Page 8 of What We Broke

I raise my hand to his cheek and he flinches. “Don’t touch me.”

His words lance through me, bringing home just how broken we are.

Once upon a time he couldn’t get enough of my hands on him.

“Then get yourself in the car,” I snap.

Ignoring me, he plucks his cell out of his pocket and starts tapping at the screen. He raises it to his ear. “I’m calling Gio.”

Snatching it out of his fingers, I put it in my own pocket and step forward. Taller and broader than him, I place both of my hands on either side of his face and cage him in.

He smells like a brewery, but it’s still not enough to have me turn away or be turned off by him.

Out of habit, my eyes dart down to his mouth, and when his tongue peeks out to lick his bottom lip, I know he’s not as immune to me as he insists on pretending to be.

Despite his continuous rejection, I take advantage of our close proximity and the fact he hasn’t pushed me away. I give myself a reason to touch him and swipe some wayward strands of hair off his clammy forehead.

Holding his stare, I keep my voice steady and calm but firm. “You’re coming home with me,” I start. “We’ll drive home together in our car and you’ll sleep at our house, in our bed.”

At the mention of us sharing a bed he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, and my resolve crumbles at the sight.

“I won’t touch you,” I concede. “I’ll even sleep on the couch.”

“Jesse,” he whispers. “Please. Stop.”

“No,” I bite out. “I need you to come home, Leo. Raine needs you to come home.”

His eyes fly open, green orbs clashing with mine, and for the first time I see more than his sadness.

“Don’t,” he grits out. “Don’t bring her up.”

My eyes widen incredulously. “Don’t bring up our daughter?”

“She’s not—”

I slam my hand against the brick wall, the hard hit reverberating all the way up to my elbow. “She’s not what, Leo?” I shout. “She’s not what?”

He clamps his lips shut and turns his head away from me, hiding his eyes.

“I fucking dare you to say it,” I seethe.

I don’t miss the tear that falls down his cheek or the hiccupped sob that escapes his lips. I can’t even stay mad at him when he’s like this. And healwaysends up like this.

Using the heels of his hands, he presses against his eyes and tries to stop his imminent breakdown. But between the alcohol and the fatigue, he slides down once more against the brick wall, landing with his knees pressed up to his chest. His arms wrapped around his legs, and his face buried in his lap.

I hate seeing him like this.

It makes me want to kick and scream and break things. I want to make something or someone hurt just as much as he is right now.

As the anger from earlier dissipates, I take a seat beside him. His head uncharacteristically drops to my shoulder and his body starts trembling.

He is so lost.

We both are.

Turning, I press my face into his hair and just breathe him in.

“I lost my job,” he whispers.

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