Page 51 of Undercover
I wanted to beat my head against the wall, but I settled for flinging myself down on the room’s one decent piece of furniture, my giant leather couch.
Yes, I was a cliché. But my couch actually fit me when I stretched out all the way.
“What are you, the psychic fucking hotline? Yes, I’m sure he does have conflicting feelings. But it’s not my prerogative to try to know what he wants when he’s already told me what he wants.” That sounded garbled as hell. I tried again. “He told me what he wanted. I listened. If I don’t, that makes me an asshole. More of an asshole.”
Amanda didn’t say anything for a second, and I tipped my head back, letting it sink into the couch, staring up at the ceiling. Summer sunlight filtered in through the apartment’s small windows, gilding the off-white walls and ceiling in bright, distended rhomboids.
“You’re in love with him, Alec,” she said at last, far more softly than my outspoken sister usually bothered to speak.
And that hurt like a knife right between the ribs. I’d been trying to keep those words out of my head for the past three weeks, ever since I got back to Albany and had nothing to do but brood.Et tu, Amanda? Christ.
I forced my reply out through numb lips, not even aware it wasn’t a denial until I’d already spoken. “That doesn’t matter.”
“You’re my brother, and I love you, even though you’re an asshole. It matters to me. You’re depressed and heartbroken, and I hate it. This guy actually liked you,” she opined—with an incredibly unflattering note of wonder in her voice. “Helikedyou. You shouldn’t just give up.”
I slumped farther down into the comfort of my couch’s embrace, kicking my socked feet up on the coffee table and having to shove a pizza box and two beer bottles aside to make room. My big toe poked out of the left one. I’d been opening my mouth to argue about theheartbroken and depressedthing, but the evidence seemed to be stacking up against me.
“I didn’t give up. I respected his wishes.” Maybe if I kept repeating that, she’d leave me the hell alone. And maybe I’d convince myself, too, because I’d started out hating Burlington. And maybe I still did mostly hate Burlington. But my internal compass had reoriented, somehow…and while Gabe lived in Burlington, that’s where my lodestar would be. I had to force myself not to go to Burlington every single day, and damn was that ever an impulse I never thought I’d have. “I need to leave him alone.”
Amanda sighed, noisily. The way she did almost everything. “I’m not saying blow up his phone or stalk him or anything. Just—don’t let him go without letting him know how you feel. You apologized, but you didn’t tell him how much he means to you. If he can’t forgive you, then he can’t, and maybe I wouldn’t even blame him.” Thanks a bundle, sis. I rolled my eyes. “Don’t roll your eyes at me!” I sat bolt upright. Fuck. She really was psychic. Sisters were such a pain in the ass. “And do something to show him you care. I don’t think words will be enough, so get creative.” A squawk, a crash, and a bunch of yelling erupted in the background. “Aw, shit. Hey! Cut that out! Not you, Alec. Stop it! Did you bonk your knee? Is your brother okay? Seriously, I told you not to stand on the—I need to go. Good luck! Call me later!”
The line went dead.
Well, thank God for toddler nephews, or Amanda might’ve kept torturing me for as long as her phone battery lasted.
I tossed the phone on the couch and let myself sink even deeper into it myself. It already conformed to the shape of my slumped body.
And if I stayed here and kept wallowing like this, the couch and I would become one, a single squishy entity surviving on beer and whatever crumbs fell into the cracks between the cushions.
When had I even gone to the gym? Or out for a run?
Fuck, at this rate Gabe wouldn’t recognize me if he ever let me see him again. Or at the trial, which might not even happen, anyway. Whipley’s lawyer had been working on a plea bargain, basically dropping the attempted murder charges, against Gabe and me, that the prosecutor had been pushing for in favor of a guilty plea to kidnapping and trafficking. Whipley had a lot of pressure on him to take the deal, even though he’d hoped to get out of the kidnapping charge, at least, if he went to trial. I didn’t think he would, but I could see why he’d want to. Either way, his associates—the idiots who’d been laundering some of the money through their yoga studios, selling drugs on the side, and disposing of the yoga mats in their gift shops—had all turned on him. One of them had noticed me hanging around, it turned out, and had also seen me at the police station. That was how Whipley had ended up putting two and two together after meeting me at the party.
Water under the bridge. He’d be going away for a long time no matter what. I’d done my part, except for the never-ending paperwork.
If there was no trial, though, I wouldn’t see Gabe there. And I had no excuse for going to see him otherwise. He’d specifically said not to call.
And do something to show him you care. I don’t think words will be enough, so get creative.
I sat up a little, unsticking myself from the leather cushion. I had the windows open despite the heat, because I hated air conditioning. But I was sweaty and gross.
And I had a beer stain on my sweatpants.
Yeah, time for a shower. Time to grow the fuck up and either do something about this constant, grinding pain in my chest, or move on.
I picked up my phone and sent off a quick email. It was Saturday; I could take Monday and Tuesday off work. Hell, I could take the whole week if I needed it. Jenna had made it crystal clear, as I growled at her over my cup of coffee the other morning, that I would be so much more than welcome to take some vacation days ‘any fucking time now, Special Agent Grouch.’
Shower. Hotel reservation. And then get on the road to Burlington.
Time to get creative. I’d try not to hope too much, but I couldn’t help the little unfurling of something like it deep inside.
Gabe
“Will three o’clock on Thursday work for you? I know the day after tomorrow is short notice, but Dr. Wilson and Dr. Ghosh have busy schedules, and it’s challenging to coordinate them. Dr. Ghosh had a cancellation.” Dr. Wilson’s assistant sounded like everyone’s stern third-grade teacher, and I was pretty sure she sounded like that when she talked to Dr. Wilson, too.
I assured her I could, and I hung up, my heart pounding and my phone slipping in my sweaty grasp.
I’d already met with Dr. Wilson, whom I really had trouble thinking of as Steven no matter how many times he reminded me, for a casual lunch the week after…the week after. He’d been a lot more sympathetic than I probably deserved, since I really had fucked up all on my own, without a lot of extenuating circumstances.
