Page 39 of Up in Smoke (The Bunkhouse #3)

MESA

I waited to cry again.

Since receiving the call about Tripp’s accident and then handling the damage at my house, I promised myself I’d hold it together.

No more heaving sobs or violent sniffs. Now that it’s damn near time for the sun to come up again, I’m approaching the bunkhouse, with every intention I had of not losing it gone.

I go inside and make my way toward his bathroom with a fat pair of identical tears trailing down my cheeks. I don’t hear him talking or fumbling around, but the shower is on.

Steam rolls through the cracks of the thankfully unlocked door. I knock while entering, but get no response. The outlines of his body are clouded from the fogged-up glass shower door.

“T?”

I tiptoe around the mess of clothes on the floor until I’m right next to him, only the glass door separating us. Even with the obstructed view, I can tell that his head is down. His body still. One hand is braced on the tiled wall to hold himself up.

Tripp’s flattened palm slides down the shower wall until he nods forward and then lifts it to put it back in its original place. I’m taking off my clothes the moment I see his shoulders begin to shake.

He doesn’t flinch when the shower door loudly clicks closed behind me.

I gently rest one hand on the middle of his hunched back, and then slowly smooth it up his spine.

Of course I want to comfort him. But I’m also taking inventory.

Other than some scratches and faint bruises on his arm, everything seems intact.

Heart still beating.

Lungs still expanding.

Confirming for myself that he isn’t seriously harmed is a relief, but a dull headache builds behind my eyes at the same time. The adrenaline keeping me on edge through the early hours of the morning until he got home has finally lowered in its intensity.

Waiting for him to say something proves pointless. After a minute of silence and rubbing his back, I step closer.

“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper. Not just to him. To both of us.

He shakes his head that’s hanging directly under the stream of hot water. I smooth a hand over his trembling arm that’s braced against the wall, careful to avoid any scratches. He doesn’t move or pull it down. In fact, he lifts his shoulder to try and shake my hand off his back.

I don’t take it personally because Warren admitted to me how drunk they were tonight.

I wish Tripp would turn toward me, but taking his other hand or pulling at his shoulder might hurt him if he’s sore. I could let it be and give him space, but my heartbeat picks up the moment I back away.

I step closer, and it slows to a normal rhythm again.

“I’m not leaving,” I say, soft but confident.

He swipes angrily at the water on his face with his free hand, then shifts the bulk of his body weight from one foot to the other.

I’d hold him if I could. My brain took that thought as a literal suggestion, and my feet carry me forward until my front is fully pressed to his back.

My head turns so that I can lay my cheek flat between his shoulder blades.

My arms circle his torso, one hand landing over his belly button and the other just below his chest.

No holes. No cuts. I take a deep breath.

I squeeze once, then settle into a gentle but steady hold.

He allows the embrace for a while. My face is soaked from the spray of water cascading down his back, reminding me that I’ve been nothing but a punching bag for falling water tonight.

I close my eyes and press my cheek to his back with even more pressure.

“You scared me,” I whisper.

It’s not until he lifts the arm at his side and covers my hand near his chest with his that I let a few more tears fall. His hand fully cloaks mine with a warm weight that I think, I hope , soothes both of us. His head lifts slightly, and his arm that’s braced against the wall comes down.

Eventually, both of his hands trap mine to his body.

His voice is hoarse when he finally speaks to me. “You’re my one good thing.”

I lift my head, turn it the other way, and press my opposite cheek to his back. His thumbs trace over my knuckles. I sigh to keep myself from breaking down right along with him. That, or spill every desperate thought in my head.

“You’re made up of nothing but good things,” I say. “That’s what I think.”

“You don’t know the half of what I’m made up of.”

I’d like to slap him on the hip and hit him with a how dare you. Instead, I shake my head with enough movement for him to feel it against his skin.

“That’s a lie. I know everything about you.”

Don’t I? It stings hearing him say otherwise. I rely on the fact that it could be the alcohol talking to keep me from letting it go to my head too much.

“Maybe. I wish you didn’t.”

Every inch of my skin hurts. The water turns lukewarm, effectively putting a timer on our embrace.

This shower is turning into a capsule of previously unsaid truths, apparently.

