Chapter 17

17

Davey

Mack is sleeping not gracefully. The snoring is a deep rumble, he's got beer-morning breath, and where his arm is slung over my midsection is getting sweaty. I don't shift a single goddamn muscle.

By the time we got home last night, he was a stumbling mess, and I had to help him up to his room. The problem with that was being caught totally off guard by how much I miss when this room used to be ours, and he took that second of ouch to pass out onto me.

Platonic snuggles is something that I've been very careful not to let myself have, but with him curled into my side, clinging to me like a fucking Care Bear, I'm not moving in a hurry.

My hand finds his hair, stroking the short strands between my fingers as I ignore that serious tug in my chest .

I hardly got to see him last night. All his adorable drunkenness was given to Luke, and the two of them looked like they were having fun. It's been a long time since I've seen Mack laugh so much, and I was too much of a chicken shit to go anywhere near them.

The tension between me and my friends got so thick Art started spouting his "butterflies need to emerge" analogies that almost made me knock him over the head.

Mack stirs, rubbing his head into my hand like a puppy. Then, he lets out a loud groan that starts in his gut and goes on for way longer than it needs to.

"You good?" I ask as he turns his head and fake-sobs into my side. He's halfway down the bed, so it's easy enough to set my hand on his back and rub it for support.

"Sore. So sore."

"You did drink a lot."

"Why didn't you stop me?"

"Ah, let's think," I say. "Maybe because you're a grown man who knows how much he can handle and should be able to control himself."

"It's like you don't know me at all."

I chuckle but don't reply. We stay there in silence for a while, him not letting me go, and me indulging in the feel of his back muscles. I want to ask him about Luke and push to see what details I can get out, but firstly, he's hungover, and secondly, I really, really don't.

It's a twisted curiosity I know better than to think about but can't stop myself from thinking about.

"Want me to cook you something super greasy for breakfast?"

He moans, burying his face deeper. "Soon. Don't want to move yet. Too bright. "

"You weren't that drunk."

"Think I was."

Maybe you shouldn't have let Luke keep buying them for you. I keep that thought to myself. On the off chance Mack was too drunk to remember, I don't want to be the one reminding him about his new boyfriend. "Guess you're getting too old to keep going out."

"Fuck you. You're older than I am."

"But I wasn't the one ten bottles deep and trying to sexy dance to Shakira."

"I fucking what?" His head pops up, skin a shade of green, deep circles under both eyes, and the usual clear blue gaze murkier than I've ever seen it.

I chuckle and uselessly brush his crushed hair back into place. "I haven't seen you move like that since our wedding day."

He lights up at the reminder, and we have a whole few seconds where everything feels right in the world.

Then he gets a text.

Mack jolts at the loud beep, and I scoop up his phone to pass over—knowing I shouldn't but not able to stop myself from checking the screen.

Luke .

He unwraps himself from me, and I throw my legs over the side of the bed.

"Right. I'll get breakfast started."

I stalk out of the room before he can read the message because I don't need to witness that. It's obvious, though, that Mack and I need to talk. About Luke, definitely. There needs to be some ground rules where he's concerned, but also about work.

And us .

Last night, I'd been ready to say fuck it and walk away from work for good, but I still need to find something else first, so there's no point in talking to him about my decision unless I'm sure it can go ahead. I know Mack, and I know that even if I tell him not to get his hopes up, his hopes will immediately fly anyway. His endless optimism is one of the things I love most about him.

I'd gotten complacent about Luke though.

I should have known better than to assume that because I hadn't seen him, and Mack hadn't been out anywhere, that his threat was gone. No, he's probably waiting in the wings until I leave again and he can swoop in.

Though he didn't have any issues swooping last night.

He's too young for Mack. He wouldn't know the first thing about what my husband needs. But apparently, he's going to try and come between us anyway, so this relaxed timeline I'd thought I had has been moved up.

Mack isn't waiting around for me to get my shit together anymore.

I don't blame him.

Well, childishly , I do. But I also know how misplaced that is.

And once I drop the bomb that I'll be leaving again a week after Christmas, I can't imagine Mack will be all that understanding.

Fuck, maybe I shouldn't tell him about that yet either. What if he gets upset and runs off crying to Luke and they kiss and … and …

I throw the frying pan on the stove, torturing myself with the image of the two of them together.

If I don't tell him about leaving now though, when the hell do I do it? Ruin Christmas and be all, "Surprise! My present is that I'm gone in a week!" Wait until after, when there are only a few days left? Wait until it's time to pack my bags?

