Page 17 of It's Always Us

“He said you’re having a rough day.”

My eyes roll to peek at him from under my eyelashes, and I know at least he got the full Mark scoop. My body crumples a little further, and I close my eyes.

“He’s worried he was a little hard on you this morning.” Slade’s voice is low and soft.

I pry one eye open, squinting at him. “Seriously?”

He scratches his beard, clearly uncomfortable with this little heart-to-heart. This man, solid and hard to the core, doesn’t do feelings. It’s why we get along so well. We keep things locked down tight and in the dark where they belong. With him, I know I won’t ever have to talk about or confess things I don’t want to.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks, his leg bouncing.

Slade is asking me if I want to talk.What the hell is happening to my life?

“No.”

Slade’s head rolls to the side, stretching his neck like this is painful. It is. So painful.

“He’s been brooding around here all morning. He’s in a shit mood, and we’re all suffering.”

I let my head fall to the desk again. “He’s such a drama queen sometimes.”

“Only when it has to do with you.” I lift my head just enough to meet his green eyes. “He thinks it’s all his fault. He’s worried he’s holding you back. Preventing you from seeing what the world has to offer. Afraid he didn’t do enough to get you the help you needed or do more to show you that you can do anything. Yada, yada, yada.” He guzzles half his water. “Is he right?”

“What?” I grumble, the side of my face pressed to the desk. The cool surface feels good against my cheek.

“Is he right? Are you sticking it out here because you’re afraid?”

Despite the sledgehammer slamming into my brain, I pull my head up to face the man who, besides Grandpa, understands what my life is like and watched me try to stitch myself back together when Mark left. I know he cares, but I don’t need one more person on my ass about this.

“What are you talking about? You know Grandpa and this shop are everything to me. This is what I want. You know how much I love it.”

“What about him?” he points a long, grease-covered finger at the poster.

His growly, bluntness is pissing me off today. What happened to being best friends who are happy never to discuss the sucky, painful parts of life?

He rearranges his body to sit taller in the metal chair that is three sizes too small for him. “I heard he came here last night. Shit, Alex. Don’t think we won’t be talking about you being here late at night by yourself or that fact you didn’t have the damn door locked.”

I roll my eyes and then regret it as the pain radiates through my head. I decide against biting back with the news that I do it all the time and have for years. There was a time when I’d come here with Mark. Obviously, he hasn’t forgotten.

I force air in and out through the intense ache, both the physical and emotional. “I knew he told you. Man, you all are worse than women in a salon. Seriously. I don’t need the rest of the crew in that part of my business.” I stab him with a glare and then rest my head in my hands.

We sit with the dull sounds from the garage filtering in while he waits for me to answer the question.

“I have no clue what to think about him,” I say quietly.

“I think you do, but I also think Cal is right. You’ve spent the last how many years trying to get over him because you’re scared. Going after him means having to step outside your comfort zone.”

I stare across the small space, my irritation quickly revving into anger. “It’s more than a comfort zone.”

“Is it?” He twists the cap back on his bottle and rests it on his leg. “You don’t need to be afraid. If he loves you, it’ll be ok. And even if he doesn’t, it’ll be ok. I think you need to prove that to yourself. Otherwise, you’ll never know and be stuck right here, in the middle, continuing to torture yourself.”

I’m dumbstruck at his possible insightfulness and can only watch as he stands.

Having had enough for today, or maybe a lifetime, I snap back. “It’s not that simple. It’s not just about me. You both know it’s so much more than that.”

He runs a hand over his beard, exhaling. “Alex, how long is long enough? When does the cost of trying to protect someone become too much?” He stares at me, his eyes telling me he might know a little something about this. His gaze drops to the floor. “At what point does protecting them begin to do more damage than the risk of them learning the truth?”

He reaches into his pocket and tosses a small bottle of Ibuprofen on the desk.

---