Even if I’ve changed my standards, I’m not completely indiscriminate with my bedroom partners. With rare exception, I keep my activities limited to a few local friends I can trust to be discreet and who know our nights together are casual fun and nothing more. Friends who know not to talk to me about that hero shit. But I talk to those women regularly, and they’re saved in my phone. This must be one of the exceptions.
I scrub a hand over my face. When did I become an ass who categorizes his bedroom partners into regulars and exceptions? And what would Teagan think of me getting a text like this from a number I don’t recognize?
Before I can figure out how to reply to the mystery number, another text comes through. This one’s from Bethany, a former firefighter I worked with for five years before she started a new career as a nurse.
Bethany: I saw the paper. I didn’t know you were seeing Teagan. Please tell me she knows about me. I don’t have the energy for drama in my life, but especially not at work.
At least I can be honest with Beth. The only reason we started hanging out again was because I needed to talk to someone who could understand what I was going through after Max died. But it turned out I didn’t actually want to talk, and neither did she. We’re both busy, but we get together a few times a month to . . . not talk.
“Everything okay?” Shay asks.
I shove my phone into my pocket and shrug. “Sure. Why?”
“You’ve been scrubbing the same spot on the table for two minutes now.”
I shake my head and turn to the laundry room. “I’m just distracted,” I say over my shoulder, but she follows me.
“About Teagan? Was that text from her?”
“No, it was from . . .” I wave it away and plop the dishrag into the washing machine. I’m one thousand percent sure I don’t want to discuss my sex life with my little sister. “Did you know there’s an article in the paper about me and Teagan?”
She chuckles. “One of your side pieces unhappy about your little performance?”
I step around her. “Forget I asked.”
Shay laughs. Nothing amuses her as much as watching her brothers have love-life angst.
“Carter, Shay,” Brayden calls from the top of the basement stairs. “We’re going to watch the game. Join us?”
“I’ll be down in a few,” I reply.
Shay follows him, and I slip out back to get some fresh air. The neighbor is burning leaves and yard waste in his firepit, and the smell reminds me of my childhood somehow—weekends with my family at the cabin, and fires by the lake.
It’s sunny and cool, with a crisp breeze that rustles through the dry leaves on the trees. I sit in one of Brayden’s cushioned patio chairs and unlock my phone.
I’ve missed a text from Teagan.
Teagan: Can you meet me at Jackson Brews tonight?
I grin. I don’t want to wait until tonight. And I don’t want to meet her in a public place.
Me: You sure this isn’t a conversation we should have at your place? Or mine?
Teagan: The bar, Carter. Meet me at the bar at seven.
Carter: As you wish.
For the best, I remind myself. Teagan deserves better than a guy carrying around a freight-ton of baggage.
So why did I go straight to flirtation mode the second I walked in her door this morning? Why I am ignoring the texts from Bethany—not to mention some unknown number—and praying Teagan will want to “talk” in private?
Guilt nags at me, so I reply to Bethany.
Me: You don’t need to worry about any drama. I’ll be at the hospital tomorrow. Maybe we can talk then. I’ll catch you up.
I reread the mystery text and decide not to reply—for all I know, it’s a wrong number. Instead, I tuck my phone back into my pocket and tilt my face toward the sky, closing my eyes. I need a few minutes alone before I can face my family again.
One of the worst things about being so fucked up is the guilt. The guilt of wanting to crawl out of my skin when I spend time with the people I love. The guilt of so desperately wanting to be free of their questions and concerned glances, and wishing I could be anywhere else. Before this summer, I’d never missed Jackson Sunday brunch without a damn good reason, but since the warehouse fire, I’ve come up with more excuses to skip than I want to admit. I used to relish our jibing and poking at each other. After Max died, it became something I had to endure. Even small talk was painful. Somedays it still is.
The back door clicks, and I know my moment of solitude has come to an end. Pushing away the instinct to bolt, I make myself stay still.