Brutal Game (Flynn and Laurel #2)(30)

“A place I applied to last week. It’s a biotech company in Kendall Square—there’s an opening for an entry-level mechanical engineer, and the salary’s pretty great. I mean, not that I’ll get it necessarily, though I did do my degree project on the same sorts of systems they specialize in…”

He let her go on, not taking in much of the specifics but getting swept up in how excited she sounded, how hopeful and hyper and awake. Nice to get pulled out of his own gloom for a couple minutes.

Her wine arrived just as she seemed to be winding down. She raised the glass with a cheesy-ass, expectant smile.

Flynn lifted his water and they toasted. “That’s f*cking phenomenal, honey. Well done.”

“Thanks.”

“Dinner was already on me, but now we’re both required to get dessert.”

“Dinner ought to be on me,” she said, voice turning soft and private. “I know I haven’t been the easiest person to be around lately—”

“Hush. When’s the interview?”

“Friday. Hence the skirt. I needed to make sure I had an outfit worth turning up in.”

“They’re not wastin’ any time. You must be a catch.”

“Or they must be desperate.”

He shot her a stern look. “Knock that shit off. They’d be lucky to have you. Just make sure your boss is a fugly old f*cker, that’s all I ask.”

She laughed. “I’ll be sure to ask about that during the interview.”

“Wish you’d told me over the phone. I’d have found you some flowers.”

“Save them for when I actually get a job.”

“I know just the kind. The stinky white-and-pink ones.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling. “Oriental lilies.” Her favorites.

“That’s what I said.”

“You know what you’re ordering?”

“No clue.”

“Me neither.” She handed him a menu. “Let’s focus, shall we?”

He scanned the options, not taking much in.

She’s moving on. And so she should. Moving on from the grief and confusion and pain, and it seemed liked she’d dodged a bout of deeper depression to boot. But as she moved on, Flynn felt as if he was still stuck at square one, shell-shocked and helpless.

Suck it up, *. This whole situation… It had been her decision from the very start, her body that would’ve assumed the work of a pregnancy if she’d decided to keep it, and in the end, her body that bore the torture of the miscarriage. He got no say, and that was how it should be.

Though he couldn’t help but feel like the last man at the wake, alone with the casket while his ride home pulled away from the curb and left him behind.





9





Laurel doubted she’d ever eaten a meal half as delicious as tonight’s. The secret ingredient was relief, she supposed—relief that her body wasn’t hurting anymore, that she was finally free of maxi pads and backaches and that nagging feeling of tenderness, more emotional than physical.

She’d gone to see her gyno a few days earlier, to make sure the miscarriage had run its course. Everything had looked good, considering, and while she’d been there they’d inserted an IUD, as she no longer trusted the Pill any farther than she could spit one. As a bonus, the IUD didn’t rely on hormones, which was bound to be better for her moods.

Mixed with the relief was excitement. I have an interview. Something about the miscarriage—or the scary, brief reality of the pregnancy—had lit a fire under her ass. She’d applied for more jobs in the past two weeks than she bet she had in the six months preceding them. This was the first interview she’d been offered in all that time. She wasn’t foolish enough to get her hopes up, but just scoring an invitation felt big.

She looked to the driver’s seat, at Flynn’s stoic face lit by the dash and the chasing streetlights, gaze nailed to the road. Fists at ten and two. Which was a little odd, as half the time he drove one-handed. He seemed strained, in fact. She’d been so wrapped up in her good news, she’d failed to notice until now.

“You missing your workout?” she asked.

“No way I was passing up a date with you. Especially not with something to celebrate.” Pretty words, but his tone was strange and flat and off, like an instrument missing a string.

She nearly asked if he was okay, but held her tongue. She was guarded, she knew that, as guarded as Flynn was normally forthcoming. She’d never known him to hold back, and she was at a loss for how to approach him.

You’re overthinking it. