Page 32 of Broken Roads
A flush creeps up her neck and stains her cheeks. "I have some work to catch up on. Another time, maybe."
"Come on," Sawyer persists, oblivious to her discomfort or choosing to ignore it. "It'll be fun. First round's on me." He winks, leaning closer. "Just one drink to properly welcome you to town."
The color drains from her face so suddenly it's alarming. Her hand, wrapped around her mug, trembles slightly. "I appreciate the offer, but I really can't tonight."
Something's wrong. It's written in every line of her body, in the sudden pallor of her skin. This isn't simple reluctance, it's something deeper, more visceral. For a moment, I almost step in, almost tell Sawyer to back the fuck off. But then she looks at me, and there it is again. That flash of awareness, of connection, and with it comes the irrational anger that she can affect me this way.
"What's wrong?" The words, sharp and challenging, leave my mouth before I can stop them. "Think you're too good for our local watering hole?"
The table falls silent. Dad's newspaper crinkles as his hands tighten around it. Ruthie pauses mid-step, coffee pot suspended in the air. Sawyer and Beckett exchange looks I can't decipher.
Hailey stares at me, something raw and wounded flashing in her eyes before shutters slam down and her expression goes carefully blank. For a moment, she opens her mouth as if to respond, and I brace myself for whatever cutting remark she's about to deliver.
But instead, she simply shakes her head. The gesture is small, defeated in a way that doesn't match the sharp-tongued woman I've come to expect. She pushes her chair back, the legs scraping against the hardwood floor with a sound that cuts through the silence.
"Excuse me," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I should get to work."
She stands in one fluid motion, avoiding everyone's gaze as she sets her napkin beside her half-eaten breakfast. Without another word, she turns and walks out, her steps measured and controlled until she's through the door and out of sight.
The silence she leaves behind sits heavy on my shoulders, pressing down with the weight of unspoken judgment. Something cold and unpleasant settles in my stomach, tasting like regret and confusion mixed together. I've been trying to push her away since she arrived, to maintain the distance that feels necessary for my own sanity. But the look in her eyes just now, that flash of genuine hurt, wasn't what I wanted.
I stare at her abandoned plate, at the neat fold of her napkin, at the coffee mug still half-full and steaming. The evidence of her presence, and now her absence, somehow more accusing than any words could be.
"That was uncalled for, son." Dad's voice cuts through my thoughts. He fixes me with a look that makes me feel like I'm ten years old again, caught breaking rules I knew better than to challenge.
I say nothing. What defense could I possibly offer? That I'm angry at her for making me want her? That I'm fighting against an attraction that makes no sense, has no place in the careful order of my life?
Ruthie sets the coffee pot down, the sharp clink of ceramic against wood underscoring her displeasure. "That girl is trying her best to help this family," she says, disappointment evident in every word. "And you're determined to make her feel unwelcome."
"She's not some delicate flower," I mutter, the words sounding weak even to my own ears. "She gives as good as she gets."
"Not this time." Beckett's voice is quiet but carries a surprising edge. He fixes me with a hard stare. "That was different."
The table is a painting of judgment—Dad's stern disapproval, Ruthie's hands on her hips in that stance that's corrected my behavior since childhood, Beckett's unexpected challenge, and Sawyer's uncharacteristic silence as he studies his plate with sudden fascination.
I push away from the table, chair scraping against the floor in the same way shame scrapes against my bones. Pain shoots through my hip as I stand too quickly, a reminder of old injuries and stubborn pride. I welcome it, almost. The physical discomfort is a distraction from the gnawing feeling in my gut that might be guilt.
"Where are you going?" Dad asks, though I think he already knows.
"To apologize," I mutter, not meeting his eyes. "Isn't that what you want?"
He sighs, a sound heavy with resignation. "What I want is for you to see what's right in front of you, son."
I don't ask what he means. I'm not sure I want to know.
The morning air hits my face as I step onto the porch, cooler than it will be in a few hours when the sun climbs higher. Dew still clings to the grass beyond the steps, sparkling in the early light. The mountains rise in the distance, solid and unchanging in a way that's always steadied me. But not today.
I scan the yard, expecting to see Hailey headed toward her office. But she hasn't gone far. She stands at the farthest end of the porch with her back to me. Her shoulders rise and fall with each breath, slightly too fast to be casual. She hasn't heard me, or if she has, she's choosing to ignore my presence.
I should announce myself. Should clear my throat or call her name or make some sound to warn her I'm here. Instead, I’m frozen, watching as she reaches into her pocket and withdraws something small.
Her fingers work over the object, thumb rubbing across its surface in a motion that seems practiced, almost ritualistic. She brings it to her lips briefly, then returns to that circular motion, her thumb tracing the edge again and again.
She’s whispering, the words so soft I can’t catch them. Over and over, the mantra continues, her voice a barely audible murmur that carries on the still morning air.
Knowing I should leave, I shift my weight and of course cause a floorboard to creak beneath my boot. The sound breaks the spell, and Hailey whirls around, instinctively closing her fist around the object she'd been holding.
Her eyes widen when she sees me, surprise quickly morphing into wariness. But it's the vulnerability beneath that catches me—raw and exposed in the second before she manages to hide it.
