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Months earlier, I’d talked to Burke—the friend from college who’d gotten their wreck of a house in Michigan. He’d struggled with the why of all this just as badly as I had.
What had I said to Burke when we spoke? They were directing our lives from the bloody grave. That’s what it felt like. Chris and Amie were privy to some big universal plan, something I couldn’t see. And I wanted to know what that vision looked like to them.
After another drink, I dug through a small plastic container holding a few keys. Each was marked with a number that didn’t give away any information about what it went to.
Then I refilled the box, tossing all his useless shit back inside until nothing was left but the picture of the three of them. I carefully set it against the wall next to a small black picture frame holding a shot of the day Mira was born.
Amie, propped up in the hospital bed, was holding Mira, and Zoe was crouched next to her, holding that bloody duck, smiling that big, happy smile—the one that always twisted my lungs a bit tighter.
I shouldn’t have, but I took another swig of whiskey, allowing the pleasant burn that pooled in my stomach to loosen my muscles, soften all the hard-edged thoughts in my brain.
With the bottle in hand, I left the office, closing the door behind me with a quiet click.
Zoe was still in the kitchen, her hand rubbing at her neck, her hair slowly falling out of whatever useless configuration she’d tried in order to contain the mess.
It hadn’t worked. And I desperately wanted to push my fingers through those golden strands, anchor my hands somewhere within her curls and memorize the way they felt.
Her eyes met mine, and my head reared back at what I saw there.
“Why do you look like you want to rip my head off right now?” I asked.
She swallowed. “You didn’t come home at your normal time,” she said. After a pause, her chin rose a notch. “I was worried.” Then she eyed the bottle dangling from my hand. “Maybe I still should be.”
I approached the island and set the bottle down. “Nah. Found it in Chris’s desk and had a couple sips for old times’ sake.” I arched an eyebrow. “Want one?”
Zoe studied me for a second, exhaling an incredulous laugh. “You want to drink with me?”
Among other things.
Maybe pour it down her chest and see what it tasted like off her nipples.
My hands curled into fists. Thoughts like those were kept locked in the same place as the worst of my anger. Only when I wanted to punish myself did I let them see the light of day.
I didn’t answer her question, merely held her gaze to see what she’d do next.
“How many have you had?” she asked quietly.
“Enough to know that I probably shouldn’t drink with you,” I answered. Too easily. “I never do it, so it always loosens my tongue a bit when I have a couple shots. I’m not pissed, though. Don’t worry.”
“I don’t really like whiskey,” she admitted. She came closer, pulling the bottle toward her as she took a seat on one of the stools where she could still face me. “I don’t think I ever saw Chris drink this.”
“He didn’t much. We’d break it out every once in a while, have a couple shots and talk about all the bullshit in life we couldn’t figure out.”
She smiled, and fuck—it was so soft and sweet. If she were a drug, I’d take every little smile like that, crush it and snort it to see if all those pieces of her somehow made me feel better once they hit my bloodstream and made it sing.
“You trying to figure something out tonight?” she asked.
“Maybe.”
Zoe held my gaze, looking away only when the tension stretched so tight that I worried something might break. Something might shatter into a million pieces, and I’d never be able to pick them up, never be able to set them back to rights.
She uncapped the bottle, wrinkling her nose when she smelled the whiskey. Before she touched it to her lips, she paused. “Do I get a chaser?”
“Fuck no. I didn’t.” I hitched my chin in a dare. “Woman up, Valentine. Show me what you’ve got.”
Her eyebrow arched. “One drink.”
I studied the graceful line of her neck when she took a pull from the bottle, and I tried not to think about the fact that she’d put her lips in the same place I’d put mine.
