It’s Always Us (Abandoned Brothers #3)

Chapter 4

LEX

I rub my swollen, crusted-shut eyes. There’s a tearing sensation as I pry them open, and they burn. I lie perfectly still, letting my chest rise and fall while trying to ease out the arrow shot straight through my heart. It’s painfully suffocating, as if my lungs are filling with fluid.

My entire body aches with the torment of reliving every single moment of last night over and over again. Every single second hurts like hell, but that doesn’t even begin to describe the pain I saw in Mark’s eyes as he stood at the door, telling me he’d missed me.

Mark. I let out a long, slow breath, swallowing the lump that reemerges in my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut tight, unable to believe that he was really here. Mark was here.

Hearing his voice, feeling his touch, and having him tell me he’s thought of me all this time is definitely not what I need, but I can’t say it’s not everything I’ve ever wanted. I didn’t need to lay here all night thinking about every word he said and wondering if it was all true, but I did.

If it’s possible it’s true, then why now? Why would he wait all these years and come back now? Two days before I was supposed to get married. How did he even know?

If social media can be trusted, which is about as reliable as an old Dodge Neon, then Mark has dated nearly half of the female celebrity population. Coming back, telling me he loves me, seems . . . ridiculous, and I have to wonder if I’m just the thing that simply got away. I’m nostalgic, a dream, a memory .

But if the guy that walked into the garage last night is the Mark I knew—the one I fell in love with at sixteen and have never stopped—then coming here and telling me all of that was putting his entire heart on the line.

Mark is a bleeding heart on his sleeve guy, hiding behind a fun-loving exterior. He’s tough as steel, but even pipes crack when too much pressure strikes those hidden weak spots. But he’d never let anyone see. Only those he completely trusts, and at one time, that person was me. It’s hard for me to believe that after what I did, he’d still allow me that kind of vulnerability.

I want to see and talk to him, to know if what he said is real and true. I want to run away with him, run so far the pain and the past disappear. But there are reasons why I didn’t follow Mark when he left, and not one part of those reasons has changed.

I roll to my side, pulling a pillow over my head. Trying to ignore my feelings for him when he was far away was hard enough. Trying to ignore them after last night is impossible.

He appeared before me, tall and strong, looking so much the same but completely different. Those chocolate brown eyes stabbed me clear through.

I squeeze my eyes shut, knowing it would be easier if I could just forget. But, no. He was so self-assured and confident, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. It was almost more than I could withstand. Everything he said, all the things I’ve dreamed of hearing him say, each word piercing the facade I’ve spent years molding into place.

I bury my face further, the burn consuming sore eyes and throat all over again. I might have believed he was a figment of my imagination. But then, he touched me.

The trace of his fingers still lingers on my skin. Gentle but commanding. Soft but sure. But those hands, the moment they held me close, my body tucked into his, that was it. One second longer, and I wouldn’t have been able to let him go. I would have welded myself to him and stayed there forever.

Those freaking hands. The hands of the one and only man I have no choice but to accept my heart will ever belong to .

But that’s exactly the problem. When you love someone, not only with your whole heart but your body and soul, too, you’ll do whatever it takes to protect them. To let them be free. To save them. To let them live the life they were always meant to have.

A fist rams into my stomach again with the vision of his beautiful, handsome face staring back at me. My skin warms with a sticky sweat, and I toss the pillow to the side. A groan mixed with a whimper, full of self-loathing, escapes for not telling him the truth—that I could never marry a man unless it were him. But telling him wouldn’t change a thing.

I drag myself out of bed, doing the same thing I do every day—keep on going.

I throw on old jeans, a T-shirt, and a flannel, then brush my teeth. I fill my cheeks with air and let it out, seeing my face in the mirror. My eyes look like two puffy, red squishies. Crap. I slather the swollen, red circles under my eyes with cream, hoping it contains sympathy and works magic this morning.

I avoid eye contact in the kitchen, but Grandpa’s way too observant eyes follow me as I pop a pod in the machine. He’s like an old coon dog, but instead of tracking rodents, he catches a scent in the wind and sniffs out a dip in my emotional state.

I reach into the fridge for creamer as he folds his paper, waiting. I peek at him out of the corner of my swollen eye. He folds his glasses and drops them in his shirt pocket, eyes dead set on me.

“What the hell happened?” His voice is set, ready to beat the crap out of someone.

I turn and face him, resting my butt against the counter. Having no fight left, I surrender. If there’s anyone I can tell about my late-night visitor, it’s this man. He took care of me after Mark left and has helped every day since.

