Page 43 of The Heart of Smoke

Wallowing in what could have been is a waste of energy. I’d rather do what little I can to improve the one I’ve got. Which, right now, that means making things right with Tate.

I abandon the chair by the window and head out of my office. Tate’s cat darts across the hall from an empty room into the cracked door of Tate’s room. I peek inside but don’t see the man in question anywhere.

I slink down the hallway and take the stairs two at a time, nearly crashing into Grandpa’s wheelchair at the bottom. I swear, that man flies out of nowhere sometimes. He’s old, but he’s not deaf. Any time I get on the phone, which is rare, he’s always lurking and eavesdropping.

“Tate’s in the library,” Grandpa says knowingly, eyes narrowed. “I figured you’d want to smooth things over with him.”

My muscles tighten at his words. “Violet is a tattletale.”

“That’s why I pay her the big bucks.” He grins at me. “Go on now. You’re wasting daylight. The kid’s been sighing every three minutes. Make it right.”

I give my grandpa a nod and then stride down the hallway, seeking Tate out in the library. When I reach the warm, inviting space, I find him standing by the window, hands on his hips as he stares out. Seconds pass by and he doesn’t sense my presence. He sighs heavily—pouty, sad, frustrated. It makes me want to put my arms on his shoulders and squeeze them to assure him everything will be all right.

As if he’d want my monstrous hands on him.

Ignoring the self-loathing, which would make a perfect excuse to back out of this, I stride over to him. As soon as I see my masked reflection in the window, his entire body tenses.

Another sigh.

This one is full of irritation.

“Tate…”

“Jude.” Clipped, pissy, challenging. “What can I help you with?”

I can tell my efforts to be friendly will be met with this attitude, so I panic at the last second and try a different tactic.

“You have time for a session?” I ask, voice gravelly. “To talk.”

He turns around, eyebrows pinched as he studies me for sincerity. I’m glad he can’t see the awkward way my mouth twitches or the way my jaw clenches.

“I do,” he says slowly. “I won’t see Dempsey until he gets out of school. What’s up?”

I’m sorry.

I’m a fucking prick.

Despite your secrets and the way you’ve embedded yourself under the Park skin like a splinter, being around you captivates me.

“Uh, I had a call from an old friend. Threw me off.”

His eyes widen, surprise glimmering in them. I’d meant to say a whole lot of other things, but the safe, easy way came out, which is really saying something, considering I’d rather not talk about my past at all.

“When was the last time you talked to your friend?”

“High school,” I admit. “Around the time of the…”

“Fire,” he supplies, meeting my stare. “When you were withdrawing from everyone?”

Fuck.

He’s just going to dive right into the shit show that’s my mind.

Just apologize and change the subject, man.

“Yeah, uh, then.”

“And?”

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