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“Am I hearing you right?” I make myself toss the socket wrench onto the bench before I give into the urge to lay it across his face. “You’re concerned because I’m no longer downing enough Jameson to float a boat on a daily basis.”
“When was the last time you got laid?” He runs a hand through his hair, blowing out a frustrated sigh. “Because by my count, it’s been weeks.”
Henley.
She was the last.
And he knows it.
“Wow,” I say, avoiding the question altogether. “Now the fact that I’m keeping it in my pants and pulling my weight behind the bar is an issue?”
“No, man,” he says, shaking his head at me. “The issue is that you’re about to go nuclear—you know it. I know it—so just quit, okay? Stop pretending you’re okay because you’re not.”
He’s right. I’m not okay. I feel like road-kill. I’m hearing things. Seeing shit. To be 100% honest, I’m not even sure Patrick is actually here. I could be arguing with one of Tess’s stray cats for all I fucking know.
Which perfectly justifies what I say next. “I’ve been meaning to ask… how is Legs?” I tilt my head. Give him a grin. He hates it when I call Cari by the nickname I gave her the night we met. “Oh, yeah… you wouldn’t know. Because you’re hiding from her.”
Something ugly flashes across his face, fast and dark, but he wrangles it in. Stuffs it somewhere deep before it can take root. “I’m giving her time. Space. It’s what she needs, and I love her enough to give it to her. No matter how it makes me feel.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” I say. “From where I’m sitting, you’re chicken shit for not going after her.”
He shakes his head at me, refusing to take the bait. “My situation with Cari is completely different from what’s happening between you and Henley.”
“Nothing is happening.” I turn, slamming the hood of the car I was working on. “I fucked her a few times—so what?”
“You’ve been in love with her since we were kids,” he says, completely ignoring me. “When she left, it fucked you up.”
He’s wrong. It wasn’t her leaving that fucked me up. It was seeing her happy. Watching her move on from me that killed me.
She doesn’t belong to you, Gilroy. Not anymore.
“I was fucked-up long before the number she did on me, Cap’n.” I grin at him. “Unlike some people, I own my shit.” It’s a jab aimed directly where it’ll hurt him most and it works.
His eyes go dark and his fists clench before relaxing. He shakes his head at me, his expression slowly smoothing out. “Not everything has to be a goddamned knife-fight, you know?”
Before I can either say something extra shitty or punch him in the mouth, Tess’s watch goes off, filling the tense silence between us with its incessant squawking.
It’s seven o’clock.
Needing some sort of confirmation, I shoot a look out the open roll-up. It’s dark outside. Looking around the garage, I notice things. The Civic Tess was working on this morning is parked outside, having been swapped with the Mustang that was her next in line. There’s a Benny’s to-go bag on my work bench, the words EAT ME, DUMBASS! Scrawled across the front in her heavy block lettering.
Seven hours have passed, and I can’t account for any of them.
“Look.” I yank the watch off and reset it before tossing it next to my wrench. “It’s been real fun, but can you just say whatever you came to say—I’ve got shit to do.”
“Fine.” Patrick sighs, nodding his head before straightening himself from his slump. “Stay away from the bar until you get yourself right.”
“Get myself right?” I laugh. I haven’t been right for years, if I ever was. “How do you propose I do that, Cap’n? Drink and fuck myself to death?”
He gives me a look, one that says he knows. Understands. Seeing it on his face makes me want to throw myself into traffic. “You were never one for stupid questions, cousin.” He picks up the bag Tess left behind, its cold, heavy contents thunking me in the chest when he tosses it at me on his way out the door. “Don’t start asking them now.”