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If you care.
If it means a damn thing.
He looked at the kitchen, the fire, anywhere but at me, and his chin wobbled.
I couldn’t fucking bear it.
I went to him, slid my hand to the back of his neck, and pulled him in for a half-assed hug, kissed the side of his headas some kind of goodbye, then picked up my bag and walked out.
Maddox and Roscoe were standing by the steps to their cabin, and they stopped talking when they saw me. I gave them a salute as I headed to my Range Rover, threw my bag in the backseat, and got in behind the wheel.
Maddox was on his way to my cabin before I even started the engine.
Guess Luke got Maddox in the divorce then.
I would have laughed at that if it didn’t hurt so fucking much.
Because Jesus Christ, that’s what this felt like.
A divorce. A breakup.
I threw the Range Rover into first gear and drove out of there, Roscoe’s sad face the last thing I saw before the tears came.
My placein Malibu was just as I’d left it a few days ago.
Just a few days ago?
God, it felt like weeks.
The house was huge, mostly large, very open, very white spaces. The mass of glass walls that fronted the ocean filled the main living area and kitchen with as much warmth as the winter sun allowed.
The cleaners had been in, but there were no reminders of my week here with Becca and her friends, and for that I was glad.
I needed to call her, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I stared at my phone, at the missed calls, unread texts, and I just couldn’t face any of them.
Maddox, Jeremy, Becca, my mom.
Madz and Jeremy would be calling about Luke, so that was a real big fucking no. Becca would be callingabout us or maybe about her brother, and I honestly couldn’t deal with that right now.
Not even my mom’s gentle questions about life. She always circled back to Luke somehow, or Becca, or what the band was doing, and yeah...
Everything was just a big old nope.
The silence and stillness of the house felt like a lesson, a punishment, adding insult to injury.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been alone.
As a kid, maybe?
Since then, I’d had the guys. From fourteen years old, I’d always—always—had the guys, my posse. I was one of five, always. I had the tattoo on my wrist to prove it.
Atrous forever.
Five equal parts of one whole.
Yeah, right.
It didn’t feel much like that right now.
