Crave (The Gibson Boys 3)

Oh, well.

That’s the least of my worries.

“How do you feel about everything?” Emily asks. “You’re kind of freaking me out a little with how cool you’re being.”

I’m kind of freaking me out a little with it too.

Tears gather in my eyes again, and I force them back. I catch myself every so often wanting to run down the steps and throw open the door and let him have it. But I won’t. I won’t be the one to try anymore.

My stomach somersaults without fail, rolling around and around as I see Machlan’s face as he says, “Drive careful.”

Then the tears come back again.

“What am I supposed to feel?” I ask, yanking the bag closed.

“I don’t know. Sad. Hurt. Pissed off. I mean, if your story from last night is true, probably a little sore at a minimum.”

I flop down next to the bag. “Do we seriously have to go there?”

“Nope. We can totally focus on the positive in all this.”

“Which is?”

“Which is … now you know where things stand.”

“Maybe not,” I say, scooting over to make room for her on the couch.

“Had.” She towers over me with her five-foot-eight frame. She sits. “I’m not saying he doesn’t love you in his own way because I know he does. I’ve seen the boy. Machlan loves you. But he’s never been ready to commit for whatever reason. And it looks like he’s still not.”

He’s not.

If only I understood why he refuses to give in and allow himself to feel the way I know he does. Because for the first time in my life, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that Machlan Gibson loves me. I also know, with the same certainty, it doesn’t change anything for him.

Despite the rock weighing down my emotions so I don’t lose complete control before I get home, there’s a comfort in this. This I feel completely.

Knowing my love wasn’t unrequited, only displayed in a way I don’t understand, does make accepting this reality a tad bit gentler.

“You’re right,” I say, my voice garbled. “Nothing is going to change with him.”

“And that’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine,” she adds when I shoot her a dirty look. “It hurts you. I know that, and I get it. But he’s the one stuck in whatever misery he’s in, and you can’t pull him out. God knows you’ve tried.”

I have tried. For so long. And accepting I can’t try any more strangles my heart.

“I hate he’s this way,” I say, my heart aching.

“But he is. So cry over him if you want.”

“Oh, I will. I’m sure. I just gotta get out of here first.” I look at my friend. “I guess this means I got my answer and can go on with my life.”

She puts her arm around my shoulders and gives me a gentle shake. Her head rests against mine.

Tears come again, but this time, they aren’t for Machlan. They’re for me.

“I want you to do something,” Emily says.

Wiping the wetness off my face, I laugh. “If this has a punchline, I’m not there yet.”

She laughs. “It doesn’t.” Pulling away, she takes in my mess. “Forgive him for hurting you, okay? And accept him for who he is. Not because he’s worth it or deserves it, but because you do.”

“Wow. I didn’t know you were so poetic.”

“I have moments.” She gets to her feet. “Now get off the couch. Wash your face. Change your shirt.”

“Em …”

“I didn’t come here to see you. I came to see Peck.” She takes my hand and pulls me up. “I’ve sat here and given you therapy; now you can go with me into the bar and see the guy I want to give me babies.”

“Oh, my God.”

“I wonder how many times he’d make me moan that?”

As I process her request, to follow her to Crave, I have no problems forgetting Peck. “What do I do about Machlan?”

She flaunts across the room and rifles through a drawer in the kitchen. “You’re going to have to see him again at some point. You might as well do it now.” She removes a dishcloth and dampens it. “This is like getting back on the horse once it bucks you off. We’re taking the fear out of it.”

It’s a crazy proposition. I’m crazier for taking the cloth and cleaning my face. And for putting on mascara. And for changing my shirt. And when I’m walking into the bar just a few seconds later, I legit consider I might be without a damn mind.

* * *

Machlan

“Are you going to tell me what’s up your ass tonight or not?” Navie leans into the cooler and plucks out a beer.

“Or not.”

“You are one frustrating man, Machlan.”

Every noise the crowd makes has me ready to blow a gasket. Every laugh, every cheer, every shout of something I’d probably find amusing most nights is like nails on a chalkboard. But even if I went home, there would be no relief.