Page 11 of The Hang Up

“You’re right,” he said, ducking his head. “I am a coward.”

“Just—God, talk to him—”

“It’s been difficult and confusing—wait. Talk to who?”

Was he being obtuse on purpose? I glared at him, ready to be done with this conversation. But another part of me wasn’t done. That part cataloged how good he looked—though I could see the tired lines around his eyes. The pants he wore fit him perfectly. The dark button-down shirt complimented his gray eyes, which turned silver when the light hit them. His sleeves rolled up, showing off strong forearms. The collar unbuttoned with no tie. I could see his chest hair. A flash of that night—the EMTs cutting off his shirt. Joshua’s hand reaching for me.

Through the vee of his collar, I could see gray hair scattered in with black, and I wanted to undo his buttons and see if anything had changed. It wasn’t fair. How could I hold on to my rage when he looked sexy as hell. Just like always. And just like always, this man was off-limits.

I snorted at his question. “Sean. Your son. You remember him, right?”

“Brat,” he growled, sounding like he wanted to punish my impertinence. I was suddenly and painfully hard. And hoping he wouldn’t notice. He shook his head like he regretted his outburst. “I’m here to see you—”

“Yeah, I figured that out. But my break is almost over, so I want to make something clear. I’m not the go-between. If you want to talk to your son, man up and do it.”

“That’s not what this is about.” He rubbed the back of his neck, and for a moment, his vulnerability reminded me of the ambulance ride. Holding his hand. The hospital. Checking in on him after he returned home—the rejection—

It was too much. “I have to get back.”

I tried to walk past him, but he grabbed my arm. “Brock—”

“What, Joshua?” My voice shook and I blinked because I was determined not to cry in front of him. “What do you want from me?”

“I want—” He shook his head. “This isn’t about Sean. It should be. It absolutely should be—” He shrugged, staring at the ground and losing some of his bravado. “I want to see you. Make sure you’re okay.”

When I was angry, tears fell. Another thing I hated about myself. It was getting to be a long list. I didn’t bother brushing them away. What good would that do? “No,” I said, lifting my chin and shaking off his hand. I still had my pride. In theory, at least. “I don’t need—” But memories of that night—his words, his rejection—had me changing course. “You don’t get to do that. I’m not your concern, remember? I already have a dad—”

“Oh God. I shouldn’t have said those things, Brock. I’m sorry.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “But your dad’s an asshole.” I glared at him, barely able to contain the hurt-fueled rage that burned inside me. Some of it must have shown through because he said, “Right. Got it. I’m also an asshole.”

And then my anger deserted me. Left me drained. Exhausted. Joshua had been right to send me away. I was a stupid kid with a crush on my best friend’s dad. It had hurt at the time, but I was past all that. Wasn’t I?

“I really have to go.” Because no matter what he said, Joshua wasn’t interested in me. He wanted his son not to hate him. He wanted a peek into his son’s life. And I couldn’t be that for him. I’d thought I was over my crush and attraction, but it had returned full force, smacking me right in the chest. Was I too young to have a heart attack because the pain felt like my heart was being shredded. I couldn’t go through this again. I just couldn’t. “I’m here—meeting with you—only to tell you I’m done. No more.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

I crossed my arms, giving him my most skeptical look. I didn’t trust this man. “Really?”

“I just need one thing. I need you to believe I’m here because of my concern for you, not my son.”

“Right.”

Joshua reached for my hand and threaded our fingers together before I could pull away. My heart pounded and I was dizzy from his touch. I needed to stop this, but I couldn’t.

He stared at our clasped hands. “I’m usually levelheaded. I know exactly what I want and how to get it. But now—” He lifted his shoulders in a helpless way I didn’t usually associate with Joshua Miller. “You’ve done so much for me, and I…hurt you.” He squeezed my hand. His eyes pleaded with me for something. I didn’t understand any of it. “I’m sorry, Brock.”

“I was a stupid kid with a crush, and you were right to send me away.” I pulled my hand back. “But I can’t do this, Joshua. Whatever this is.” Should I acknowledge the desire I saw in his eyes? Had I imagined it? “I can’t. Not when…” I choked back the words.

“I could push you away again?”

I nodded.

“That’s fair. Just tell me you understand.”

He was so insistent. Yet vulnerable. Was it all a trick? It broke something in me. “What if I don’t?” I asked, suddenly feeling brave.

“Tell me? Or understand?”

“Either,” I said, giving him a challenging look. What the hell was I doing? “Both.”

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