I fold the fabric slowly, watching him choose his next words.
“She’d seen Vincent and I crawl through the window. She was scared.” He gulps. “I thought my dad was an asshole, but hers …” He snorts angrily. “Mine was nothing compared to hers.”
He turns and looks at me, a fire in his eyes so hot that I almost flinch.
“She kept coming back. Sometimes with bruises, other times with a swollen lip. Every time scared out of her little fucking mind of this six-foot-three-inch man who had full custody of her and her sister.”
“Peck …” I wad the fabric up in my hands. “I’m sorry.”
He smiles sadly. “Vincent and I were her safe place, you know? She’d tell us things he did and beg us not to tell.” His fists bunch at his sides. “She’d lay in my bed in her little Barbie pajamas and ask me if she deserved that.”
My eyes sting with tears as I imagine children having to deal with the things he’s alluding to. It’s not fair, and my heart breaks for them.
“I get it,” I say, my voice cracking.
“No one knows all that, so I’d appreciate it if you keep those things to yourself.”
“Of course.”
He nods. “I just … if people understood what she’s been through, maybe they’d have a little empathy for her. Maybe they’d cut her some damn slack. Or maybe not. She is a grown woman and needs to quit using that shit as an excuse.”
“That’s not really an excuse,” I say, unable to believe I’m defending the woman who was just a jerk to me. “That’s … rough.”
“Yeah. It is. It’s why she can’t connect with people. She trusts no one. She sleeps with anyone looking for someone to love her …” His face falls.
Mine does too. “But you love her,” I say cautiously.
He walks around the room. “I do. I love her. For sure. But …” He glances at me over his shoulder and stills. “Maybe not like I thought I did.”
“Oh.” My heart beats so hard I can hear it. My mouth dries like it’s swabbed in cotton. My brain sings with a mixture of hope and caution because this doesn’t mean anything.
This doesn’t mean he likes me.
“I’ve always cared about her,” he says. “Like you said, our roots run too deep not to. But it kind of became this … thing. People jumped to, ‘Oh, you love her—look at you defending her all the time,’ and I went with it. Because maybe I did. I don’t know. But looking back on it, maybe … I don’t know.” He shakes his head.
“Like you said … complicated.”
He leans against the wall again. “She deserves a lot of what she gets. As you witnessed tonight, she’s not easy to deal with. But it’s hard for me not to look at her and see the wounds that I know are there.”
“I get that. I do. And you’re a nice guy for being her friend when it’s not easy to do that.”
Bowing my head, I go back to my little pile of shirts. I fold the one in my hand, add it to the stack, and grab another.
I’m on my fifth shirt when I look up. Peck is standing right in front of me.
His lips are twisted into an unapologetic grin. I drop the shirt I’m holding onto the bed in a messy lump.
“What?” I ask, a nervous laugh woven into the word.
“I’ve had enough talking about Molly.”
“Okay.” I grin. “And?”
“I didn’t think you’d get up there with me tonight.”
“On the bar?” I raise my brows. “I’m not going to back down from a challenge.”
He laughs. “Good to know.”
My breathing matches his as he takes my hands and pulls me up. I stand in front of him, chin up so I can look into his eyes. There’s no sign of a thought of anything but me.
I gulp, energy surging through my veins so fast I think I might pass out.
He reaches out. A finger settles in beneath my chin, and he lifts it higher. I look into his eyes as he peers into mine.
I swallow carefully, not wanting to jostle his finger. The simple touch is like a match to a pile of embers deep inside me. My blood is hot as I wait for him to do something.
To kiss me.
“Thank you,” he says softly.
“For what?”
“For caring.” He smiles shyly, his finger falling from my face. “Don’t forget that I’m making you dinner tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I breathe.
“Good night, Hawkeye.”
With a final, lingering gaze, he turns toward my door.
“Night, Wesley,” I whisper.
He pauses for a moment in the doorway but doesn’t turn to look at me. He taps the wall with his palm, then makes a fist, then disappears down the hallway.
I sit on the bed again, my knees threatening to melt out from under me.
My fingers go to the spot where he touched me as I look at the doorway.