Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

He sits across from me like he has all the time in the world. There’s no judgment in his eyes and I know even after I tell him there won’t be. It’s not who he is.

I clear my throat. “My lung was punctured. A broken rib. Whatever.” I cough once more, like somehow it’s going to help my lungs fill with air. “Um, I also found out then that I most likely cannot have kids.”

Peck’s leg stops tapping. His arms fall slowly to his sides, dangling towards the floor.

My brain replays those words in a sick-mashup with the doctor’s face as he told me the results from my scan. The way Blaire’s hand felt as she held mine. The feeling of having fatherhood stolen from my body.

I get to my feet and shuffle to the counter and pour myself another shot. Peck doesn’t stop me.

“So, there you go,” I say, looking at the overfilled glass.

The room is quiet except for the hum of the ice maker. I don’t know what I want Peck to say, just that I want him to say something.

“Guess you see my point now.” I stare at the pool of liquor. “I might be an asshole, Peck, but I’m not cruel.”

“The only cruel part of that is the universe’s cruelty to you.”

“Don’t I know it.”

Leaning against the counter, I look at Peck. He’s younger than me by five or six years. A good guy, hard worker, heart of gold. Someday he’ll make a woman a good husband and a kid or two a great father. Something he’ll never know how much I envy.

My heart shreds in my chest as I allow myself to think about the future. How I felt when my parents died and realized one day my siblings would all have families of their own and I wouldn’t. No one would want someone as broken as me—not for the long haul. Not to build a life together. I could adopt, want to adopt, actually, but a woman isn’t going to willfully give up her ability to look at a child and see her own face, those of her mother and grandmother first. I couldn’t even ask that of someone.

“I went into teaching because I love kids,” I say, hearing a crack in my voice I hate.

“Do they know that for sure?” Peck asks. “I mean, maybe things have changed.”

“They haven’t changed. I’m infertile. My balls don’t work.”

I eye the tequila again. This time, I shove it away.

The words coming out of my mouth are mine, but damn it if they don’t sound like they’re a million miles away. Maybe it’s my wishful thinking that I weren’t here right now having this goddamned conversation.

“I don’t know what to say, Lance. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

He stands, pushing in his chair. Then he leans on the top, his arms dangling over the top rung. “This explains a lot though.”

“Like what?”

“The dating app. Why you never bring girls around. You were shoving everyone away, huh?”

Making a face, I shrug. “Not really. Just not letting them get close enough to have this conversation, you know?”

“Does this mean you love me?”

“Shut the fuck up,” I laugh.

He joins in, his chuckle a lot freer than mine. “Look, I admire your consideration for this … what’s her name?”

“Mariah.”

“Mariah,” he repeats. “I appreciate how considerate you’re being. But shouldn’t you see if it even gets to a point where this conversation would take place?”

“Are you fucking serious? I’m not so drunk I just misheard that, am I?”

“You don’t know what will happen.”

I swipe up the glass and down it. It’s not as bad this time. “I know exactly what will happen with her, Peck. Ex-fucking-actly.”

“The fact you can say that when you’re drunk as hell is impressive.”

I let my stomach settle. My language skills while drunk aren’t what’s impressive, but I don’t tell Peck that. I don’t explain it’s the fact I can still think logically and reasonably that’s surprising.

That I want to call her but I don’t.

That I want to drive to her house and feel her skin on mine but I don’t.

That I got the woman I’ve wanted for a long time for a few hours to myself today and it wasn’t nearly enough, yet I back away.

That I have no fucking clue how tomorrow at work is going to go knowing I was buried inside her this afternoon.

All of that? That’s impressive.

“This girl isn’t one I can forget. She’s not another pussy, another screen name, another color hair in a hotel bed that I’m reminded of when looking at a box of crayons.”

“So you love her.”

“Hell no.”

“Sounds like it to me.”

“And you also think you love Molly McCarter. I think your reasoning skills are inept.”

He laughs. “And you’re batting a thousand tonight, buddy.” He heads to the bottle and pours himself a shot. “You can drive a man to drink.” The liquor goes down a lot smoother than it did for me. “What’s your plan?”