Page 9 of The Bridges I've Burned

“I sent you letters…before…” His voice trailed off.

Before you ran away.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “How did you even find me?” I asked.

It wasn’t like I’d left a forwarding address when I stole his truck and boarded that ferry out of town. I’d bounced around for months, going from state to state, draining my cash, living on fast food while sleeping in my car until I finally landed in LA. That had been a while ago though.

“It wasn’t easy.”

I caught a flash of pain in his eyes just before he shifted his gaze away from me.

Hendrix always tried to convince me that Macon still cared for me.

In my anger, I’d lash out at him and say he had no idea what he was talking about. After all, he’d grown up in a normal, loving family.

Me, however? Not so much.

Thankfully, my best friend wasn’t easily offended, and he’d remind me of those letters—the ones Macon constantly wrote, even when I refused to reply. The letters I carried with me everywhere.

I looked at my big brother, so official-looking in his Army fatigues. It’d nearly broken me the day he told me he was leaving. But I’d survived.

I’d more than survived. I’d fucking thrived.

Maybe it was time to show him.

I finally set the amp and cable down, settling my nerves. The movement caused his gaze to shift downward.

“So, are you a roadie or something?”

I suppressed a bitter laugh. Not because roadies were beneath me. If he’d visited sooner, I very likely would have answered yes. I’d done everything in this bar—from cleaning the toilets to serving drinks and hauling in instruments. Nothing was beneath me. What angered me was the fact that he’d assumed.

I’d been glued to a guitar since the day he’d shoved that old acoustic in my hand. He knew it was all I’d ever wanted to do since. But he was the big brother with the military career, and I would always be the little brother who had run away.

“Something like that,” I managed to spit out.

He looked around the bar, checking out all the framed portraits and photos on the walls.

“I’ve got to get back to work,” I said, not wanting him to look too closely. There were likely a few notable people he’d recognize on that wall, and I didn’t need a reason for him to stay any longer than necessary. “Besides, I have nothing more to say to you.”

He visibly winced, and I tried not to let it affect me.

I couldn’t afford to let him in again. Not now, not ever.

I’d burned that bridge a long time ago. There was no use in rebuilding it now.

I stared down at the photo invitation. My brother’s smiling face was fixed on his gorgeous fiancée. He looked happy and content.

Complete.

He didn’t need me.

“I don’t want to do the whole wedding thing,” I said. “There will be tons of people, and you know what a big deal it will be for me to show up after all this time. No one needs all that drama. Besides, I just got home. I’m fucking tired, and it’s not like I have a lot of downtime if I decide to take them up on the offer.”

Hendrix gave me a knowing look. Yes, I was making excuses.

No, I didn’t care.

“Then, at least go to the engagement party,” he suggested. “Less pressure than going to the wedding. Fewer people, and it’s three weeks earlier. So”—he gave me a stern face—“you’ll have plenty of time to rest up for that tour you haven’t decided on.”

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