4. Mik

CHAPTER 4

MIK

The bar is quiet when we arrive, but it's quickly filled with old teammates and friends who have come to see Jason. Before long, the group is loudly chanting for Jason to "shoot the boot" and cheering when he drains a beer from his cleat. It's hard not to smile at the way he makes a mess of himself, or the way he shakes his head like a dog, spraying beer everywhere.

He might as well be a pro football player the way the whole town treats him. His celebrity status in our small town is nothing compared to actually being famous somewhere else in the world. The way he talks about it, it's no big deal and he's barely ever recognized. But I've cyber-stalked him enough to know that's not true.

Playing rugby might not be the thing that shot him to superstardom, but his talent, paired with his open lifestyle, had him all over the tabloids in the UK for a while. I burned with jealousy at every photo, post, and article I came across. I read everything. Social media posts from fans and haters alike. Tabloids. National sports magazines. Lifestyle magazines. If his name was attached to it, I consumed it like I needed it to survive, all the while cursing him and every single person who got to touch him or so much as breathe in his general vicinity.

The anger and helplessness I felt, watching from thousands of miles away as the man I loved slutted himself out for the entire world to see, comes back with every round of beer that gets passed among the group. I try to focus on anything else, like how proud I am of the way Jase played today, and how grown up he seems while hanging out with all my old teammates. Just like Jason, he's easy in a crowd, laughing and going on like it's no big deal. I'm still not great in social situations, except now I don't have the benefit of my best friend effortlessly guiding me through conversation. I find myself with my back to the bar, watching my son and trying like hell to avoid watching Jason.

I fail, of course. And what's worse is that he catches me watching him.

Keeping up with everyone as the drinks are passed around and shots are poured is a mistake. I rarely drink, so while Jason and the rest of the guys are getting pleasantly drunk, I'm well past hammered. That's how my son finds me, leaning against the bar, staring daggers at his uncle.

"Uncle Jay piss in your cornflakes this morning?"

"What?"

"Mom always said you don't get along with each other, but she's never said why."

"That's because she doesn't know," I say. I'm drunk enough to be slurring a little, but still have enough control of my faculties that I probably won't say anything too stupid. Hopefully.

Jase looks at me with those ridiculous blue eyes that are so like his uncle's.

"I wish you could have inherited my eyes," I say. And then, as if needing to prove that I'm not as in control as I think I am, I follow it up with, "Sometimes you're hard to look at. "

Thankfully, Jase doesn't take offense, only cocks his head and looks sad or concerned. Maybe both.

"I have mom's eyes," he says, and then looks over at Jason. His eyes move back to me, and there might be a flicker of understanding that will drive me crazy later. "And his."

"He was my best friend," I retort, gesturing to Jason with the bottom of my beer bottle before draining it. We both watch as Jason laughs heartily at something one of our old friends is telling him. It booms out of him, his chest expanding, and head thrown back with the effort. My eyes prickle. "I loved him," I say, quietly enough that I don't think Jase even heard me.

I'm at least coherent enough to know that I need to get my shit together. Placing my empty bottle on the bar top, I pat Jase's back and let him know I'm going to take a piss. Then I head to the back, doing my best to walk a straight line and not stagger. In the bathroom, after doing my business, I splash cold water on my face and give myself an internal pep talk.

Pull your shit together. That was then. This is now. You're not the same. He's not the same. Life isn't the same. He left, and this is your life now. You have a beautiful home and an amazing son. You should be having panic attacks about Jase moving out and going to college, not over unrequited feelings for your goddamned brother-in-law.

On my way out, I see something I wish I hadn't.

Jason and another guy are standing at the back of the hallway, almost completely shrouded in darkness. They're leaning close, and the other guy, who I think I recognize from high school but I'm not positive, puts his hand on Jason's hip. Nausea climbs up my throat and I push back through the bathroom door, barely making it into a stall before I'm emptying my stomach violently. When I'm finally done, I exit the stall only to find Jason leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his body. He looks pissed, as if I've done or said anything to him. I try to ignore him, bending over the sink once again to splash water on my face and rinse the taste of vomit from my mouth.

"What's your problem?" Jason growls, and I look up to meet his angry gaze through the mirror's reflection.

"I don't have a problem," I say, my voice rough.

Pushing away from the sink, I try to brush him off. I start walking towards the door, but Jason grabs my arm and pushes me against the wall, caging me in.

