Sweet Ache

“Hey,” I say softly, stepping back.

“Hey.” He steps into the foyer and angles his head to stare at me a moment, eyes guarded, an impassive expression on his face. For a split second I fear that he’s here to instigate more conflict but after a beat, his eyes searching for something I’m unsure of, his mouth turns up into a soft smile.

I want to step into him, hug him, hold him, kiss those lips of his, but I don’t sense the same on his side. I’m confused—I should be the one who’s guarded and pissed and yet I feel like he’s the one acting that way. Then it hits me that something must have gone wrong at the hearing. Oh shit.

“Come in.” I lead him down the hall, trying to figure out how I need to proceed, because feeling uncomfortable was the last thing I’d expected in this reconciliation. I stop just inside the family room and turn to face him. “Look, I hate that this is awkward, hate everything about this situation except for the fact that you’re here and I want to try to make this work and figure out how we can move forward. Hawke,” I say his name, a plea in a sense as he stands there, jaw clenched, body stiff, but then he steps toward me. And so I ramble on, unable to help myself. “When I look at this all, the bet and the night at the party, I feel like it’s one clusterfuck of a misunderstanding and so we have to …” My voice trails off as he reaches out and cups the side of my jaw, thumb brushing over my bottom lip. My breath hitches and that electric current of our connection is still there, so much stronger after my skin has been starved of his touch.

He opens his mouth to say something and closes it again, words unspoken, and the moment is full of conflicting emotions. When he does it again he just shakes his head and pulls me into him, wraps his arms around me, and holds me tight. Our bodies fit together perfectly but something seems off to me. At first I chalk it up to the change in his cologne that makes him seem not like my rocker boy, but then realize that he’s so tense, strung so tight that it’s affecting me. But I hold on to him, absorbing the feeling of his body against mine and the knowledge that I made the right choice to reach out to him.

When he doesn’t say anything, I become even more worried. “How did the hearing go?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he murmurs into the crown of my head with a deep breath. The heat of it warms my scalp as my mind worries itself into circles trying to figure out what exactly happened.

“Really? Please just tell me your piece of shit brother was there, stood up, and actually took the blame for once.” I wince, worried I’ve overstepped my boundaries, but at the same time seeing him this upset is disconcerting.

He releases me the minute the words are out of my mouth and walks into the kitchen, his back toward me, and pounds a fist on the counter so that the few dishes stacked on it rattle from the force. I startle from the sound as he braces his hands on the counter and hangs his head down in silence.

“I’m sorry Hawke. I don’t know what happened today.” I trace the strong lines of his back, my heart lodging into my throat as I attempt to explain my comment. I know how it goes, you can bad-mouth your own kin but no one else can. Shit, I have Colton for a brother. I’ve bitched about him countless times before but the minute someone else does, my back is up and my mouth is on the defensive.

But then again, Colton has never tried to ruin everything I’ve worked for either.

“Look, I just …” I really want him to turn around so that I can see his expression but when he doesn’t, I continue. “I see how much of a burden he puts on you, how even when you know you are doing the right thing, it affects you … eats at you … and I just want you free of that. I know you love him, Hawkin, no one would ever question that, but you work so hard at everything and you need to be able to live without the constant shadow following you of what he’s going to fuck up for you next. So I’m sorry I said it but not sorry all the same.”

Silence hangs heavy in the air between us, and this reconciliation feels so very different from what I ever imagined.

“I need a drink,” he says, voice strained as he shoves back from the counter, eyes flicking to mine before he starts pacing like a caged animal.

I watch him for a beat, his hand pushing through his hair, jaw tense, and it’s nearly impossible to tear my eyes from watching the inner turmoil eat him alive. “Sure. Of course. Jack and Coke?” I ask as I move toward the cupboards to pour him a drink.

“Just Jack.”

I pull out the bottle of Jack Daniels from above the refrigerator and grab two glasses and set them on the kitchen table near where he’s pacing and lost in thought. I take a seat, every part of my body aware of his nearness. It’s like my nerves are a damn light switch and anytime he’s near me I’m flicked on, in every sense of the word.

He stops when he pulls himself from his thoughts and approaches the table as I sit down. The clink of the bottle’s neck as it hits the glasses fills the room as he pours us both a drink. I stay quiet, accept the glass he offers me even though I’ve never drunk Jack Daniels straight before, and just hold it in my hands. I watch him raise his to his lips and toss the amber liquid back without so much as a wince from its burn.

He finally looks up to me as his tongue flicks out to lick a drop off his lip. The smile he gives me doesn’t reach his eyes, and I hate how that makes me feel so off-kilter. It’s almost as if he’s nervous, agitated, like a trapped animal, and I want to roll my eyes at the thought but that’s the only way I can explain it to myself.