“Really? Because his photos and paintings still hang in your mother’s house.” He could hear the hurt in the huskiness of his voice, and that was the very thing he had not wanted to do—not say those words, not show that pain. But the words came anyway. “Because we broke up over him once already.”
Such a mistake, because Sam’s expression tightened. He said in a cold, clipped voice, “What do you want to know?”
“Jesus, Sam.” Jason struggled to put it into words. He felt he had one shot at this and was already blowing it. “It’s not— I don’t have a list of questions. It just feels strange to me, wrong to me, that we talked about him that one night and he’s never been mentioned since. No, I take it back. He was mentioned the night we arrived and your mother said I looked like a ghost.”
There was no softening in Sam. If anything, he was getting angrier. He bit out, “What do you imagine is left to say?”
Not pleasant being on the receiving end of that hostility. Maybe annihilation wasn’t so far behind after all.
“Nothing you don’t want to tell me. But…” Jason tried to keep any more accusation or hurt from his tone. “Can you not see— I can’t help feeling like some of your attitudes, behaviors, whatever, stem from what happened to Ethan. Are you seriously telling me you don’t think Ethan’s death has any influence on our interactions?”
“I don’t think it has as much influence as you imagine.”
“You told me you became an FBI agent because you didn’t want Ethan to have died for nothing.”
“And?”
There was no relenting, no leniency—not even understanding. This was private property all right. Posted and protected. Walking out onto that minefield had been one of the biggest mistakes Jason could have made, because there was no going back from this. No possible retreat to safe ground. He was on his own now.
Something flickered and then died inside him. Hope? After a moment, he shrugged. “Okay. None of my business. Fair enough.”
Sam’s face turned toward the fire.
Jason stared at him.
The firelight wavered across Sam’s stony profile.
Jason waited, giving it time, hoping Sam would say something.
Nothing.
Finally, Sam glanced down at his glass as though only then noticing it was empty. He rose and went into the kitchen.
Jason listened to the sounds of ice clinking, spoon against sugar bowl, liquid being poured. Unhurried. Deliberate.
He got up from the sofa and left the living room.
Chapter Eighteen
When he reached the bedroom, Jason stopped, staring at the bed, at their partially unpacked suitcases, unsure of what his next move was.
He could not imagine lying in bed—the three of them—that night. But the idea of sleeping on the sofa seemed overly… What was the word Sam had used in the hospital? Operatic? Anyway, there was a good chance Sam would sit up drinking all night.
He was suddenly exhausted. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and stared out the window at the enormous full moon. Then he remembered Terry Van der Beck sneaking around the house the night before. He rose and snapped shut the blinds. When he turned from the window, Sam stood in the doorway.
Sam did not speak.
Jason met his look steadily. He couldn’t read Sam’s expression, but he thought maybe he looked a little less arctic and a lot more tired.
“Jason.”
Jason shook his head. Because what could he say? Sorry? He was sorry. He was sorry to do anything that gave Sam pain. He was sorry to wreck things between them. Maybe his timing could have been better, but he did not believe he had been wrong. He did not believe he really had a choice.
“It’s not easy for me to talk about…any of this.”
“I know.” It wasn’t easy for him either. The difference was, he cared enough about Sam to try—and keep trying.
“Were you like this with Ethan? Were you…” They had fought to reach a somewhat precarious balance. He didn’t want to tip them back into another argument.