I wrap my hands around my mug and hold it close to my chest for comfort. “Mark showed up at the shop last night. He thought I was getting married.”

“Sandberg?” He stares at me, waiting for confirmation. I nod. “Ha! It’s about damn time!” He claps his hands, a smile replacing the former severe concern. “What in the hell took him so long?”

“This isn’t good news,” I whisper as if someone will hear us .

“Like hell, it’s not! He’s the one you should’ve been marrying. He’s finally wised up and realized it, too. Did you tell him you called it off?”

My brows pull together, where a headache is gathering. “Grandpa, nothing has changed, except he made it. He’s living his dream. My life is here, and I still can’t . . . I’m only good at one thing, and that thing is here.”

“Bullshit. Cars that need fixing are everywhere, and your struggles never mattered to him.” His irritation is evident, but I ignore it.

“The shop is here, you’re here, and this is my life. You know as well as I do, I can’t just work somewhere else.”

“You also can’t live the rest of your life afraid of the world. I know it’s difficult, and people have a hard time understanding, but, Pal, I won’t be here forever.” He sets his empty mug on top of his paper. “The shop shouldn’t be your entire life. At some point, you have to let people in. Not everyone will disappoint you. You’re missing out on a whole world out there and a man who’d give up his throwing arm for you.”

I stare at the floor, unable to handle his words today. A mixture of rage and unbearable heartache erupts in my chest, and it’s all I can do to keep breathing steadily.

He comes to stand beside me, his shoulder rubbing against mine. I’d really like to shove his old ass, but I don’t because he loves me.

“I don’t care what anyone else says or thinks. You’re the smartest and bravest person I know. And . . . you’re one hell of a mechanic. You work circles around every one of the guys at the shop, and they know it. I didn’t teach you everything I know to hold you back. Quit limiting yourself. It’s ok to go see what’s out there.”

I swallow the massive growth in my throat. “Yeah, just like that. It’s not that easy.”

“Pal, life isn’t easy. You know that better than anyone, but it’s not as scary when you let people in who care about you. People who want to help and love you.” He reaches to put his mug in the sink. “Mark is one of those people. He’s giving you another chance. If you’re smart, you’ll take it. All that nonsense about nothing changing is a load of horse shit. Things have changed. You’ve changed, but that boy didn’t show up last night for anyone other than you.”

“After eight years? I’m not enough. I never have been,” I choke out .

He turns toward me. “Apparently, he disagrees. You’ve never been able to not love him, and I’ve watched how hard you’ve tried. Shit, you almost married the wrong guy. Maybe you should let yourself love the right one.” He points at me. “He came back for you.”

I grip the counter, hoping it will hold me together. “It’s not just about me. I won’t let—”

“More horse shit.” He raises his hand, stopping me. “I understand why you did what you did. Back then, I might have even agreed with you. But now, he’s a grown man. He’s strong and capable, and I don’t think you’re giving him enough credit.” He leans against the counter beside me. “You need to ask yourself if this is still about protecting him . . . or you.” The creases around his mouth deepen as he eyes me long and hard.

I can’t look at him. My shoulders sag, and I slump under the weight of his pointed question and stare.

He steps toward the back door but stops. “Did he sign the posters in my office?”

I suck back the tears that want to fall, my eyes burning with a fresh wave. “Seriously, that’s what you’re worried about?”

“Hell yes! Unless you get your head out of your ass, he’s not likely to come back.” He shakes his head, reaching for the door. “I’ll see you at the shop unless you decide to quit being a jackass.”

“Oh, thank you,” I sniff. “That’s helpful.”

“Best advice you’re likely to hear all day,” he winks, stepping out the back door and closing it behind him.

I sink into a chair at the table, pulling the invoice from my pocket. I unfold it, running my finger over the numbers.

Why now? Why, after all this time? Because he thought I was getting married?

I cradle my head in my arms, thinking about everything Grandpa said and letting people in. Mark laid his heart bare last night, and I have a good idea of how much that cost him. Despite space and time, I know him, and that kind of honesty and vulnerability was painful. The question is, what do I do about it?

______

I step into the shop, and the metal door bangs closed behind me. The compressor drill zips as Trig sets another tire .

“Hey, I need a brake light check.” Carson’s southern drawl comes from his spot inside the driver’s seat of a white Jeep Compass, one long leg hanging out.

A horn honks, and I reach over to press the button to open one of the doors so Wind can pull a car over the pit.

“Yo,” Slade yells, signaling he’s far enough, and I press the button to send the door back down.

