Page 58 of Faultlines

Jensen chuckles. “I feel like there’s a story there.”

“There are definitely several stories there,” I murmur, more to myself than to Jensen.

“I think they’re out of Ironwood Flats,” Reid says.

The rest of the evening, my thoughts are consumed by something other than Brooke. I observe the brothers’ interactions, drawn to the intensity of their bond. They inhabit different worlds, yet they sit across from each other with an ease that suggests a thousand prior encounters, a shared history as intricate as the tattoos on Titan’s arms.

While Finn speaks, his brother is constantly scanning the room. His behavior gives me the distinct impression that the larger brother has spent most of his life watching for whatever might come through the door before the other even notices it’s there.

The evening at The Fiddler’s Rest far exceeds my expectations. Between Reid’s endless stories, Jensen’s terrible jokes, and the welcome distraction of discussing anything but my personal life, I almost forget the mess I’ve made.

As we finally settle the tab and step outside, the parking lot is empty. The glow from the pub’s sign—a neon shamrock buzzing—casts long shadows across the damp pavement.

Jensen claps me on the shoulder, the sudden pressure causing a jolt. “Try not to brood the rest of the night.”

“I don’t brood.”

Reid snorts. “You brood.”

“I do not.”

“You’ve spent the last month walking around like you’re bracing for something to fall on you,” he says, his voice laced with amusement.

A sigh passes my lips. “You two are exhausting.”

“And yet you love us,” Jensen says, a playful glint in his eyes.

We exchange our goodbyes before I walk to my truck.

I climb in and start the engine and stare through the windshield knowing my next decision is reckless. Home is fifteen minutes east, but I pull out of the parking lot and head in the other direction. For several miles, I argue with myself, the internal debate a relentless drumbeat in my skull. I turn the radio on, then off. At the first red light I pick up my phone, and open Brooke’s contact.

Are you home?

My thumb hovers over the screen. The message sits there for thirty seconds before I finally hit send. The light turns green, and I press the gas. A minute later, my phone buzzes, and my heart jumps, so I pull over to the side of the road.

Brooke: Yeah. Just got home.

I exhale, knowing I should put the phone away. Instead, I type another message.

How was the rest of your night?

The response comes almost instantly.

Brooke: Quiet. Yours?

The guys forced me to have a beer.

Brooke: Forced you?

I found it traumatic.

A laughing emoji appears, and I find myself reading it twice before I can move on. Pulling myself out of it, I send another message.

Do you want company?

The reply doesn’t come right away, and uncertainty creeps in. Maybe she’ll say no. Maybe she’ll make the decision I seem incapable of making. Then my phone buzzes.

Brooke: Aren’t you expected at home?