The shower upstairs comes on, and I know that I have to do it now. Especially while Kiera and Van are out.

Looking back, one of the biggest issues in our marriage was that neither of us wanted to jump into the hard conversations. He'd hold it all in until it burst out of him, and I'd let him yell. Giving reasons always felt like excuses, and those excuses might as well have been given to the wall for all the good they did.

We got together young, and communication is something that didn't come easily to us.

Mack stumbles into the room, bundled up in an oversized hoodie and loose sweatpants. His hair is wet, and he's got more stubble growing through than usual, but fucking hell. My gaze rakes over him, hungrily remembering everything he keeps hidden under those clothes.

"That smells so good," he says, dropping down onto the stool closest to me. "I need all the bacon."

"I know." We might be terrible at communication, but I still know more about him than I ever want to know about another person. I move around the kitchen, frying up eggs, bacon, sausage, and mushrooms before getting us a stack of toast. Mack watches me the entire time.

I know bringing it up sooner than later is the smartest choice, but I don't want to break this quiet peace.

Also, with how hungover he is, it's probably better we get as much into his stomach as possible first.

I ignore that I'm nervous.

I ignore that I don't want to hurt him while ignoring that if he's not hurt, it'll kill me .

Emotions are horribly complex .

We settle at the table, and he dives straight in while I sip my very, very strong coffee.

I wait until he's downed at least a slice of toast and multiple rashers of bacon.

Then I say the worst words ever.

"We need to talk."

Mack looks up, mouth hanging open and half full of food. It should be a real turnoff.

It isn't.

"Uh-oh."

I manage a light laugh to ease the sudden tension. "It's nothing—" I was going to say "bad," but that would be a rotten lie. "Nothing serious. I have some not-so-great news, and we also need to talk boundaries."

"Boundaries?"

"Just … let's get the crappy news out first." My palms are clammy, and I'm nervous about how he's going to take this. Best case? Disappointed but supportive. Unfortunately, past experience does not give me hope.

Mack sets down his cutlery, and before I can say anything, he speaks. "You're leaving again, aren't you?"

My heart breaks at his tone. I was an idiot for thinking that he might not care because while he might be making an effort with Luke, the betrayal in his voice is real. Deep.

I take a long breath and try to get through this. "Not right away."

"When?"

"Second of January."

Devastation fills his face before he quickly masks it. "Right."

"Six weeks was still great though, wasn't it? "

One side of his lips makes a valiant effort to tilt upward. "Time with you always is."

"I'm sorry."

"I know. It's not your fault."

It sort of is though, not that I'll say that out loud. I'm itching to take his hand and tell him that while I might need to leave, I'm working on it, trying to find my way back to him. I hold it all in and force an upbeat voice. "Sorry it will cut into your time with Luke."

I think it's about the only thing I could have said to break through his disappointment. "What do you mean?"

"I know. That you two are …" I'm trying to be good about this, but it's fucking hard. "It's okay. You deserve everything, and I couldn't give that to you. Maybe he will."

"Hmm …" He gazes desolately at his plate.

"That's the boundary I wanted to talk to you about."

"What do you mean?"

"Him or … anyone. We've never talked about what happens when one of us starts dating. Now, I have nothing on the radar, I'm way too busy with work"— and too in love with you —"but it's clear you're ready. And I'll be supportive, I promise, but I … I can't see it, Mack." My voice breaks against my will. "Whether that means that you talk to whoever you're seeing and ask them not to come by the house, or I move out, or?—"

"No."

"It was just a suggestion."

"You're not moving out. This is your home."

I sigh and look around because this house has my whole soul. "One day, it won't be. And we need to be prepared for when that happens. "

He swallows thickly, blinking madly at his plate. "I won't date."

"Yes, you will. It's an awkward situation, but I understand. All I ask is you don't shove it under my nose, and, well, when it comes to the kids, I don't want people in and out of their lives. It's going to be confusing enough for them as it is, so please make sure that you're sure about whoever you introduce them to."

"That's fair."

I try to inhale, hoping that relief will take over, that the tension will finally leave. It doesn't. Even with that conversation out there, I feel worse than ever.

"Okay, well, that's all." I pile food I won't eat onto my plate, hoping it at least looks like things are back to normal.

Mack doesn't go back to eating. He nudges the food on his plate with his fork for a moment before his phone goes off again.

We both go stiff. I don't mean to, but without talking, it's clear we know who it is.

Mack doesn't make a move, so I know it's on me.

"You can get that," I whisper.

He leaves the table without a word.