Page 98 of The Downside of Love
She was right.
I had to saymygoodbyes to Gramps, and I had to come face to face with Colby.
And then he begged me to meet him afterwards. I should have said no.
I drum my fingers across the wooden bar, looking toward the front door, waiting.
Fucking waiting.
I down another shot and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
I should have called him when he first got to Colorado Springs. I should have texted him after his squadron touched down at Peterson. I watched him land, watched him maneuver his F-16 with such ease around the tarmac, and I heard him from down the hall, talking about how he was glad to get temporary duty in Colorado Springs.
I stayed away. I didn’t greet him, I didn’t text him, I didn’t want to go near him because I was fucking terrified as to what I would say to him, but then Gramps passed.
He deserves to know the truth after all this time. I’m just unsure of how the fuck I’m going to tell him. Especially on the night he buried his gramps. I feel like such a tool.
The door to the small bar opens, and I don’t even have to turn my head to know Colby just walked in. From the mirror behind the bar I can see his broad shoulders and sharp features.
His text was short, almost terse.Jack Quinn’s, nine o’clock.
I replied with an even shorter text.Okay.
Without saying a word, he takes the seat next to me. His body vibrates with tension. From the corner of my eye I can see the grinding of his jaw as he tosses two fingers in the air and orders a rum and Coke. Not his typical drink, one I’ve never seen him consume actually, but then again tastes and friendships can change over the span of a year.
We sit in silence, both our heads cast forward, our forearms propped on the polished wooden bar top. The bartender places Colby’s drink in front of him. With three fingers, he pinches the glass and brings it to his mouth where he takes a long swig.
When he sets it down, his voice is low, almost inaudible when he says, “How long?”
Dread washes over me like a cold shower.
He knows.
But how?
Does it really matter at this point? All that matters is how I handle myself in the next couple minutes.
I wet my lips, take a sip of my drink and say, “How long have I had feelings for her or how long have we been together?”
“Is there a fucking difference?” he grits out.
“Yeah,” I exhale, bowing my head. “There is.”
Turning toward me, he props one arm on the bar and the other on the back of his chair. “How long have you had feelings for her?”
Letting out a long exhale, I rub my hand over my forehead and say, “Since the moment I first saw her, at the party, before I pointed her and Ryan out to you.”
I hold my breath, waiting for his reaction, unable to look him in the eyes like a real man.I’m so fucking pathetic.
“Since that first night? What the fuck?” He shoves my shoulder back, forcing me to look at him. “You had feelings for her from the very beginning?”
Finally looking up, I meet his angry gaze, dark eyes fixing on mine, sharp eyebrows tilted into the air, a pissed-off expression I’ve never seen from Colby.
He seems older. In just a year, the wealth of experience he’s gained has morphed him into a different, more mature person.
I swallow hard. “I did, but then I saw the way—”
Colby’s fist sends my head back, and I tumble off my stool to the floor. Pain ricochets through my head, my face on fire, throbbing.
