Page 132 of Prickly Pair
“When was the last time you let someone see you like this?” I asked.
“Never. I can’t. I hate that you’re even here right now.”
“I bet.” I bit his shoulder and he sucked in a breath, but it got a reaction out of him. He rolled over to face me, his brows drawing together. I smiled, but then it slowly faded. We were nose to nose, and I could see flecks of gold in his dark brown eyes. And the sadness. So much sadness. “Tell me about him. I only remember him as the guy who chased me through town after egging Mr. Myers house on Halloween.”
A broken laugh bubbled up, and his expression creased with pain. “God. That feels like ages ago.”
“It was. We’re old now. Tell me a memory.”
“We’re not that fucking old.” Some of the color was starting to come back to his cheeks. “When I was like eight, I accidentally stole a newspaper. I wanted to give him one since he read it every morning, and I brought it home. And when I gave it to him, he asked how I paid for it, and I realized I’d stolen it. I started crying.” Tears rolled down his cheeks, but he chuckled. “I was a mess. I thought I was going to go to jail or something, but he calmed me down. And I remember it because he ended up holding me. It’d been a long time since he’d held me like he did Dallas or Avery. I was getting too big for it. I think I was jealous of my siblings, honestly.”
I gently grabbed his face. “That is a terrible fucking memory, Austin. Try again.”
“It was good,” he protested.
“No, that’s sad. Try again.”
“Okay. Well, there was the time he was really proud of me for getting an award at school.”
I winced. “Try again?”
He huffed out a breath. “I don’t know. There’s so many, I just can’t think of any.”
“Hmm.” I bumped his forehead with mine. “You’re a fucking disaster, Whynot.”
“I know.” He sniffled again. “I wish I wasn’t. I’m trying not to be for Evie and Matthew and . . . and you. I’m trying.”
Fuck. I’d meant that to be playful, not taken seriously. I sighed and sat up slightly, pulling his head against my chest. “Just fucking cry already, you wet napkin.”
He sucked in a shaky breath, but then finally, he gave in. A broken sob left him, and god, it tore me up. I teared up as I held him—the man that’d been my rival since high school, the person I’d fought with countless times—while he broke apart. And somehow, feeling him shake in my arms hurt more than a punch landing against my jaw.
My muscles burned as I tightened my hold on him, never letting up. His fingers gripped my shirt, twisting as he started to breathe harder.
“It’s not okay,” I whispered. “And that’s okay. Okay?”
All he did was nod as he cried harder. I rubbed the back of his head and closed my eyes, breathing in his scent.
He was so stubborn. I used to give him so much shit about it. Always had a damn stick up his ass. Rule follower. Always had to be perfect. But life wasn’t perfect, and it always found a way to shatter those who clung to the idealistic world. My rose-colored glasses were broken early on, but not his. I hated him so much for that, too.
I didn’t hate him now, though. Not as much as I should. Maybe not at all. Definitely not at all.
“I’m so-rry.” His voice broke, as he suddenly tried to pull away. “I’m sorry. When I started dating Evie and Matthew, I was so scared I wouldn’t be enough. That I’m too broken right now.And you—I-I don’t know what to do with you. You don’t have to be here. I?—”
“I’m not letting go of you. So either suck it up and let me hold you, or die trying to escape me. You’re weaker than a fucking kitten right now.”
He sank into me again, his tears soaking through my shirt. Finally, he settled completely. Maybe he finally realized I was serious.
“I remembered something,” he murmured. “One time, when I was like fourteen, I walked into his studio. It was after you and I beat the shit out of each other.”
A smile tugged at my lips. “Fuck. I remember that.”
“Yeah. You broke my nose.”
“You broke my goddamned wrist on my jacking-off hand.”
His laugh shook him. “Sorry. Well, I went in and got blood everywhere. And he was in the middle of painting, and usually when he was doing art, I tried to leave him alone. But he looked up and saw me, and he put everything down. He helped me stop the bleeding—didn’t scold me, didn’t give me shit about fistfighting you again. He just got me cleaned up and told me he loved me. I don’t think he was proud of me, so that’s not why he told me he loved me. I think he just . . . did.”
I smoothed my fingers through his hair. “I know he did. I envied the hell out of your relationship with him.”
