” I moan miserably.
“The fuck you will. You couldn’t walk ten steps if you tried.” Reaching into a cupboard next to the bed, he grabs a mixing bowl and shoves it at me.
He points a finger in my face. “You puke in my bed and I’m cutting your nuts off and feeding them to you for breakfast. Got it?”
I grimace. Not at the thought of me losing my nuts, but at the thought of breakfast. The chances of vomiting are high. Fuck, I’m really goddamn drunk.
I peer over at him through the darkness of the van. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“I’m not. I just hate listening to your pussy-ass whine.” He gives my forehead a shove and I land on my back with an oof . “Go to sleep, Hudson.”
I huff out a laugh. “All right. Fuck. You don’t have to be such a dick about it.”
He leans in and grabs his pillow, making my head drop to the mattress.
I blow out a long breath, then lift my head a fraction. “Thanks, brother.”
“Anytime, fuckface.” He yanks off my shoes and chucks them on the floor. “And remember what I said about the puking.”
“Got it. Nuts, knife, breakfast,” I say, dropping my head back to the bed, nausea threatening to bring up my dinner and who the fuck knows how much alcohol.
His chuckle is quiet as he closes the door. I hear the crunch of his footsteps on gravel and dirt as he walks away, and it isn’t long before I succumb to the blackness of the night and a whole fuck-ton of alcohol.