Page 14 of The Try Line

"I'm too drunk to do this right now."

"Too drunk to do what?"

"This, Jason!" I shout, gesturing between the two of us. "I'm sorry if it's not as easy for me to just pretend like nothing ever happened between us."

"It's been eighteen years," he says. As if that means shit. As if that's enough time to get over someone. As if it isn't exactly enough time to grow from heartache to unhealthy obsession.

I swallow the bitter taste of beer and bile and straighten to my full height. I rarely feel as tall as I am, but I use every inch to play up the confidence I don't actually have.

"I'm really happy that you've done well for yourself," I say, and I even mean it, but Jason scoffs.

Adefeated sigh escapes me. "I'm going to call an Uber and take Jase home. Tomorrow, we can go back to pretending life is great, and we never meant anything to each other."

I push Jason off me, fighting the impulse to dig my fingers into his shirt and pull him closer, and leave.

An unfamiliar car pulls up to the curb, and I watch through the front window as Jason climbs out of the passenger seat. He bends down to say something to the driver, before shutting the door and waving as the car drives off. It's not until Jason looks directly at me that I realize he can see me watching him through the window. Perhaps I'm not as sobered up as I thought I was. Two hours of stressing out, a cold shower, and a strong cup of tea have done nothing to settle the feelings that bubbled up my throat at the bar.

There's no point in running and hiding. He definitely saw me. I consider locking myself in my office downstairs or going to bed, but I brace myself for the inevitable and return to the kitchen to start the kettle. Jason walks in and sits on a barstool at the counter. Neither of us says anything until I pass him a cup of tea and he thanks me quietly.

"I've never been able to pretend," he says, looking into his mug like it might hold all the answers. He doesn't drink it, just fiddles with the tea bag and avoids looking at me. His cheeks redden slightly, and I studiously ignore the way it makes my entire body tingle with nervous energy. I always loved the way he blushed.

"You make moving on look easy, then."

He hums noncommittally, and the sound is so familiar it makes my chest ache.

"Did you go home with him?" I blurt.

I don't know what possesses me to ask. It's none of my business. And, if I'm being honest with myself, I don't want to know. Because what if he did? Or what if he didn't even make it to the guy's house, and they just fucked right there in the bathroom, in the same stall I puked my guts up in?

"Fuck. Don't answer that."

I set my mug in the sink and start to walk out, but Jason's voice stops me. His tone is venomous, laced with outrage over my audacity. I can’t really blame him for his tone, but the question itself is cruel. Cruel and fair.

"Do you fuck my sister?"

I don't turn around but look over my shoulder at him. "What kind of question is that?"

"You want to know if I fucked that guy, right? Seems like I should know your business if you're asking mine."

"It's different," I say, although I’m not sure it is. "We're married. I'm not off fucking half the population of a small country and broadcasting it for everyone to see."

His chair scrapes loudly against the hardwood flooring and nearly topples over. The clatter of heavy metal on hardwood is loud, but I barely register the sound before Jason is in my face, crowding me just like he did in the bathroom back at the bar.

"You've been keeping tabs on me, yeah?" The sound of his voice, low and gravelly, has the same effect on me that it always did. I breathe through my mouth, trying not to let any of his smell or any other part of his nearness get to me. "Maybe you should mind your own fucking business, yeah? Who do you think you are? You think that just because we fuckedonce, that you have some say in who or how many people I stick my dick in? Or is it that you think you're better than me, because you're over here living your picture-perfect lifeplaying house with my sister? Get over yourself, Mik. Whatever happened eighteen fucking years ago doesn't mean shit anymore."

My stomach clenches painfully, and I think for a moment that I might be sick again. I know I’m out of line, and I need to extricate myself from this situation before either of us gets any more worked up. He looks like he wants to strangle me, but Jason’s aggression isn’t what intimidates me. It’s his closeness. His body heat is too much. His warm breaths puff against my skin. The scent of whiskey mixed with fresh grass and sweat permeates the air between us. It’s all so overwhelming. I turn my head to the side, like an animal submitting to a predator, and try to suck in air that he hasn’t recycled.

"You're right," I concede, swallowing my pride and my heart. "It's none of my business."

CHAPTER 5

JASON

He won't look at me, and I think he might be holding his breath. I want him to be pissed off, to push me, to fight back. I want him to rage, to cry. To fuckingbreak.

I want to see anything other than the flat, emotionless robot he's become. I'm tired of seeing this bullshit facade he's built around himself, with his perfect house and perfect lawn, and whatever job has him wearing a long-sleeved tucked in Polo. I don't care how much it pleases my sister; this is not the Mik Sanders I know. He looks beaten down and tired. He looks like a fucking square, and that's not the man I remember.

"What is this?" I ask, pinching his shirt between my fingers to keep him in place when he tries to move away. I crowd him against the wall, but the only contact between us is my fingers on his shirt. I'm afraid if I touch him too much, I'll be the one to break.

---