Page 67 of Spark
I soften and wave to my niece, but as soon as Aileene takes her from Cam’s arms and out of sight, I pin Cameron with all my fury and embarrassment. My brother, being my brother, waves and says, "We'll give you an hour before we order."
And leaves.
“Cameron Archibald Davidson, get your ass back here.” I pound on the glass walls as I follow him until he disappears. “Shit.” I don’t dare look at Mateo. If I do, I’ll fall to my knees and beg him to take me back, then sob like a baby when he rejects me. Plus, I can't bear the disappointment and resignation in his expression that annihilated me the last time I saw him. It’s bad enough he may think I had anything to do with this outrageous scheme, hating me more than he already does.
Pacing, I call security. “Hi, Sig. I seem to have gotten myself locked in the lab. Could you come up and unlock the door?”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Davidson, but I’ve been given strict instructions by Ms. Davidson and the junior Mr. Davidson not to let you out until, and I quote, ‘You get your head out of your ass and fight for the love you deserve.’” There’s an uncomfortable throat clear, and I feel bad for placing the poor guy in the middle of my family’s antics. “Um, is there anything else I can do for you?”
My attention darts to a glowering Mateo then back to the empty hallway, and I rake my hand through my hair. “I guess not. But make sure they get you something when they order food.”
Sounding more cheerful and a bit relieved, Sig says, “Already put my order in. I’m looking forward to cheesesteak and fries for dinner tonight.”
"Thanks." I hang up and slide down the glass wall, plopping onto the floor and dropping my head. "They got to the security guard and told him not to let us out." The air shifts, and the squeak of his sneaker against the floor echoes in the room. Keeping my eyes on the folds of my untucked t-shirt because my mortification will not allow me to see his expression, I mumble, "I'm sorry."
“I should have known this was a set-up.” His words are a grunt and feel like a kick in the junk.
The yearning and regret that have been simmering since I last saw him bubble over, and I chance a peek. He looks good, but the possibilities of what could have been are expertly smothered by reality, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something stupid. I’m not a poetic man, but if I were, I'd fill stanza after stanza about how much I miss him, ache for him. How I love his kindness and reliability. How his talent and creativity leave me in awe. Instead, I watch as he pulls out his phone and types.
“Fuck.” His fingers clench around his phone, and he looks like he wants to chuck it across the room.
I jump to my feet, worry for and about him overriding everything else. “What is it? Are you okay?”
When those deep mahogany eyes meet mine, they soften. For a moment, I’m taken back to endless conversations spent locked in their hold and never wanting to be released, and he seems to be just as transfixed. With a slow blink, he holds up his phone. "Apparently, Sofia and Eve were in on this too. Eve called Cam when Sofia finished my tattoo earlier today."
"Oh." Putting my hands in my pockets, I step back. The faint scent of newly sawed wood— that’s so much a part of him—is like scraping a knee in the spot that was just starting to scab over, only to be torn open again. Turning my back, I stroll around the lab. "What kind of tattoo did you get?"
“Another dragon. Only this one is less… wobbly.” The playfulness in his voice is an invitation in which I know I’ll have to RSVP,regretfully declines,no matter how much I want to accept.
"I suppose we should clear the air. At least then we can tell our meddling siblings we tried." Defeat coats my mouth, and I fiddle with the lever on one of the machines.
Silence spreads between us, vast and unyielding. Until finally, like a life preserver tossed to a drowning man in an angry sea just as he gasps for his last breath, Mateo says, “Probably.”
Still unable to look at him, I nod.
More silence.
Really, I should be the one to start. It’s my fault for acting like my mother and overstepping. Taking a deep breath of courage, I rub my sternum. “I’m sorry.” Turning to face him, I’m struck, not for the first time, by… him. The way he commands the space with quiet confidence. The way he cares for those he loves. The way his solid build matches his solid character. “I’m sorry for invading your privacy. I’m sorry for not talking to you. I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry for… losing you.”
"Finlay…" The sound of my name on his lips is reverent, and my overactive imagination thinks it hears a tinge of longing. He takes a step, then two, closing the distance but still leaving about five feet between us. "I… You…" He fists his hands in his hair, frustration eclipsing the placid lines of his handsome face. "Fuck." He releases his hair and punches his thigh. When his eyes meet mine, his gutted, haunted look has me holding my breath. “I miss you.”
My heart roars, and my palms sweat. "I miss you too."
A step closer.
“I may have overreacted.” As if he doesn’t know what to do with them, his arms hang at his sides, listless.
Another step.
Ready to grovel, plead, implore, my stomach is doing the can-can with more enthusiasm than Gran and her cronies. “You reacted as anyone would.” I glance down at the spotless floor so he can’t see my red face. Or at least, I won’t have to witness him seeing me turn into a tomato, because that’s oh-so-attractive. “Apparently, I’ve become my mother. But not to worry, I’m working on it with my therapist, and I’m looking into a twelve-step program.”
At his soft chuckle, I cast my eyes to his face. “A twelve-step program to quit acting like your mother?”
"I think it may be our next business opportunity. It's a need that isn't being addressed." His chuckle continues, and so do I. "I mean, isn't turning into our parents our worst fear? And what happens when you realize too late that it’s happened? There should be some kind of detox, followed by a program and support group." I grin. The warmth of teasing and joking with him is like a favorite blanket, lost but recently found.
Too soon, the rich bass of his laughter quiets, and we are left staring at each other again. The curve of his mouth flattens, and somberness flanks us.
“Ihaveactually been working with my therapist on my need to make things easier for the people I love. And doing more to support their wishes rather than doing what I think is best,” I say in a hurry because another awkward silence may kill me.
