Page 66 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
So I don’t.
Instead, I grab a beer from the refrigerator and flip through the mail sitting on the counter as Dylan’s voice comes strong and focused through her closed bedroom door.
She’s working. Figures.
Jett’s gone. That’s a bonus.
I move to the hallway, Petunia beside me, and listen to her sing. Every part of me wants to open the door and sit on her bed to listen to her while she works. Watch that little crease she gets in her forehead when she’s concentrating. Study the way her fingers work with skill over the strings of the guitar. Listen to how she varies the same line over and over with one word changed, an inflection altered, to try to see what sounds better.
But I don’t do any of those things because I’ve been thinking about her way too much and thinking about a woman when it isn’t only how I’m going to get her back in bed is not something I can rationally afford. I mean, hell yes, I’ve thought about how I want her back in my bed, but I’ve also thought about so many other things. Things that make me think of Shelby and Brody and the fact that they’ll live the rest of their lives without Drew. Things that tell me I need to stop playing house with her and go back to being roommates.
I run a hand through my hair and force myself to retreat from her door and the comfort her voice brings. It’s when I walk into my bedroom and find the T-shirt and boxers I lent her washed and folded and set on the corner of my bed that it hits me.
In order to be roommates, we’ll no longer sleep in the same bed.
And without her in the same bed, my dreams will return. My nightmares.
With her beside me, they didn’t haunt me. It may have been only three nights, but they were the most peaceful three nights I’ve had in a long time. Not to mention one night of incredible sex.
I stare at the bed for a few moments before shaking my head.
Quit being such a pussy, Malone. Suck it up.
But instead of taking a shower like I planned to, I drop my bag right inside the door, shuck my shirt, and head out back to work on the playroom.
I need something to do with my hands that doesn’t involve them being on her skin.
So I begin to work. Nail after nail. Board after board. But it’s my dad’s words that keep ringing in my ears.
“It’s okay to forget what hurt you, but just remember to never forget what it taught you.” It taught me I’m not infallible. It’s taught me I can’t let someone close to me, because one day, I may be the one who doesn’t come home.
“I should have seen that coming a mile away,” Grady says to no one, followed by an exasperated laugh that pulls me out of my bedroom to see what he’s talking about.
He’s standing at the back door, looking out at the yard, and I hate the little flip-flop that my belly does seeing him there.
“Seen what coming?” I ask.
He turns, his smile crooked and hair disheveled from sleeping. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”
“It isn’t that late—oh it is,” I say when I look at the clock to see that it’s past ten. “I worked late. I was on a roll and didn’t want it to stop. You worked late though, too. I mean in the backyard. Not at the station. But you never called for me to pick you up. So I was surprised when I heard the hammer. I should have come out and said hi. I should have . . .”
Am I rambling? Stop rambling. When did these nerves start around him? And are they why I stood in the kitchen and watched him but was too chicken shit to go out and talk to him? Add to that it felt awkward not heading to sleep in the same room as him.
“I know you did. You were still going at it when I went to bed.”
“Sorry if I was too loud and kept you up. I lost track of time.”
“No. Don’t apologize. I like listening to you sing.” I blush, suddenly self-conscious knowing he was listening. “It’s Sunday.”
I nod my head.” And . . .?”
“My family has a Sunday tradition of having dinner together.” I narrow my eyes as I try to see where he’s going with this. “Do you have plans today?”
“No, why?”
“Do you want to go to dinner with me?”
“But it’s not dinner time.” I smile.
