Page 21 of Code Word
I shot him and his hand a filthy look. “The fuck, Roscoe?”
Now it was his turn to sigh. “Blake,” he warned. “Let them talk. Isn’t him talking a good thing?”
In that moment, I realized a whole lotta things all at once.
Yes, it was good he was talking. But no, it wasn’t, because he wasn’t talking to me. And he wasn’t talking to me because he didn’t want me anymore.
And I didn’t know what the fuck that meant, but god, I hated how it made me feel.
Like my bones felt wrong.
Then I watched as Luke put his hands on his sides and leaned forward as though he’d just run some sprints, and Maddox put his hand around the back of Luke’s neck and pulled him in for a hug. And Luke went so fucking willingly.
My stomach plummeted to the ground, my legs felt all tingly, and my heart squeezed to the point of pain.
Christ, I wanted to cry.
What the fuck.
I couldn’t get my head around any of it. Or my heart.
And I certainly couldn’t bear watching it.
I turned and went inside, reminding myself to breathe because my lungs wouldn’t fucking work.
I knew then that I was leaving and Luke wasn’t coming with me. I just knew it. Like I knew that something had changed, and our friendship had gone past something it couldn’t return to.
I didn’t understand it, but I understood the hurt, and I understood that Luke didn’t want or need me around.
And the bottom line was, I guess, I didn’t need to know any more than that.
You said you’d give him the time he needed...
Yeah, that was before he broke up with me.
I stripped the bed and folded the blankets, put the fire out,and washed up, needing to do any fucking thing to keep busy.
When I heard the door open and close, I expected to see Roscoe or Maddox inside, but no, it was Luke.
He looked a fucking mess—pale, red eyes, and so fucking tired—and my first instinct was to go to him.
But I couldn’t.
When he saw my bag by the door, he shoved his hands into his hoodie and shrank back into himself, somehow making himself smaller.
“I just need a few days,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I just can’t...”
I dropped the folded duvet onto the bed. “Can’t what? Talk to me? Look at me?”
His face crumpled and he rocked back on his heels, but he swallowed hard and shook off his emotions. He tried to speak, couldn’t, then cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m sorry.”
My gaze cut to his, and so help me, I wanted to go to him. I wanted to hug him, to hold him tight, but he clearly didn’t want that.
“Me too,” I said, trying not to be so bitter.
So hurt.
“I don’t know what I did,” I said. “And I’m trying not to make this about me, but it clearly is, so...” I shrugged. “I guess I’ll see you—” I stopped myself from sayingat homebecause... well, because it wasn’t my home. It was his. “I’ll be at the beach house.”
