Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

He strode to the front door, brushing past Libby on his way out, and departed without another word. Leaving Libby with the overwhelming and confusing compulsion to call him back. Fortunately, she curbed the impulse, closing and engaging the newly installed dead bolt before she was once again tempted to throw caution and common sense to the wind.

Harris wasn’t at the house when Greyson got back. Which was odd, since his car was parked out front. Stranger still was the fact that Martine’s Lexus was missing, leading Greyson to conclude that either Harris had gone walking in this terrible weather, or—more likely—he and Martine were off somewhere together.

Intriguing.

Martine had very good reason to never want to speak or spend time with Harris. Greyson didn’t think either of the other two was aware of exactly how much he knew about what had happened between them ten years ago. In fact, Greyson had put out several fires in the immediate aftermath of their encounter. Another fact he knew neither Harris nor Tina was privy to. He doubted they would have appreciated his intervention.

He was on everybody’s shit list these days, and even though he had had the best of intentions, they probably wouldn’t have anything positive to say about his involvement in the matter.

He clenched his fists as he blindly stared at the shabby interior of the house. His eyes fell to the table and the remnants of a shared meal. Two place settings, two empty wineglasses. His eyebrows rose.

Even more interesting.

Greyson sighed heavily, and his shoulders sagged. He had too much else on his mind to spend time speculating about what could possibly be happening between Harris and Martine. Whatever was going on wouldn’t end well—of that he was sure. In fact, Greyson wasn’t sure there were any happy endings in sight for any of them.

He briefly considered cleaning up after the other two, but his hand was throbbing, and he was developing a headache, and he just . . .

Fuck it.

He felt defeated.

He should be with them. He shouldn’t be here in this shitty house, wearing these unfamiliar clothes, feeling sweaty, grubby . . .

Helpless, hopeless, and so fucking alone.

He sank down onto the sofa and covered his face with his shaking hands. He allowed himself a moment . . . two . . . three . . .

Stop this! the stern inner voice of his conscience commanded. It was the same voice that had finally penetrated his alcoholic haze three months ago, the voice that had clamored, This is wrong! in his head when he had accused Harris of the most reprehensible offenses . . . the voice that had constantly urged him to convince Olivia to marry him. Every time he’d been with her, every time they had made love, it had been there: Marry this woman. You have to marry her.

It had gone completely silent when she had announced her pregnancy. And then had flared back with a vengeance after Clara’s birth. Demanding he look at her, pick her up, hold her close.

Turned out his conscience was a damned sight savvier than Greyson. He should probably listen to it more.

To take his mind off his inner turmoil, he dug his phone out of his jeans pocket and checked his messages quickly. One from his mother, telling him they were going to renovate the kitchen. He shook his head. His mother always kept them informed about random crap like that. It was her way of staying in touch with her sons. He had no doubt Harris had received a similar—if not identical—text.

His father had sent a dad joke. These had become more frequent since the old man’s retirement two years ago. No real content, just dumb memes and terrible jokes. His parents were as dry—and boring—as toast, and Greyson knew he took after them. But he did not see anything wrong with keeping one’s emotions under lock and key. It was neat and efficient. Harris was the overly emotional one in the family, and it had been tiring to keep up with his many moods during their childhood and early adolescence. And then that thing with Martine. Shit, Greyson would never have gotten himself into a similar situation.

But Olivia . . . she had always incited more feelings than he knew what to do with. First as a kid, trailing after them, always wanting to play whatever games they were playing. Harris had happily roughhoused with her, while Greyson had observed grimly from the sidelines. Always with a nervous knot in his stomach as he watched his careless brother carry the petite little girl around on his shoulders or back. Fearing that Harris would drop her, hurt her . . . break one of her fragile bones. But for all his rough-and-tumble ways, Harris had never dropped her. That fact had not prevented Greyson from placing himself within catching distance, just in case.