Sweet Ache

And that makes me sad.

Fuck. I don’t want it to make me feel anything and yet it makes me feel everything. I can close my eyes all I want, pretend all of this never happened, but there’s no way I can close my heart off to the ache that’s nestled deep within me.

The pounding continues and I know my brother—he’s not going to stop until I open the door. Go away, I text.

The repair bill for a broken door is going to be expensive then. You’ve got 5 minutes. Starting now.

A frustrated groan falls from my mouth as I chuck my pillow across the room and push myself off the bed. I glance in the mirror and start laughing because I am heartbreak personified: curls wild, a pillow crease in my cheek, and a smudge of the chocolate bar I ate last night on my tank top. I look like hell.

So I shuffle into the bathroom and brush my teeth, because even I have limitations to my slumming, plus I throw my hair up in a clip so that I look less miserable for appearance’s sake.

Three minutes left.

With a roll of my eyes, I pull open the front door and let it swing back on its own before turning to walk back down the hallway without even looking at my pain-in-the-ass brother.

“You look like shit.”

“Yeah thanks. So do you.” I raise my middle finger in greeting over my head and smile at how dysfunctional this routine of ours is and yet I love it.

I walk to the couch and plop down, grab a blanket and wrap it around my shoulders. Colton takes a seat across from me, dark hair hidden underneath his beloved lucky ball cap and green eyes assessing me. I wait for the smart-ass comment I can see lighting up his eyes but it never comes. “That bad, huh?”

“How’s Ry doing?” I change the subject to tell him I don’t want to discuss it.

“Taking lessons from me on avoidance, now?”

“Had to learn something from you, right?”

“Did you wake up on the wrong side of the fucking bed or what? Oh wait, my bad, it doesn’t look like you’ve left your bed in forever.”

I know he’s giving me the tough love shit but don’t want that right now. And at the same time I know if he were to sit beside me and pull me into a hug, I’d start bawling the tears I’ve withheld for five long days. The floodgates would open and that’s just too much like rain and rain makes me think of how it’s like love and … I don’t want to go there.

My traitorous bottom lip trembles and his face softens. “The musician?”

I nod my head morosely.

“Did he cheat on you?”

“No.”

“Dump you?”

“No.”

“Be an asshole?”

“Well, he is a guy,” I say, cracking a slight smile.

“I take offense to that comment,” he says with mock irritation. Or at least I think it’s mock.

“Well, considering you used to be the king of assholes when it came to women, you shouldn’t be.” I shrug, suddenly thankful for his intrusion into my misery. He grunts at my answer and accepts it without further argument. “It’s hard to explain,” I confess but for some reason I don’t want him to know the whole extent of it. I’ve got to get my head on straight. Why in the hell am I protecting Hawkin when he played me like a fiddle?

Well shit. I guess there’s another instrument I can add to our band—unfortunately this one didn’t bring me pleasure.

Colton scrubs a hand over the stubble on his jaw, so out of his element right now, uncomfortable at having to give advice to a female.

“Dude, you’re not George Clooney or Jason Statham so that look went out last year. Time to shave,” I tease, trying to ease his uneasiness, and at least I get a chuckle from him.

“You know you’re kind of being a bitch when I just stopped by because I’m worried about you.”

And that comment right there knocks the snarky wind from my sails because he’s right, I’m being an ass because I’m hurt. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” I blow out a breath and watch my fingers tracing the pattern on the couch. “This is just …”

“What happened?” he asks, scooting to the edge of his chair.

“I was the stake in a bet.”

“Excuse me?” The pitch of his voice escalates and his posture changes instantly, going into full-force protective brother mode. I cringe; I didn’t want to go there with him, but I want to confide in him at the same time. “His name.” It’s not a question.

“Hawkin Play,” I say ever so quietly but Colton does a double take when he hears the name.

“As in lead singer of Bent, Hawkin Play?” I just nod. “Shit, I liked their music too. Dare I ask what the bet was?” He’s feeling me out and I just sigh.

“No, you don’t want to know.”

“Fuckin’ A,” he growls, the muscle in his jaw pulsing as he tries to rein in the rage for my sake. “I don’t need to ask…. I’m a guy. I can imagine….” His voice trails off as I watch him struggle with the dueling emotions, to sympathize with me through anger or through comfort. I just nod when his gaze meets mine, saying yes to all of the above. “You know I’m going to kick his ass now, right?”

That first day I drove Hawke home flashes through my mind, when he commented that my brother must have gotten in a lot of fights protecting my virtue. The irony.

I don’t say anything, just keep watching my fingers trace the fabric aimlessly. “You really like him, don’t you?” The solemnity and compassion in his voice make my heart swell. My lack of an answer is one in itself. “Shit, Q, if Rylee were here she’d say some shit like ‘Never give up on someone that you can’t go a day without thinking about.’”