Page 54 of Tangled Like Us
Don’t go there, Thatcher.
“Hey, do any of you need anything at the grocery?” Sulli asks them, her voice audible through the phone speakers.
“I’m alright,” Maximoff says. “Jane?”
She misses the question. I’m distracting my client.Fucking unprofessional.I try to wrench my gaze off her.
“Jane?” Maximoff asks again.
“Hmm?” Blush stains her freckled cheeks, and she dashes further into the kitchen. Disappearing from my view. I hear her say, “Both houses need milk.”
I sense another pair of eyes on me.
Not Jane
Not Maximoff.
But Farrow—he’s been sitting and lacing up his black boots at the iron café table. He’s less than two meters away from me, and his threatening glare feels even fucking closer.
I take another step back.
Intimidation is vital to be a bodyguard on the team. I’d be more concerned if he couldn’t do it that fucking well.
I shouldn’t have punched him.
My jaw tightens.
Regret surges, biting. It’s hard every time I see Farrow. Because it’s nearly impossible not to think about my mistake.
I could’ve handled so many things better than I fucking did.
I should’ve apologized earlier. But for weeks, I couldn’t get the words out, not without feeling like I should’ve been fired.
Seeing him just reminds me how badly I blew it. How much hurt I caused, what I deserve in return, and all the debts I feel like I can never repay.
Farrow knots one of his laces. Our clients are still talking, but their chatter muffles now that they’re deeper in the kitchen.
The sound of brewing coffee cuts the air in half.
Say something to him.
I’m not quiet because I can’t think of what to talk about. We have a lot in common. We like a lot of the same shit. Same interest in martial arts, Philly sports teams. Same taste in music. How he jokes around—constant ribs and digs at his friends, I used to be around that a lot in the military.
I hate it over comms.
But in person, it brings back good memories.
We have more in common. Worse things, and sometimes I wonder if he’s realized that I’ve known he’s been experiencing some form of PTSD.
In Greece, I had to hand a bottle of watertoBanks to givetoFarrow. I didn’t think Farrow would’ve accepted it from me, but I could tell he was mentally thrown back. He doesn’t speak to the team about it that much.
I’m not one to talk. I can barely say the word out loud. Shouldn’t be that way, but it is.
In the end, I’m quiet because I can’t unlock my jaw. It’s like I’m made of cinderblock, and almost no one possesses the right tools to chisel me open.
Not even me, at times.
And all that has ever divided Farrow and me isme.He’s done nothing.
