Sledgehammer (Hard to Love 2)

“No other way to say it, dear. The girl is easy. She spreads her legs for any loser that smiles at her. She was always trouble, that one. Right from the start.” She waggles her index finger. “Staying out late…the short skirts.” Leaning closer, she whispers, “I don’t think she wore undergarments half the time.” After which, she purses her lips in a disapproving look.

I’m stunned. I’m stunned and shaking. In my mind I’m screaming, You mean your daughter! You mean Eileen! But I keep it to myself. I can’t argue with her.

“What’s your granddaughter’s name?” I dare ask, my voice raspy and raw from bitterness.

She frowns, her thin, gray eyebrows drawing together in deep thought. Her index finger on her lips, she stares out the window looking for answers. “I…hmm…I…her name is…her name is…”

She huffs out a sharp breath. She’s getting upset, working herself up into something that could turn into a fit. With that in mind, I rush to distract her.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Margaret. You’re daughter sounds wonderful. You’re very lucky to have her.”

Her pale blue eyes clear of the confusion and meet mine. “Why are you crying, dear?” Her brow puckers––in worry this time. Her hand presses over her heart. “Is it something I said?”

“No,” I tell her, head shaking. I wipe my cheeks with my palms and conjure a smile I’m not feeling. “I’m just thinking about how much I miss my grandmother.”

“Is she gone, dear?” she asks with a sympathetic smile.

Nodding, I answer, “Yes, she is––and I really miss her.”

“Jones?”

I don’t answer, hoping and praying he goes away. I can’t face him right now. I’ve got nothing left in me. No jokes. No easy words. No energy to keep him at bay. And I’m tired. So damn tired I could sleep for a thousand years. None of me is soft. I’ll admit it. I’m all sharp angles and sharper words, but am I really that hard to love?

“Amber? Are you okay?”

I should’ve known that stubborn streak of his wouldn’t allow him to walk away. “I’m fine.” I hear the squeak of the wood door creeping open. “I said I’m fine.”

“You’re sitting in the dark––listening to Alanis Morissette. You’re not fine.”

That I Would Be Good plays in the background. I didn’t realize it was still playing. I’d lost track of the music, lost track of the time, lost track of my will to fight.

He pads to my side of the bed. “And you’re sitting on the floor.”

“I’m not in the mood to talk.” My voice cracking, it’s all I can muster out. I rarely indulge in feeling sorry for myself. I’m not prone to bouts of tears. Everyone has a hard limit, however, and today I’ve reached mine.

Standing a few feet from me to the left, all I can make out is Ethan’s silhouette as he removes his jacket and tie, and throws them on the bed.

I’ve never been so thankful for the cover of night, grateful that I can’t see his expression because I’m ninety-nine percent certain that if I see pity on his face I will erupt in a flood of tears.

“I…” I sigh, the sound brimming with defeat. “Really Ethan, I’m not in the mood for company.”

“We don’t have to talk. I’ve had a long day, too. All I want to do is sit in the dark and listen to Alanis. And here you are––doing that exact same thing.” He sinks down to the floor next to me, back against the bed, long legs hitched up and his elegant wrists resting on his knees. His body heat soothes me. Radiating from his upper arm, where we touch, it spreads like an antidote to the sadness infecting me.

He is so good. This man is as good as it gets. Strange how someone you think you have nothing in common with could turn out to be someone who understands you implicitly. Never in a million years did I suspect that he would turn out to be someone I could say anything to and feel accepted. And yet here he is before my very eyes.

“Nothing like some angry chick music to help me decompress,” he deadpans.

My smile turns into a chuckle, which turns into tears. In seconds I’m sobbing, curling into a fetal position and sobbing like I may never stop. Ethan wraps a heavy arm around me and pulls me onto his lap, his strength absorbing the awkward tremors and jerks that for the life of me I can’t seem to get a handle on. The vibration of his soft murmur, words I can’t make out, makes my skin tingle. The fingers he pushes into my hair, raking it back and massaging my scalp, make me shiver.

I’m so tired of fighting this thing between us, tired of trying and failing on a daily basis to keep him at arm’s length. It’s not only the physical comfort he gives me willingly, it’s understanding, it’s lack of judgment. He takes me as I am, sharp angles and all.