The noise suddenly dies down, and I find all eyes on me. Even Trig’s hands still. The baby-faced, wanna-be race car driver earned the nickname Trigger because he has a trigger finger when it comes to tools, and we rarely find him without one in his hand.

Ugh. Seriously?

“What the hell happened to your face?” Carson asks, leaning out of the car.

These are my friends, my family, and they don’t treat me differently. To them, I’m just one of the guys. But when my eyes are puffy and red, and I look like I haven’t slept in days, these men turn into soldiers ready for battle. Their furrowed brows and somber faces make my empty stomach roll into a ball and bounce around as if it, too, is searching for a place to hide.

“Stop.” I let my head fall to the side in exhausted annoyance, trying to lessen the tension in my shoulders and neck. “Everything is fine. I’m tired, and I have a terrible headache. Now, get back to work.”

Carson’s eyes squint just a little.

“You sure? Because I have no problem kicking someone’s ass this morning.” James, who we call Wind because he drops bombs like it’s his full-time job, asks. With broad shoulders and a slight belly to match, the man places his hands on his hips.

“I’m sure.” I shove my hands in my pockets, uncomfortable with all of their serious attention.

“Is this that time of the month again?” Carson asks with a hint of a smirk, and my heart squeezes at him, lightening the mood. “I’ll buy beer, and we can watch a game tonight.”

“I’ll throw in on that,” Wind says, one dimple peeking through his beard.

“How about you keep your bad gas away from me for a few days?” The guys laugh, and I can’t help but smile .

“Get to work, boys! Wind, you can take that shit outside, or I’ll fire you for workplace indecency,” I hear Grandpa holler, saving me.

Slade, yet to ask questions or speak, only watches me as the guys razz Wind and get back to work. Except Trig, who walks over, side-hugs me, and then returns to the impact gun to tighten up lug nuts.

All morning, it’s like working in a field of prairie dogs. Eyes stare until I meet them, and then they duck away. Each pair pop a peek in my direction and then dart away again. Even Trig’s hands slow for the briefest moments to watch me.

These guys, each of them, covertly inspecting me as if I might fall to pieces right before their eyes. It’s annoying as hell, and they suck at it. The funny thing is, if I broke down in front of them, they’d be running for the hills. Except for Trig, he’d at least hand me a shop rag to fall apart in.

I wipe my hands on a rag and toss it on the workbench. The headache forming in the back of my skull over the past couple of hours is pounding in full force, and I know it’s time to quit.

The rusted, heavy metal door to the garage bangs closed, sending shooting pain through the top of my head and into my ears. Grandpa greets a customer, but his eyes drift to me as if he’s conducting a thorough evaluation of my mental state.

Our morning has been swamped with oil changes and flat tires, but the guys will have to finish up this round. I’m tapping out.

I put my hands over my ears as the compressor drill squeals and pick up my pace down the short hallway to Grandpa’s office. I step in and close the door behind me, needing insulation from the noise.

I fall into his old, worn chair, laying my head on the desk. It screams from stress and lack of sleep. I roll my head to the side, my eyes catching on the cheaply framed posters of Mark in uniform, arm cocked, and poised to throw the ball. The man with the boyish personality and the most handsome face in the entire world. It’s as if his dark brown eyes are staring directly at me. Those eyes that I’ve dreamed would someday stare across the space at me one more time, and last night they did.

I want to tell him I’m sorry for not keeping my promise and how much I’ve missed him all these years, but it wouldn’t change anything.

I rub my temples, staring at the posters, when Slade pushes through the door and slowly lowers his large frame into the chair across from me. The tall, bearded, and tattooed man slumps down, twisting the cap off a bottle of water.

I close my eyes, still rubbing my head. “Did he send you in here?”

He only grunts.

I should have known that Grandpa wouldn’t keep his mouth shut. Now, I have to deal with worried puppy dog faces because these guys care, and even though I know they want to be sure I’m all right, I could handle some privacy.

“He said you’re having a rough day.”

My eyes roll to peek at him from under my eyelashes, and I know at least he got the full Mark scoop. My body crumples a little further, and I close my eyes.

“He’s worried he was a little hard on you this morning.” Slade’s voice is low and soft.

I pry one eye open, squinting at him. “Seriously?”

He scratches his beard, clearly uncomfortable with this little heart-to-heart. This man, solid and hard to the core, doesn’t do feelings. It’s why we get along so well. We keep things locked down tight and in the dark where they belong. With him, I know I won’t ever have to talk about or confess things I don’t want to.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks, his leg bouncing.

Slade is asking me if I want to talk. What the hell is happening to my life?