"Bullshit," he says, and the smell of whiskey on his breath makes my stomach roll. "You've been staring at me like that all fucking night, and I'm about done with it. I came here for Jase, not to deal with your moody ass."

I try to roll my eyes nonchalantly, but even that small act makes me dizzy. The combination of booze and the way he's crowding me are conspiring to make me stupid. I need to get some space. Now .

Pull yourself together.

"I'm too drunk to do this right now."

"Too drunk to do what?"

"This, Jason!" I shout, gesturing between the two of us. "I'm sorry if it's not as easy for me to just pretend like nothing ever happened between us."

"It's been eighteen years," he says. As if that means shit. As if that's enough time to get over someone. As if it isn't exactly enough time to grow from heartache to unhealthy obsession.

I swallow the bitter taste of beer and bile and straighten to my full height. I rarely feel as tall as I am, but I use every inch to play up the confidence I don't actually have.

"I'm really happy that you've done well for yourself," I say, and I even mean it, but Jason scoffs.

A defeated sigh escapes me. "I'm going to call an Uber and take Jase home. Tomorrow, we can go back to pretending life is great, and we never meant anything to each other."

I push Jason off me, fighting the impulse to dig my fingers into his shirt and pull him closer, and leave.

An unfamiliar car pulls up to the curb, and I watch through the front window as Jason climbs out of the passenger seat. He bends down to say something to the driver, before shutting the door and waving as the car drives off. It's not until Jason looks directly at me that I realize he can see me watching him through the window. Perhaps I'm not as sobered up as I thought I was. Two hours of stressing out, a cold shower, and a strong cup of tea have done nothing to settle the feelings that bubbled up my throat at the bar.

There's no point in running and hiding. He definitely saw me. I consider locking myself in my office downstairs or going to bed, but I brace myself for the inevitable and return to the kitchen to start the kettle. Jason walks in and sits on a barstool at the counter. Neither of us says anything until I pass him a cup of tea and he thanks me quietly.

"I've never been able to pretend," he says, looking into his mug like it might hold all the answers. He doesn't drink it, just fiddles with the tea bag and avoids looking at me. His cheeks redden slightly, and I studiously ignore the way it makes my entire body tingle with nervous energy. I always loved the way he blushed.

"You make moving on look easy, then."

He hums noncommittally, and the sound is so familiar it makes my chest ache.

"Did you go home with him?" I blurt .

I don't know what possesses me to ask. It's none of my business. And, if I'm being honest with myself, I don't want to know. Because what if he did? Or what if he didn't even make it to the guy's house, and they just fucked right there in the bathroom, in the same stall I puked my guts up in?

"Fuck. Don't answer that."

I set my mug in the sink and start to walk out, but Jason's voice stops me. His tone is venomous, laced with outrage over my audacity. I can't really blame him for his tone, but the question itself is cruel. Cruel and fair.

"Do you fuck my sister?"

I don't turn around but look over my shoulder at him. "What kind of question is that?"

"You want to know if I fucked that guy, right? Seems like I should know your business if you're asking mine."

"It's different," I say, although I'm not sure it is. "We're married. I'm not off fucking half the population of a small country and broadcasting it for everyone to see."

His chair scrapes loudly against the hardwood flooring and nearly topples over. The clatter of heavy metal on hardwood is loud, but I barely register the sound before Jason is in my face, crowding me just like he did in the bathroom back at the bar.

"You've been keeping tabs on me, yeah?" The sound of his voice, low and gravelly, has the same effect on me that it always did. I breathe through my mouth, trying not to let any of his smell or any other part of his nearness get to me. "Maybe you should mind your own fucking business, yeah? Who do you think you are? You think that just because we fucked once , that you have some say in who or how many people I stick my dick in? Or is it that you think you're better than me, because you're over here living your picture-perfect life playing house with my sister? Get over yourself, Mik. Whatever happened eighteen fucking years ago doesn't mean shit anymore."

My stomach clenches painfully, and I think for a moment that I might be sick again. I know I'm out of line, and I need to extricate myself from this situation before either of us gets any more worked up. He looks like he wants to strangle me, but Jason's aggression isn't what intimidates me. It's his closeness. His body heat is too much. His warm breaths puff against my skin. The scent of whiskey mixed with fresh grass and sweat permeates the air between us. It's all so overwhelming. I turn my head to the side, like an animal submitting to a predator, and try to suck in air that he hasn't recycled.

"You're right," I concede, swallowing my pride and my heart. "It's none of my business."