Tils. It’s not—”
“Yes, I do,” she interrupted. “More than you think I do.” She reached for him and cupped his face in her hands. “Drew, you are not your father.”
Anger pierced him and he pulled away from her. She’d hit a nerve, and they both knew it. “I never said I was.” The words erupted more coldly than he intended.
“Then tell me why you’re so afraid to let a woman get close to you?”
He shot off the bar stool. “This conversation is over.” To emphasize his point, he grabbed a cold bottle of cola from the fridge and headed out the sliding-glass door to the covered patio.
Instantaneous heat slammed into him, exacerbating his flash of temper. He’d been six when his mother had died, but he’d been old enough to know his old man had slunk into the bottom of a gin bottle and had never come out again. Alex Perry had given up when he’dlost his wife—on his family, on his career, and eventually, on his life. He hadn’t committed suicide, but he might as well have. Instead, he’d lingered, allowing his forgotten sons to witness his slow demise.
Drew stood at the edge of the patio, allowing his temper to simmer. With the plastic bottle of innocuous cola clutched tightly in his hand, he stared into the darkness of the backyard where he’d played as a kid with his brothers and Tilly. Beneath the light of the full moon, he could see his aunt’s vegetable garden needed watering. The sound of the sliding-glass door opening and closing along the track behind him drew his attention.
“You’re not going to let this drop, are you?” he asked when Tilly came up beside him.
“I want you to be happy,” she said quietly. “I care about you. You know that.”
He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long pull. The cool liquid did zilch to calm the rioting in his gut. “Then leave it alone,” he said after draining nearly half the bottle.
“Tell me why, Drew.” Her tone was a far cry from gentle and coaxing, but demanding and insistent instead.
He muttered a vile curse and turned to face her, knowing from years of friendship she’d hound him relentlessly until she wrangled the answer from him. “Because there’s no way in hell I’m going to be the cause of the kind of suffering my old man went through after Mom died. When he lost her, it killed him, Tilly. You know that as well as I do.”
Her eyes rounded in surprise as she absorbed his statement. “So,” she said thoughtfully, “this has nothing to do with you getting hurt, but it’s about you hurting someone else?”
He’d stunned her. Hell, he’d shocked himself by verbalizing the truth. The anger he’d been nursing started to ebb. “I refuse to be responsible for that kind of pain,” he said in a softer tone.
She let out a long, even breath, tucked her hands into the front pockets of her olive-green walking shorts and rocked back on her heels. “You know what?” she said after a few moments of blessed silence. “I love you, Drew. You’re my oldest and closest friend, but you’re a moron.”
He turned to look down at her. “Excuse me?” He expected one of her smiles, but instead found her glaring at him, her expression grim.
“You heard me.”
“Now, wait just a minute—”
She put up her hand, effectively stilling his argument to the contrary. “You’re an idiot. No wonder you’re afraid of Emily. She’s smarter than you.”
“Are you finished yet?” he groused at her. He’d certainly had more than enough of Tilly’s brand of psychoanalysis for one night.
Her expression held tempered disgust. She walked away from him, but stopped and spun around to face him once she reached the door. “You cannot control how someone loves you.” She flung the words at him. They landed like blunt weapons against his conscience. “It simply is not your responsibility. And you’d betterfigure that out in a hurry before you compound your idiocy by letting Emily Dugan slip through your fingers.”
“What
“Yes, I do,” she interrupted. “More than you think I do.” She reached for him and cupped his face in her hands. “Drew, you are not your father.”
Anger pierced him and he pulled away from her. She’d hit a nerve, and they both knew it. “I never said I was.” The words erupted more coldly than he intended.
“Then tell me why you’re so afraid to let a woman get close to you?”
He shot off the bar stool. “This conversation is over.” To emphasize his point, he grabbed a cold bottle of cola from the fridge and headed out the sliding-glass door to the covered patio.
Instantaneous heat slammed into him, exacerbating his flash of temper. He’d been six when his mother had died, but he’d been old enough to know his old man had slunk into the bottom of a gin bottle and had never come out again. Alex Perry had given up when he’dlost his wife—on his family, on his career, and eventually, on his life. He hadn’t committed suicide, but he might as well have. Instead, he’d lingered, allowing his forgotten sons to witness his slow demise.
Drew stood at the edge of the patio, allowing his temper to simmer. With the plastic bottle of innocuous cola clutched tightly in his hand, he stared into the darkness of the backyard where he’d played as a kid with his brothers and Tilly. Beneath the light of the full moon, he could see his aunt’s vegetable garden needed watering. The sound of the sliding-glass door opening and closing along the track behind him drew his attention.
“You’re not going to let this drop, are you?” he asked when Tilly came up beside him.
“I want you to be happy,” she said quietly. “I care about you. You know that.”
He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long pull. The cool liquid did zilch to calm the rioting in his gut. “Then leave it alone,” he said after draining nearly half the bottle.
“Tell me why, Drew.” Her tone was a far cry from gentle and coaxing, but demanding and insistent instead.
He muttered a vile curse and turned to face her, knowing from years of friendship she’d hound him relentlessly until she wrangled the answer from him. “Because there’s no way in hell I’m going to be the cause of the kind of suffering my old man went through after Mom died. When he lost her, it killed him, Tilly. You know that as well as I do.”
Her eyes rounded in surprise as she absorbed his statement. “So,” she said thoughtfully, “this has nothing to do with you getting hurt, but it’s about you hurting someone else?”
He’d stunned her. Hell, he’d shocked himself by verbalizing the truth. The anger he’d been nursing started to ebb. “I refuse to be responsible for that kind of pain,” he said in a softer tone.
She let out a long, even breath, tucked her hands into the front pockets of her olive-green walking shorts and rocked back on her heels. “You know what?” she said after a few moments of blessed silence. “I love you, Drew. You’re my oldest and closest friend, but you’re a moron.”
He turned to look down at her. “Excuse me?” He expected one of her smiles, but instead found her glaring at him, her expression grim.
“You heard me.”
“Now, wait just a minute—”
She put up her hand, effectively stilling his argument to the contrary. “You’re an idiot. No wonder you’re afraid of Emily. She’s smarter than you.”
“Are you finished yet?” he groused at her. He’d certainly had more than enough of Tilly’s brand of psychoanalysis for one night.
Her expression held tempered disgust. She walked away from him, but stopped and spun around to face him once she reached the door. “You cannot control how someone loves you.” She flung the words at him. They landed like blunt weapons against his conscience. “It simply is not your responsibility. And you’d betterfigure that out in a hurry before you compound your idiocy by letting Emily Dugan slip through your fingers.”
“What
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