Page 36 of Mountain Man

“She’s not Mom,” Beau said, and shoved his fingers through his hair. “Birdie’s hurting. She cares about you. Christ, I think she might love you.” He shook his head. “That makes you the luckiest bastard I know. I’d give anything for that, for a good woman like Birdie.”

I straightened. I’d never heard Beau talk like that. “But she’s leaving…”

“Ask her to stay,” he said.

I stared at Beau, still trying to recover from the eighteen-wheeler this news had just driven through my chest, but my brother hadn’t finished.

“You’re not the only one who has shit they’re dealing with because of Mom, and it’s taken me a long time, a lot of wrong turns, to work out what I want. And, Hank, if you don’t go to her and tell you how you feel, if you don’t stop her from getting in her car and driving away, that would also make you the dumbest bastard I know.”

“What if she leaves anyway?” I said, voice like nails on rusted tin.

Beau held my stare. “What if she doesn’t?”

Birdie

I stood at the bathroom counter and looked at my pale reflection.

How long would it take for this not to hurt so much, for me not to miss him like something vital had been torn out of me?

As every day passed I was more convinced that there would never be relief from it. I loved him. That didn’t just go away. It might fade in time, but I knew with everything in me that I would always feel this way.

Staying in this town, having him close…I couldn’t do it anymore. I had to go.

I finished washing my face, patted it dry, and pulled my hair band out, letting my hair fall loose.

Did he like the cake? Was he eating it now?

Was he thinking of me?

I knew he liked to be alone, but the thought of him in that house all by himself—I hated it. I worried that he might be lonely, if he was taking care of himself, if he was eating properly. Ridiculous. The man had been taking care of himself all his life. He certainly wasn’t starving himself. He didn’t need me.

Still, I’d made the damned cake, my way of saying goodbye, I guess. I wanted to do something that would make him happy, maybe even put a smile on his face.

Let him know I cared.

I weaved around the boxes stacked in the hall, into my bedroom, and changed for bed. The long-sleeved white thermal top had blue polka dots and was long, hitting mid-thigh. I never bothered with PJ bottoms when I wore it—they only twisted during the night and made me crazy.

It wasn’t late, but I was tired since I hadn’t been sleeping much lately. I knew I’d still end up staring at the ceiling all night, but I had to try and get back into a routine. My old routine, before Hank.

I headed to the kitchen and grabbed a glass out of one of the boxes on the counter.

There was a knock at the kitchen door.

I spun toward it, my hand flying to my chest.

The door was half wood, half clear glass. It was at the back of the house, so I’d never really worried about it.

Standing on the other side of the window, one hand to the doorframe, head close to the glass, eyes locked on me…was Hank.

Oh God.

I was moving across the room before my brain fully registered.

I flicked the lock and yanked open the door.

“You’re leaving?” he said on a harsh whisper.

“Hank…”