Without breaking eye contact, I tell him. “I need to put you in a box I can manage.”
“What’s that mean?”
Tears slip quietly down my cheeks. I don’t think Machlan notices. His eyes don’t leave mine.
“Hadley …”
“This is so embarrassing,” I admit.
He swipes a few napkins off the table and hands them to me. Our fingers touch as I take them, but he jerks his away before I can relish the micro-second of contact.
My heart pounding in my chest, my body warmed by his proximity, I do what he asked. I tell him the truth. “I’m here to figure out how to make peace with you. I fell in love with you when I was a little girl, and I can’t seem to find a place in my heart to love anyone else.”
“You don’t love me, Had.”
My jaw drops to the floor. I look at him, expecting him to laugh. Maybe grin. Chuckle, even. He doesn’t.
“How could you?” he continues, sober as a judge. “I’m not fishing for gratuitous compliments because fuck that. But look at me. Look at what I’ve done to you, what we’ve been through. How could you love me?”
“It was pretty damn easy.” I sniffle.
“This is my fault. All your memories go back to me. You moved here after your mom died, and I was the one inserting myself in your life when you should’ve been making friends and grieving.”
“I did make friends. And I did grieve.”
“And I was right there, nosing myself in.”
I force a tear-filled swallow. “I’m pretty sure I let you.”
He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “What’s dickhead’s job?”
“Who?”
“Fucking … what’s his name?” he asks, motioning toward my phone.
“Samuel?”
“Yeah. Samuel,” he almost spits. “What’s his job?”
“He’s an auditor.”
“That’s what you need, Had. Someone like that. Not him,” he adds, “but someone like him who makes you smile and laugh. Not someone like me. Someone like me just fucks shit up.”
I hold my hand out for my keys. He’s confused for a split second, then digs them out of his pocket and places them in my hand. This time, he lets his hand rest against mine.
The warmth of his palm, the way his fingers drag over mine, kicks my tears back into high gear. My stomach knots. My chest aches.
“What can I do to help you?” he asks.
“Stop trying to kiss me.”
He almost cracks a grin as he draws his hand away. He shoves his chew can back in his pocket and trudges to the door. He pulls it open, light filling the room in a happy flood of sunshine. Neither of us smiles.
My phone rings again. We both look at it. Machlan grimaces, biting his bottom lip, before stepping outside.
“Lock up behind me,” he orders.
“I told you I was leaving.”
He leans against the doorframe, his bicep flexing as he grabs the top of the door. “And I said you were staying.”
“Mach—”
“Let me win this one, Hadley.” He drops his arm. “Just give me this. Please.”
The sweetness in his eyes, the way he looks at me with such genuine care makes me give in.
“Okay,” I say.
I ignore the flutter in my heart and shut the door. I flip the lock. It’s only then do I hear him descend the stairs. It’s only then, too, do I turn my phone off and climb into bed in the middle of the afternoon.
Twelve
Machlan
“What smells so good in here?”
I step through the screen door and scare the shit out of my poor nana. She jumps and clutches her chest. “Machlan Daniel. Don’t you do that to me.” Wielding a wooden spoon in her hand, she waggles it my way.
My hands go up in self-defense. A spatula doesn’t feel great when your nana whips it through the air and wallops you on the back. I made the mistake of mentioning she decorated it with cocks one time. Just once. I’ve avoided the spatula since.
She sticks her cheek out as I approach. I place a kiss on the side of her face as I walk by. “Sorry, Nana.”
“You boys are gonna be the death of me.”
“Let’s not talk about your death.”
“It was an expression, Machlan,” she says. She turns back to the stove and stirs something in a copper pot.
“It was an expression I don’t appreciate.” I hop on top of the island, knowing damn good and well she’ll swat me down when she turns around. “You didn’t answer me.”
“About what?”
“What are ya making? Smells good.”
“I have a ham in the oven and have some—get your hiney off my counter!” She swats my leg. “Goodness gracious, boy. Were you raised in a barn?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“You were not. Now get off there.”
Her orders, delivered with the firmness of a sergeant but with the smile of a grandmother, make me laugh. I sit at a stool and watch her cook.