I see him, but he doesn’t want me to. In such a vulnerable state, I think he’d prefer those parts of him that only I know to be concealed again.

“Are you saying that so you can go back into hiding now? Is that it?”

The confusion and hurt in my chest don’t filter into my tone of voice, thankfully. I try to remain as calm as possible, considering how dejected he seems.

“I guess so.”

He sighs, and I realize we’ve officially backtracked when his head drops again. This couldn’t have just been easy for us, could it? I loosen my arms enough to sneak around to his front. He’s still looking down when I press my body to his and look up into his eyes.

“You don’t get to do that anymore,” I state.

“Why?”

“Because now that I’m here, I won’t let you. I won’t . I’d never stand by while you’re hurting, and I won’t stand by while you try to pull away, either.”

My limbs tighten around him in a vice, but he doesn’t soften into them. The water is entirely cold now. Rapid streams race down my face, but I stare through them, unwilling to break our eye contact.

His forehead drops to mine after ten painfully cold seconds of staring, only to lean away again a moment later. The shock of the frigid waterfall above me matches the burst in my chest when I notice his tight jaw and the pain in his eyes.

Tripp pulls away, sniffs, and reaches around me to shut off the water. I’m shivering, and it’s not just from the loss of hot water. My teeth chatter when he locks eyes with me again.

“Go home,” he mumbles.

I hug my arms around my middle while he steps out and quickly dries off. He wraps the towel around his waist, and I think he might walk away. But with a sigh, he pulls me out to stand on the memory foam bath mat and grabs a folded gray towel from the cabinet.

He doesn’t rub me down with it until I’m no longer wet.

Instead, he simply wraps it around my shoulders like a blanket.

Whatever storm was brewing inside of him during that shower seems fully developed now.

I sense the static-charged evidence of it without even touching him.

Like the one outside, it’s reached land and might destroy everything in its path.

Despite his suggestion for me to leave, I pad across the hall in his wake.

My hair is still drenched, and several beads of cold water trickle down my forehead and neck.

If I don’t have a debilitating cold tomorrow, it’ll be a miracle.

Tripp slips on a pair of briefs and, before fully sinking into bed, he glances at me out of the corner of his eye.

On my way to the bunkhouse, I’d imagined him emotionally spilling every detail while we held each other close through the night. I’d hoped I could comfort him, then take everything he told me and turn it into a hope-filled silver lining like he needs.

That’s what we do.

I don’t know what this is—the weird distance between us, his grunts, the avoidance.

“If you’d just talk to me—” I try.

My words are cut off by him removing the towel from around me and pulling one of his old, faded sweatshirts over my head. I’m sure it’s been washed a thousand times before, but it still smells like him.

If this were any other night, I’d make a joke about needing to comb and dry my hair before bed so that it’s not tangled and frizzy tomorrow. Tripp would ruffle the dark red locks on top of my head. He’d laugh. He’d smile at me and say he doesn’t care because he likes it like that.

“I’m stupid,” he finally says. “There’s not much else to say.”

For the first time tonight, I’m irritated, but I hold back the emotion. “I disagree.”

He isn’t speaking to me with a rude or annoyed tone, despite the way he rips back the covers and continuously rubs the side of his head. I notice the little bandages on his forehead and brow.

I cross my arms while he lies down and turns away.

Maybe I’m not providing him with the opportunity to speak freely. I have a habit of clocking every one of his negative outlooks, but I need to let him feel them now. Name them out loud instead of shoving them deeper.

“What if I just listen and try not to say anything while you tell me what happened?”

His shoulders rise and fall with several deep breaths before responding. “You’d regret hearing anything I have to say right now.”

Slowly, I step toward the bed and sit on the edge opposite him.

“Try me.”

He turns, sitting up and facing me. I match his glare until he realizes that I’m serious about wanting him to fucking tell me what happened.

“Fine,” he spits. “My biological father is an alcoholic asshole. That’d be bad enough if it weren’t for the fact that he also knowingly left me without a dad growing up.

He knew . He knew, and he was fine with it.

He’s a selfish, forever single, overly sarcastic loser with no family.

He’s me, Mesa. I’m a carbon copy of that piece of shit. ”

Tripp is entirely out of breath after letting his heart spill out in one quick rundown.