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I miss talking to her every day. I miss her random texts and cat memes.
I don’t want to be without her, but I also know I can’t stay married forever to someone who doesn’t count her husband on her list of priorities.
Asher is quiet beside me—for now. He’s letting me process, and I appreciate the hell out of him for that.
Or maybe there’s more to it. Maybe he has something of his own going on, something he wants to talk about but can’t because I’ve filled the space with my own issues.
Why else would he have dropped everything to come be with me when I never even said what the fuck I was doing?
“You okay, man?” I finally ask.
“I could ask the same of you.”
“No,” I answer truthfully. “I ended things with Grace a week ago because I couldn’t keep coming in second to her vineyard, and I think it might’ve been a mistake.”
He sits up a little straighter. “Because I made you realize it?”
I grunt. “No. Because I realized it all on my own.”
He rolls his eyes as he sinks back into the seat. “Whatever.”
“Maybe a little because of your help. But can I ask you a question?”
“What?”
“Why’d you come out without an explanation?” I ask.
“You sounded like you needed me, and I’m nothing if not loyal to my brothers.” He lifts a shoulder.
“Something’s going on with you,” I accuse. “The talk about commitment. How love isn’t logical. All of it. What’s up with you?”
He blows out a breath. “I met someone. We only had one night together, and we didn’t exchange anything more than first names and bodily fluids, and now I can’t stop thinking about her.”
My jaw slackens. “You met someone?”
“You heard me,” he mutters, and he turns his gaze out the window.
I blow out a low whistle. “Women.” I shake my head at the single word that pretty much sums it all up. We drive the rest of the way back lost in thought about our own situations, I suppose, but it’s nice having my brother here with me in the silence anyway.
It makes me feel like I’m not really alone.
He fiddles with his phone as we approach my apartment complex.
When I pull into a space, and before I get out of the car, I glance over at him and ask, “So what are you going to do?”
“Checking flights back to Vegas now that your mission is complete.”
“I meant about the someone you exchanged bodily fluids with,” I say dryly.
“Oh,” he says. He clicks his phone off and sets it in his lap, and he stares out the windshield. “I don’t know. She was just in town for a weekend, and I’ll probably never see her again.” He shrugs, but I sense the sadness in his tone.
“There’s no way to get in touch with her?”
He shakes his head. “All I’ve got is the memory and a first name.”
“Do you want to do something about it?”
“I’m in season. I need to put my focus there.” He says the words, but I sense something else in there. There must be something he could do—go to the place he met her and ask for footage or receipts. But he doesn’t seem to want to talk about it, so I back slowly away.
