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“Or you were distracted by something. What’s the matter, Brooke?” he asked as he welcomed his drink, and I sighed as I shook my head, pushing the drink away from me.
“It’s nothing.”
“That sigh says otherwise; come on, you can tell your friend.” He motioned with his fingers, and I hesitated before I told him about my fight with Marie, and for the first since I had met Jax, I couldn’t read what he was thinking just from his expression.
Jax always wore his thoughts on his face. If he was annoyed, you would be able to see it; if he was confused or disgusted, he would lift his lips up into a snarl, and if he was happy or just in a good mood, he would always have a flirtatious smirk on his face, but right now, his face was neutral.
And it scared me.
“So, yeah, that’s how I ended up at the bar, nursing a drink I don’t even enjoy,” I told him, and he crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned back in his seat.
“Hmm.” Something about his tone was cold, but I didn’t question him. “Can I ask you something? Promise you won’t be offended by it.”
That normally meant that he was about to say something offensive.
“Yeah?”
“Did you and Asher ever screw raw?” My eyes widened, and I pulled my head back. “Because I fear some of his ideocracy has been transferred to you. What the fuck is wrong with you, Brooke?”
His gentle tone was much more terrifying than what he was saying, and I was genuinely confused.
“Why would you pick a fight with Marie?”
“I didn’t; she started it,” I grumbled as I crossed my arms over my chest, and he scoffed.
“No, she raised her concern, and you—” He pointed his finger at me, eager to prove his point. “—you took her concern and turned it around into a fight so that it could be easier for you to leave for Michigan. If you and Marie aren’t on good terms, then there’s nothing holding you back in the great city of Chicago, and you get to leave convinced in your mind that all everybody ever did was wrong you. You are afraid of confrontation because you are scared that people might admit what they really feel about you. You’re afraid that they might not see you as the person that you portray yourself as in front of us all, and that they might see you for who you truly are. So, what do you do when things get just a tad bit tough for you?”
He pointed his beer bottle toward me as if it was a mic, and I blinked, my breathing becoming shallow as I listened to him.
“You fight them and then run,” he said, and I swallowed hard. “In your beautiful head, somewhere in there, you have convinced yourself that the reason why your brother passed away was because he wanted to get away from you. The reason why Matthew never wanted you, was because you’re not good enough for him—or according to your brain—you are not Marie; therefore, you don’t deserve to be happy.”
I reached for the glass of whisky, and he held my hand, stopping me. “You’re punishing yourself because you think you deserve it. Tell me, Brooke. Why do you believe wholeheartedly that you don’t deserve to be loved? Why can’t you let yourself be happy?”
His grey eyes stared into mine, the sentiment clear in his eyes as he let go of my hand, and I felt my lump grow larger in my throat.
“Who the fuck are you?” I laughed as I cried, and he smiled and sipped his drink.
“Well, I’m a firefighter, daddy’s favorite son, millionaire playboy, and now, officially, badass psychologist,” he shrugged, and I laughed as I continued wiping my tears.
Shit, nobody had ever been that honest with me and outwardly told me that I had been treating myself badly and that I was basically a dysfunctional jerk who loved to ruin her relationships because I was afraid they would see me be vulnerable.
“Fuck you,” I laughed after I calmed down, and he grimaced, pulling his head back.
“I know I call you ‘pretty baby,’ but I like mine blond and curvy.” He pressed his hand against his chest, and I giggled as I rolled my eyes.
“Oh, shut up! I can be blond,” I joked, and he laughed humorlessly as he shook his head.
“Yeah, but what about the curvy?”
“Pay for my surgery?”
“Asher would kill me.” He immediately declined, and my laugh died down when I heard his name again. “Also, you need to apologize to Marie.”
“Yeah, Dad, I got it,” I mumbled, and he nodded, seeming proud that I had heard and took in his wise, painful advice. “So, tell me the truth, why are you here?”
“Ugh, you want to know the details about my date?”
“No, I want to know what happened at the family dinner that made you come here. You’re not the only one capable of reading people.” I snapped my fingers, and he laughed as he rolled his eyes.
