Shit. He hadn’t intended to make contact; had hoped for a glimpse through a window, a backlit look at her face.
He tossed the cig away and reached for his handlebars. But Whitney was standing on the front porch, cinched garbage bag in one hand, and she’d seen him.
She took a step off the porch.
Hehadto leave.
The bag fell out of her hand and hit the grass with a sound of aluminum cans rattling. “Kev?” Her voice, a bright, shivery note through the cold air. Surprise, curiosity, hope, fear, all contained in that one clear sound, like a bell tolling. “Kev, is that you?”
Move.But he didn’t.
She looked beautiful, as she walked up to him, her hair clean and shiny, her petite form clad in jeans, sweater, and ankle boots. Regular, wholesome, sweet-faced. Grave sadness in the gentle curve of her mouth, dark circles beneath her eyes, the edges red from crying – things that made her more fragile, lovelier somehow.
“Itisyou,” she said when she reached him, breathless from hurrying, exhalations puffing white in the cold. Her cheeks burned pink; her eyes glittered against the wind. “How are you? I wanted to call, but I didn’t have a number and…”
An urge struck him, so unexpected and unthinkable that he pushed it down hard: He wanted to pull her in close to him and shove his hands up beneath her sweater. Not for any licentious purpose, but just to feel the warmth of her skin and the patter of her heartbeat against his palm.
“I’m fine,” he said, looking away from her, hands tightening together over his fuel tank to keep still.
“No you’re not,” she said, softly. When he glanced at her again, he saw the breeze snatch her hair across her face; she shoved it back. “Because I’m not fine either. And I didn’t have it as bad as you.”
“Yeah. Well.”
She stepped in close, too close, into his personal space. He wanted to flinch, but it was her, Whitney, who’d held his hand, so he stayed still, very still, and didn’t react when she touched his shoulder.
Didn’t react outwardly.
Inwardly, he swore warmth blossomed beneath her small hand, pulsing in his shoulder and radiating outward, a slow fill that he wanted to continue.
Not wanting her to break contact, fighting the urge to lean into her, he looked into her face again, and said, “I’m sorry about your brother.”
Her lips compressed. Her eyes took on a new layer of shine. “Me too. My sister-in-law’s not taking it well. She…she told me it should have been me instead, that she wished they’d killed me and let Jason live.” She blinked hard. “She said it just now. Yelled it. I took the garbage out to give her some space but…I don’t think she wants me in the house with her and the girls.”
“People stay stupid things when they’re grieving,” he said, chest aching for her. “You can’t take it personal.”
She nodded. “I know.” But had to dab at her eyes with her free hand.
“Besides, your brother was an asshole for putting you and them in that kind of danger,” he said, more viciously than intended.
She looked like he’d slapped her. “He had an addiction.”
“Addiction isn’t an excuse for anything.”
“Speaking from experience?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
She pulled her hand back, and the cold rushed in to erase the warmth she’d given him.
“Sometimes bad things happen to good people,” he said, “like what happened to you. But most of the time, bad people invite bad things to happen to them.”
She took a step back.
He started his bike and rode off.
~*~
He splurged and bought the good wine this time. It settled like a warm hand in his belly, caressing him from the inside out, feeding a slow-burning fire into his veins. His brothers wouldn’t agree, but he’d always loved wine for its painkilling properties. Everything else could get you drunk, but wine could ease the sting. Could chase away the deep ache.
