Misunderstanding, my ass.

How can he say all of that when in the end I was a mere casualty of band fun time? But that’s where things get murky for me. If I was just a pawn in their fucked-up game, why take me to see his mom? Why protect me from Hunter, who in the end, ironically, was the one who protected me from Hawkin? All of it doesn’t sit real well with me, but I need to wait for the dust to clear from this disaster because right now I’m looking at the situation through my emotional goggles.

I laugh into the pillow at how damn stoic I sound when I’m still upset and … I miss him. I stayed strong though and ignored the texts as long as I could until my anger got the best of me. I succumbed to my emotions with a single word response: Liar.

Then of course he responded with a flurry of responses, each one getting more and more adamant, followed by unanswered phone calls, to which I responded, A bet? That’s all I was to you? Fuck You. That message set off another round of calls that then turned into two random appearances at the house in which he pounded on my doors. At least this time I was smart enough to have my laundry room door locked.

I refuse to give him the time of day.

The only part I get a small amount of pleasure in is that I know the stake of the band’s bets. I know that Hawke didn’t prove shit to Vince. So that means the asshole has to ink a pink heart on his wrist for losing, and every time he looks at it, at least I’ll know he’ll remember me. That makes me happy.

And that makes me sad.

Fuck. I don’t want it to make me feel anything and yet it makes me feel everything. I can close my eyes all I want, pretend all of this never happened, but there’s no way I can close my heart off to the ache that’s nestled deep within me.

The pounding continues and I know my brother—he’s not going to stop until I open the door. Go away, I text.

The repair bill for a broken door is going to be expensive then. You’ve got 5 minutes. Starting now.

A frustrated groan falls from my mouth as I chuck my pillow across the room and push myself off the bed. I glance in the mirror and start laughing because I am heartbreak personified: curls wild, a pillow crease in my cheek, and a smudge of the chocolate bar I ate last night on my tank top. I look like hell.

So I shuffle into the bathroom and brush my teeth, because even I have limitations to my slumming, plus I throw my hair up in a clip so that I look less miserable for appearance’s sake.

Three minutes left.

With a roll of my eyes, I pull open the front door and let it swing back on its own before turning to walk back down the hallway without even looking at my pain-in-the-ass brother.

“You look like shit.”

“Yeah thanks. So do you.” I raise my middle finger in greeting over my head and smile at how dysfunctional this routine of ours is and yet I love it.

I walk to the couch and plop down, grab a blanket and wrap it around my shoulders. Colton takes a seat across from me, dark hair hidden underneath his beloved lucky ball cap and green eyes assessing me. I wait for the smart-ass comment I can see lighting up his eyes but it never comes. “That bad, huh?”

“How’s Ry doing?” I change the subject to tell him I don’t want to discuss it.

“Taking lessons from me on avoidance, now?”

“Had to learn something from you, right?”

“Did you wake up on the wrong side of the fucking bed or what? Oh wait, my bad, it doesn’t look like you’ve left your bed in forever.”

I know he’s giving me the tough love shit but don’t want that right now. And at the same time I know if he were to sit beside me and pull me into a hug, I’d start bawling the tears I’ve withheld for five long days. The floodgates would open and that’s just too much like rain and rain makes me think of how it’s like love and … I don’t want to go there.

My traitorous bottom lip trembles and his face softens. “The musician?”

I nod my head morosely.

“Did he cheat on you?”

“No.”

“Dump you?”

“No.”

“Be an asshole?”

“Well, he is a guy,” I say, cracking a slight smile.

“I take offense to that comment,” he says with mock irritation. Or at least I think it’s mock.

“Well, considering you used to be the king of assholes when it came to women, you shouldn’t be.” I shrug, suddenly thankful for his intrusion into my misery. He grunts at my answer and accepts it without further argument. “It’s hard to explain,” I confess but for some reason I don’t want him to know the whole extent of it. I’ve got to get my head on straight. Why in the hell am I protecting Hawkin when he played me like a fiddle?

Well shit. I guess there’s another instrument I can add to our band—unfortunately this one didn’t bring me pleasure.

Colton scrubs a hand over the stubble on his jaw, so out of his element right now, uncomfortable at having to give advice to a female.

“Dude, you’re not George Clooney or Jason Statham so that look went out last year. Time to shave,” I tease, trying to ease his uneasiness, and at least I get a chuckle from him.

“You know you’re kind of being a bitch when I just stopped by because I’m worried about you.”

And that comment right there knocks the snarky wind from my sails because he’s right, I’m being an ass because I’m hurt. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” I blow out a breath and watch my fingers tracing the pattern on the couch. “This is just …”

“What happened?” he asks, scooting to the edge of his chair.

“I was the stake in a bet.”

“Excuse me?” The pitch of his voice escalates and his posture changes instantly, going into full-force protective brother mode. I cringe; I didn’t want to go there with him, but I want to confide in him at the same time. “His name.” It’s not a question.

“Hawkin Play,” I say ever so quietly but Colton does a double take when he hears the name.

“As in lead singer of Bent, Hawkin Play?” I just nod. “Shit, I liked their music too. Dare I ask what the bet was?” He’s feeling me out and I just sigh.

“No, you don’t want to know.”

