“He feels your tension.” His tone softened, and I dropped my chin to my chest.
My nose tingled. Not now. Not now. Not now. I hadn’t cried since the funeral.
He touched my thigh. I squeezed my eyes shut and turned away, that tingling in my nose more pronounced.
“Is all this lashing out about him?”
My chest ached. I couldn’t think about Jack. I couldn’t not think about him.
“Stay out of it.” The tight confines of the cab suffocated me. “I need out.” I pulled on the door handle, but it was locked. I yanked, but the driver didn’t stop.
“We’re almost there,” Patrick said.
“I need out,” I yelled as bile rose up my esophagus.
“Pull over,” he commanded.
We were still rolling when I got the door open. Vomit spattered the curb and part of the car.
“Jesus, Marlow.” He rubbed my back as I heaved again.
“Get out.” The driver held up his palm for money.
“She’s sick, damn it.” His touch was tender. “You okay?”
I nodded even though I wasn’t.
“It’s three more blocks. You’ll take us.”
The driver grunted as I closed the door.
I clutched both sides of the doorframe as I stumbled out of the car. My legs nearly gave way when I landed on my feet.
I held out my arms for Blake. “I’ll take him.”
Patrick ignored me, paid the driver, and collected all my things. He jogged up the steps to his townhouse, juggling everything to unlock the door.
“Are you coming?” He flipped on a light in the foyer.
“I need to go home,” I croaked, the taste in my mouth vile.
“You need to take it easy.” He motioned upstairs with his head. “And brush your teeth. I’ve got extra strength mouthwash.”
I laughed, the sound foreign coming from me. Of all the inappropriate times, and Patrick was the one to elicit it.
“Can he sleep in the bed?” He glanced over his shoulder, already halfway up the stairs.
“We’re not staying. Just let me rinse my mouth out.” I remained rooted at the base of the staircase.
“Whatever you want.” He continued until he’d disappeared.
My stomach churned again for a completely different reason. The last time I’d been there—up there—it hadn’t exactly gone well.
“Do you have any crackers?” I called, more as a means of distraction.
He poked his head out. “In the pantry. You remember where the kitchen is?”
My cheeks flamed. The kitchen was a worse idea than upstairs. I’d committed, so I’d see it through.
As soon as I entered the spacious room, I was assaulted with memories. Him at the stove. Me on the island.
I rubbed my forehead in an attempt to erase the images. Jack’s smiling face came to the forefront. I’d betrayed him by doing something domestic with Patrick.
“Find them?” I jumped. Patrick placed a hand on my shoulder and reached around me. “These okay?”
He held up the box. I nodded, accepting the sleeve of crackers from him.
“I’ve got ginger ale. I always like that when I get sick.”
“Please don’t be nice to me,” I pleaded.
He unscrewed the cap on a cold glass bottle of the drink and offered it to me. I sipped the fizzy liquid and sagged against the counter.
“You could use a shower.” He wrinkled his nose and followed it up with a playful smirk.
“You’re an ass,” I said half-heartedly.
“Nicest thing anyone’s called me all day.” He snatched a cracker from my fingers. “Want me to wash your hair.”
I tensed. “I should go.”
“Blake’s already out again. He’s had a busy day. Let him sleep.”
I nibbled on a cracker. “I—”
“Have you been feeling okay? Do you think it was something you ate?”
“I’m fine.” The nausea had nearly subsided.
“I’ll take these upstairs.” He swiped the box off the counter. “You can use my shower. It’s got the best pressure.”
“You’ve tried the others?” I asked as I followed him upstairs.
“You mean you haven’t at your place?”
“Only once when the master bath was messed up.”
Blake was stretched out in the middle of a navy duvet, mouth open. That kid . . . sometimes I wondered how he was mine. He was sweet, and I wasn’t. He was loving, and I wasn’t. He was strong, and I was barely holding our lives together.
Patrick turned on the taps and hung a fresh towel and washcloth over the door. “I think I have lavender or vanilla or some shit if you’d rather have that.” He motioned to the shampoo.
“This is fine.” He kicked off his shoes and loosened his tie. “What are you doing?”
“Getting ready for bed.” I stared as he undid the top few buttons of his dress shirt. “Oh come on, Wicked. Don’t tell me you’ve gotten shy.”
My skin flushed as he shrugged off his shirt. “I’m not showering with you.”
His lips flattened, unimpressed. “I know that. We’re not in kindergarten. I think you’ll survive if I brush my teeth while you’re in there.”
He unbuckled his pants. They hung open, revealing the gray waistband of his underwear. I stood motionless as he shoved a toothbrush in his mouth.
“Want me to wake up Blake with this noise?” he asked around the toothbrush.
Screw it.
I turned my back to him and stripped my shirt off as I took off my shoes. Reaching one hand behind my back, I unhooked my bra and added it to the growing pile of clothes. My hands trembled by the time I slid my fingers beneath the strings of my panties.
“You’ve lost weight.”
I froze, silk pooled at my feet. He shouldn't have noticed. That would make him something I didn't want him to be. More than my brother’s observant best friend. It has nothing to do with you. Maybe if I repeated the lie enough I’d start to believe it.
I squared my shoulders and stepped into the shower, letting the door slam behind me. Seemed lying had become something I excelled at. I’d sworn I’d never be back in this house again.
Yet here I was. No, here we were.
And Patrick was right. I’d needed this respite. A moment where someone else looked after my little boy . . . and me. But . .
