I frowned. Of course, I’m not his type. That’s pretty freaking obvious, but I didn’t figure his bitch of a stepmother would so blatantly call me out on it. “And what, exactly, is Drew’s type?”
“Someone more like me.” Her smile grew, like she knew her words socked me straight in the stomach. Without another word, she turned and walked away.
Adele’s answer stuck with me the rest of the day. What the hell did she mean? I didn’t like it. She talks about Drew, looks at Drew, as if he belongs to her. Almost like they’re the ones in the relationship. It’s freaking creepy and makes me wonder if maybe they’ve fooled around in the past.
So gross. And scary. Drew acts like he hates her and that opens up another can of worms in my brain. Lots of what ifs I don’t like thinking about because they’re too ugly to face. It’s none of my business, I tell myself over and over again as I sit alone and wonder.
But he’s brought me into this mess. He’s sort of made it my business, right?
Wrong. Some things are better left alone.
Not if someone’s hurting because of them.
The internal argument battles within me for the rest of the day. Until I’m a total bundle of nerves while I wait anxiously for his return. Where could he be? I know golf games can take forever but nothing like this. And I know he’s with his dad because I’ve kept watch on the damn garage for hours and no one’s returned.
Though Adele left about thirty minutes ago. That freaks me out. What if she went somewhere to meet them?
Crap. I don’t know what to do.
When the door finally opens around seven-thirty, I’m filled with relief. I hear his footsteps echo in the tiled entryway, see him stride by, headed down the hall while I sit in the living area. I have one of those unbelievably soft faux fur throw blankets draped over me and I probably blend in with the couch. He doesn’t notice me, doesn’t bother saying a word.
I chew anxiously on my fingernail, my stomach growling since I never ate dinner. I hear him enter his bedroom and shut the door and I let out a shaky exhale. I was holding my breath and didn’t even realize it.
Not two minutes later he’s out of his room, entering the living area and stopping short when he sees me. “Hey.”
“Hi.” I press my lips together, tell myself to breathe.
“I didn’t see you when I came in.” He looks amazing in a black hooded sweatshirt and khaki cargo shorts, his dark hair ruffled by the wind that seems to be constantly blowing around here. I’d bet a million dollars he has a polo shirt on underneath. Typical golf wear, though he should be wearing pastel plaid shorts and not cargoes. Not that I know anything about golf.
“I’ve been sitting here the entire time.”
He runs his hand over his head and my fingers literally itch to do the same. I remember how silky soft his hair is, how much he liked it when I touched him there. Does he ever really allow anyone to touch him? He tends to move through life all by himself.
That realization fills me with sadness. While I allow an endless, faceless stream of guys to touch me. I crave it because for a brief moment, I feel like someone cares about me. The feeling is always fleeting and I end up as empty as I was before. Sometimes more so.
“I didn’t know where you were all day,” I say to fill the silence since he’s not talking.
“I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long.” I wonder if it took a lot for him to apologize to me. I bet he doesn’t have to answer to anyone most of the time.
I shrug. I need to act like what he’s done doesn’t bother me. “I’m not your keeper.”
“Yeah, but you’re my guest. I’m sure you were bored all day.” He moves closer to the couch and that’s when the smell hits me.
He reeks of beer. And his eyes are kind of bloodshot, his cheeks ruddy. I bet he’s drunk. My guard goes immediately up and I shove myself into the corner of the couch when he settles down beside me. I hate the smell of beer—crazy, considering I work in a bar.
But when I smell it at La Salle’s, it’s different. I’m busy, I’m moving, I’m serving customers and working my tail off. In a one-on-one situation, the scent of beer reminds me of my mom and all her shitty boyfriends. How they drink constantly. Almost every one of the guys she’s been with were complete alcoholics with rage issues.
Angry drunks scare the hell out of me and Drew’s a big guy with lots of pent up issues. If he displays even a glimmer of anger toward me, I’m out of here.
“I was fine,” I say. “I sat on the beach for a long time.”
“Didn’t you get cold? The weather wasn’t the best out there today.”
I shrugged. “Figured I should soak it up while I’m here, right? Doubt I’ll ever be somewhere as beautiful as this again.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here, Fable.” His voice is soft, his expression…it breaks my heart. He looks so bleak, so disturbed, I wish I could say something, do something to ease his pain.
He studies me, his blue eyes dark, his head tilted to the side. I wonder what he sees. I know what I see—a confused, lonely man who won’t let anyone in.
For whatever stupid reason, I want to be the one he lets in. Maybe I could help him, maybe I couldn’t, but he needs comfort. I can tell.
Like souls find each other, you know. As corny as it sounds, I’m starting to believe we were brought together for a reason.
Drew
As usual, she’s looking at me like she can see right through me, and she’s making me nervous. I’ve stayed away from Fable all day on purpose. Everything that happened last night left me feeling like I could spiral completely out of control if I didn’t get my shit together and quick. I haven’t felt that way in long time. This is the reason why I don’t come back home.