“Fuckin’ A,” he growls, the muscle in his jaw pulsing as he tries to rein in the rage for my sake. “I don’t need to ask…. I’m a guy. I can imagine….” His voice trails off as I watch him struggle with the dueling emotions, to sympathize with me through anger or through comfort. I just nod when his gaze meets mine, saying yes to all of the above. “You know I’m going to kick his ass now, right?”

That first day I drove Hawke home flashes through my mind, when he commented that my brother must have gotten in a lot of fights protecting my virtue. The irony.

I don’t say anything, just keep watching my fingers trace the fabric aimlessly. “You really like him, don’t you?” The solemnity and compassion in his voice make my heart swell. My lack of an answer is one in itself. “Shit, Q, if Rylee were here she’d say some shit like ‘Never give up on someone that you can’t go a day without thinking about.’”

I groan, as that’s the last thing I want to hear. “And you’d say?” I lift my eyes to meet his.

“Fuck, I suck at this shit.”

“Yes you do, but other than ‘what’s his address’ so you can go knock his teeth out”—Colton’s face lights up at that comment—“I want to know what advice you’d give me. Please.”

He rolls his eyes and it looks so out of place on the badboy thing he has going. He leans forward and places his elbows on his knees as he twists his lips in thought. And I have to admit it’s pretty damn cute that he’s actually being serious and thinking of some big-brotherly advice.

“You really like the guy?” he asks.

“Yeah, I do,” I murmur without even having to think about it, sadness once again owning my heart.

“Even though he fucked with you?” He stares deep within me, and even though I’m ashamed about the situation, I can’t turn off my feelings.

“Mm-hmm.” I want to avert my eyes, feeling ashamed, but I know Colton won’t pass judgment on me since he’s done a whole helluva lot worse than still care for someone who’s wronged him.

“Look, the way I see it, trust is kind of like a piece of paper. Once you wad it up, tear it, mark it … sure you can fix it, flatten it out, tape it together, do what-the-fuck-ever to it, but it will never be perfect again…. So the question you need to ask yourself is can you live with the marks on the paper? Can you move forward knowing it’s imperfect from here on out?”

I stare at my brother, so dumbfounded by him right now that if I didn’t love him madly already, I would in this moment. His words are so poignant and hit home in places so deep inside me that my mind starts to whirl with thoughts I’d shoved away.

“But fuck, what do I know? I’m just a guy,” he says, suddenly uncomfortable. “Just”—his voice fades off as he tries to figure out what to say—“whatever you decide, just make sure it’s right for you, you know? Look at me—I’ve been crumpled up, thrown away, and taped back together more times than I care to count, but Ry’s okay with that. She says it makes me imperfectly perfect, whatever the fuck that means, so I guess it must be good,” he says with a smirk. I knew his arrogance wouldn’t be held at bay for too long.

“Perfect belongs nowhere near your name,” I deadpan, having to knock him down off his pedestal some.

“You’re just jealous,” he says before he falls silent again as he studies me. “You okay?”

“Better now, yeah. Thank you, Colton.”

“Sure, whatever,” he says, shrugging off the compliment and rising from the couch. He walks a few feet forward and stops in front of me. “If you decide to give this guy another chance … I plan on having a little chat with him. You need to know that ahead of time, okay? Because I don’t want you giving me any shit when I show him the long walk off a short pier I’ll be giving him if he fucks with you again.”

I nod my head in agreement with a soft smile on my face. God, I love my brother. He leans down and kisses the top of my head. “Thank you.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I will be.”

“Okay, I’ve got to get into the office,” he says, starting toward the door. “Ry said to call her so you guys can do the girlie shit together. That it’ll make you feel better.”

“Okay, sure.”

“And lock the door behind me,” he reminds me since I always forget.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I tell him as I sink back into the couch when the door slams shut.

I want to pull the blanket over my head and hide, want to grab my keys and drive to see him, but know I need to flat iron the damn piece of paper and see if I can live with the creases I can’t get out first.



Chapter 32


QUINLAN

I’ve showered.

At least I can add that to my list of accomplishments for the day. My head hurts from the significant quantity of wine and ice cream consumed last night. The problem is Hawkin’s ruined ice cream for me. Sitting there eating it straight from the container with Layla made me more depressed, which led to more wine, which led to more ice cream.

Thank God it’s the one day I don’t have to be on campus for class or TA sessions. I’ve made a resolution to throw myself into my thesis and not come up for air until I have the first draft completely finished to turn in on Friday.

I’m burying my head in the sand by getting up late, blaming it on the wine headache that’s no longer present, but I’m also pretending that I don’t remember that today is Hawke’s hearing and possible sentencing. I hate that I want to be there for him, hate that I’m still mad at him, hate that I am still falling deeper in love with him.

I guess it’s true when they say instead of overlooking faults, love sees through them and to the hidden parts inside. Whoever they are need to consider that it still sucks trying to figure your way around them.

Colton’s brotherly advice won’t stop running an endless loop through my mind. Thoughts about trust and crumpled paper, being perfectly imperfect, and whether the risk to lay my heart on the line is worth it, consume my thoughts even as I pull out my research papers.

Focus, Westin. Focus.

The knock on my door pulls me from my scattered thoughts, and I immediately get my hopes up that it’s Hawkin while at the same time groaning because I don’t want it to be him. But wait, it can’t be him because he has a court hearing shortly. I don’t want to care, want to shut my mind off but know it’s no use. With my papers still perfectly neat and untouched, I head to the door wondering who is there.