35. Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Five

Toby

" F uck!"

I slam the axe down against the log for the third time, the wood finally splitting down the center enough for me to wedge my fingers between and rip it off.

"Well, that was eventful." Mac snickers into my ear, the earbuds echoing his voice around my head. "Did you hit your target or your hand?"

"The log," I answer, my breath rushing out before me in the form of a fog.

I told myself I came out here because the stash was getting low and the sun was at the perfect peak to get the temp high enough that I would only slightly freeze to death.

What I wasn't expecting was the draw to stay out here long after the lights came on in the cabin and to watch Anna disappear into the bedroom to work.

I'd snuck out from under her before she woke up, cleared the mess from dinner, and just … came outside.

The jonesing has been too much to consider anything else.

Being inside only made it worse.

"I thought splitting wood was my thing," Mac chimes in, and I can't help the chuckle that bubbles up before smacking the axe down on the next piece. It goes flying, splintered in three, and lands among the rubble.

"In the literal sense of the statement, I know damn well the only wood you know how to handle is dick."

Mac laughs. "I got tons of experience."

It's as if I can see the man in front of me, suggestively waggling his brows and grinning.

It almost makes me smile. "I'm sure you do."

I shouldn't hate that he's in a good mood.

Right?

"So," Mac drawls, the tapping on his end of the line changing to a lower pitch, as if he's moved to beating up the couch instead of the table. "What happened with you last night?"

I sigh, dropping the axe on the larger log and fish the pack of smokes out from my torn pocket. "Nothing."

Mac sighs back. "Right. The dreaded nothingness ."

The way he says it has my lit lighter pausing midair, my cigarette poised between my lips and waiting. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I light the cigarette and drag the smoke deep into my lungs as he speaks. "Means what you want it to mean, fizzlefuck."

"Wait," I say as I blow the smoke out and pinch the cigarette between my fingers. "Fizzlefuck?"

Mac snorts on his end of the call, the rustle that follows indicating the shaking of his head.

"Yesterday was all it's fine and she spends all her time in the room . But today, you're calling me—after not talking to me for almost a month!—to bitch about doing nothing . C'mon, Tob."

I shake my head and take another drag, letting the nicotine calm my system. "Still don't know what you're talking about."

"Let's see," Mac mumbles. "Toby spent yesterday fine with Anna taking the only bed for the last few weeks. And today, he's called me moping about doing nothing last night. What's that sound like to you?"

I hear another voice muffled over the phone, and I growl into the receiver. "That better not be your bodyguard you're talking to."

"Oh, it's not." His resulting chuckle tells me he's lying out of his teeth. "He's not on duty until I leave this house in ten minutes."

"Why the fuck did you answer the phone, then?"

"Um, because my brother, who's stuck on a mountain with a witch, called and demanded my attention."

"Watch it, Mac." The growl is automatic. The defense is like a stronghold I can't hold back the moment my best friend calls her a witch.

"Ohhh," Mac calls over the line. "I fuckin' knew it."

My stomach flips.

"You were so expecting the prune to sleep with you and she didn't. Now you're moping."

Mac's laughter only fuels the anger building in my chest. Because while he's not entirely correct, he's not fucking wrong either.

"Pay up, Tyro!" he calls into the background of his side of the phone.

"Goddammit, Mac."

"Okay, okay. I'm here. Tell me what happened."

"No," I growl into the phone and lean back against the tree a few feet from my chopping station.

I should just hang up. Disconnect the line and move on with my life.

But the thought triggers a gnawing in my gut, an urge that's too hard to ignore on my own.

"No?" Mac seems taken aback, and I hear a rustle that leads to a groan before his end of the line falls silent except for a light tapping. "Okay, it's just you, me, and my sticks, Tob. Promise."

I grumble into the phone, toss the cigarette into the snow, and then light up a new one. "Nothing to talk about."

"Bullshit," Mac responds.

"If those fuckers hadn't gone all fucking domesticated on me, this wouldn't be happening," I snarl into the receiver, and that feeling in my gut churns some more.

What the fuck am I doing?

The leather hanging off my shoulders becomes too hot, the sweat on my brow beading up all over again despite the low temperature around me.

"Toby," Mac starts, his tone too calm. Too collected. Too much for me to hear. "There's nothing wrong with—"

"Just fucking stop , Mac. Not everyone can be like Rex. O-or fucking Fin, okay?" I know I'm attacking the wrong person. Deep down, I recognize it. But I can't stop the train from rolling right over me and barreling out of my mouth. "Leave me the hell out of it."

My breath is heavy and my feet have pushed me from my lean on the tree and into a pace around the little clearing.

"Toby, I didn't lump you in with anyone."

The realization has my boots halting in the snow and my stomach rolling over itself.

I hate this. I don't want to feel this feeling of my guts twisting and my chest collapsing in on itself.

In fact, I want to go back to not feeling a fucking thing.

Being drunk makes life easier.

It numbs the pain. The confusion. The ache of guilt so damn deep in me that I don't think I'll ever get rid of it.

It all hurts so damn much.

Why does it have to hurt?

"Toby." The whisper of my name is desperate and thick. "Tell me where you are."

"At the cabin, dipshit," I lash out, and my gaze goes skyward, regret washing over me like a flood. "Shit, I'm sor—"

"Don't you dare." I hear the rustle of Mac shaking his head. "Don't apologize."

"I'm sick of being stuck here, man."

Mac's sigh flitters over the speaker and has me shaking my head. "I know, Tob. Should only be a few more days."

"I know, I know," I breathe out. "Cabin fever is getting to me."

"I believe it. Even if it wasn't the cabin."

My chest tightens at the mention. The fact that he remembered something I haven't talked much about in years.

When Leo offered to buy the place, I got drunk and told him off.

But then when I sobered up for a few hours, heard his rationale behind the idea, and I couldn't stomach the idea of this place being in the hands of anyone else.

It went to shit after my pops died. I just couldn't bring myself back here without feeling like I might find him hiding in the woods, avoiding me, ignoring me.

Most days I wish that were the truth.

Leo has done so much to the place that it's almost unrecognizable. Except I spent most of my childhood in these woods, carving trees that still hold my initials, that I'd find my way back to the cabin blindfolded if I had to.

I couldn't let it go.

"You know you don't have to pretend with me, right?"

I blink against the blue sky. "Why do you think I called you?"

Mac's snicker is weak. "Knew I was your favorite." He blows out a breath, one I think is more evident than even he realizes. "Then don't pretend."

The statement is so easy to say. So easy to ask.

And yet … it's loaded. Heavy.

Because pretending is what I've done since the night of our first big show.