Strong Enough to Love (Jackson Hole 1.20)

The same.

And the same awful blow of awareness she always felt near him, though it hit her in a sore spot now, a place that had only just started to heal.

Eve stared, lips parted, the sudden shock to her nerves beginning to turn cold beneath her skin. “Brian?” she whispered, as if every part of her didn’t ache with the knowledge that he was only five feet away.

“I tried to call,” he said. His eyes shifted toward the sky and he shook his head. “I mean, I tried and couldn’t seem to do it. I didn’t know what to say.”

“What are you doing here?” she managed to ask. “Are you...?” But how to finish that sentence? He had a cousin here, but if Brian had come to visit before, she’d never heard. Thank God, because that might have broken her, knowing he was so close and completely unreachable.

But he was close now. And she hadn’t broken. Yet.

She forced her shock away and stood a little straighter, tipping her chin to a haughty angle the way she’d fantasized of doing so many times. For months after he’d gone she’d acted out this meeting in her head, of being cool. Of not showing him her pain and rage. But now...now most of that anger was gone and she didn’t know what to grab on to for support. So she pretended.

“Are you visiting your cousin?” she finally got out.

“I’m not sure.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and tipped his head back to blow out a long breath. When he looked at her again, his mouth was serious, his eyes as dark as she’d ever seen. He was a quiet man in public, and his harsh features could lend him a dangerous look, but he’d always been laughing when they were alone, or making her laugh.

“Can we go inside, Eve?”

She inhaled quietly at the way his voice wrapped around her name. One deep syllable that had always made her wish she was called something longer and more complicated. Genevieve or Isabella. Something that would take him full seconds to say so she could feel it rumble over her skin.

“If you’d rather not, we could grab a coffee or a drink.”

He watched her, waiting for an answer, the silence enveloping them. But it felt nothing like her earlier encounter with Mitch. Uncomfortable, yes. And awkward, the awkwardness pushing out from inside her until it hurt to breathe. But this time she didn’t wish for the ground to swallow her. She felt like she could stay here forever as long as he was watching her. As long as he was here.

“We can talk inside,” she murmured, mortified that she even had to say that. After all their easy hours together, all those months of friendship, he had to ask if she’d feel comfortable seeing him in private. How the hell had they come to this?

She walked toward the staircase, so aware of him behind her. She’d always been aware. That he was right there. Nearby. She’d always been able to feel him. Even when she’d been renting the apartment from him, she’d been able to feel him working in the gallery below. The guilt of it had eaten at her, but not enough to overtake that awareness.

Her back tingled, telling her he was about to touch her, that he was reaching for her right now. But she’d learned to ignore that feeling, because it had never happened. And it wouldn’t happen now. It was a lie.

Hands numb and heart pounding, she opened the door, fumbling with the keys and then the doorknob, as if there were something complicated about turning it to the right. But she finally made it in and he followed her inside. He still looked grim, his wide mouth flat and his gaze moving away from her.

Why the hell was he here? She felt suddenly panicked by the thought and wanted to scream at him, demand an answer. But more than anything, she wanted him to think it didn’t matter. That she was cool and calm and strong. That she hadn’t lost everything when he’d walked away.

Jesus, how sad was that? There hadn’t been anything to lose in the first place.

He took a moment to look around; his eyes seemed to touch on a hundred things. The apartment wasn’t neat and orderly, but it never had been, so she let him take in the cameras and lenses and photo books scattered between the magazines and occasional abandoned coffee cup.

“Can I take your coat?” Her voice sounded weak.

He nodded, still not meeting her eyes as he slipped off his jacket and handed it to her. The warm leather swallowed her hands and the scent of him rose over her so unexpectedly that she had to close her eyes. Oh, God, she’d forgotten that. The smell of his skin. Pain bloomed deep inside her belly and nearly made her knees buckle.

She’d finally gotten over him, and now he’d returned, and for a moment she hated everything about him. Every kindness he’d shown, every wry smile that had forced laughter from her.

He’d made her remember the scent of his skin. Was there anything crueler than that? She hated him and loved him.

Her eyes burned with tears, so she blinked rapidly and hurried toward the closet to hang up both of their coats.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Yes,” he said before she could even finish the sentence, as if he were just as stressed as she was.

She rushed to the kitchen and poured two glasses of red wine, stealing a gulp from hers before she even recorked the bottle.

“I remember this one,” he said, gesturing toward a photo mounted on the wall.

“The ghost town,” Eve said, trying to steady herself before she joined him in the living room. “It’s being restored now.”