“No.”

Slade’s head rolls to the side, stretching his neck like this is painful. It is. So painful.

“He’s been brooding around here all morning. He’s in a shit mood, and we’re all suffering.”

I let my head fall to the desk again. “He’s such a drama queen sometimes.”

“Only when it has to do with you.” I lift my head just enough to meet his green eyes. “He thinks it’s all his fault. He’s worried he’s holding you back. Preventing you from seeing what the world has to offer. Afraid he didn’t do enough to get you the help you needed or do more to show you that you can do anything. Yada, yada, yada.” He guzzles half his water. “Is he right?”

“What?” I grumble, the side of my face pressed to the desk. The cool surface feels good against my cheek .

“Is he right? Are you sticking it out here because you’re afraid?”

Despite the sledgehammer slamming into my brain, I pull my head up to face the man who, besides Grandpa, understands what my life is like and watched me try to stitch myself back together when Mark left. I know he cares, but I don’t need one more person on my ass about this.

“What are you talking about? You know Grandpa and this shop are everything to me. This is what I want. You know how much I love it.”

“What about him?” he points a long, grease-covered finger at the poster.

His growly, bluntness is pissing me off today. What happened to being best friends who are happy never to discuss the sucky, painful parts of life?

He rearranges his body to sit taller in the metal chair that is three sizes too small for him. “I heard he came here last night. Shit, Alex. Don’t think we won’t be talking about you being here late at night by yourself or that fact you didn’t have the damn door locked.”

I roll my eyes and then regret it as the pain radiates through my head. I decide against biting back with the news that I do it all the time and have for years. There was a time when I’d come here with Mark. Obviously, he hasn’t forgotten.

I force air in and out through the intense ache, both the physical and emotional. “I knew he told you. Man, you all are worse than women in a salon. Seriously. I don’t need the rest of the crew in that part of my business.” I stab him with a glare and then rest my head in my hands.

We sit with the dull sounds from the garage filtering in while he waits for me to answer the question.

“I have no clue what to think about him,” I say quietly.

“I think you do, but I also think Cal is right. You’ve spent the last how many years trying to get over him because you’re scared. Going after him means having to step outside your comfort zone.”

I stare across the small space, my irritation quickly revving into anger. “It’s more than a comfort zone.”

“Is it?” He twists the cap back on his bottle and rests it on his leg. “You don’t need to be afraid. If he loves you, it’ll be ok. And even if he doesn’t, it’ll be ok. I think you need to prove that to yourself. Otherwise, you’ll never know and be stuck right here, in the middle, continuing to torture yourself. ”

I’m dumbstruck at his possible insightfulness and can only watch as he stands.

Having had enough for today, or maybe a lifetime, I snap back. “It’s not that simple. It’s not just about me. You both know it’s so much more than that.”

He runs a hand over his beard, exhaling. “Alex, how long is long enough? When does the cost of trying to protect someone become too much?” He stares at me, his eyes telling me he might know a little something about this. His gaze drops to the floor. “At what point does protecting them begin to do more damage than the risk of them learning the truth?”

He reaches into his pocket and tosses a small bottle of Ibuprofen on the desk.

“Maybe it’s time for you to let yourself be happy and quit taking on a burden that was never yours to bear.”

He leaves the office, and I can only stare at his back as I swipe the bottle from the desk, wanting to throw it against the wall. Instead, I grip it tightly as my stomach churns, wondering if I can even keep two pills down.

When in the hell did he become so . . . logical? It’s that simple. Ha. Right.

I groan, pulling a bottle of water from the pack in the corner, pop the pills, and chase them with the room-temperature liquid.

I rest back in the chair, those dark eyes boring into me again. I’ve never been weak. I haven’t had the luxury, but Slade’s right. I am scared. I’m scared out of my mind. Everything has changed, but going on like this isn’t an option.

Going after what I want means becoming vulnerable to a world that doesn’t understand me or my struggles, no matter how good I am at hiding them. What I’m certain of, though, is that I’ve never been afraid of Mark.

Maybe it’s finally time I do something about it, or as Slade said, I’ll spend my life wondering, waiting, and so far, that’s been miserable. I push back from the desk, terrified out of my mind, but Mark suffered through it for me.

Now, I guess it’s my turn to put my heart on the line and find out if he really meant it—everything he said .

I wasn’t enough before. I’m not sure I’m enough now or that there’s anything left of us beyond what was. Maybe too much time has passed, and all the things that stood in the way before remain, but if nothing else, he deserves to know that there hasn’t been a single day I haven’t thought about him, too.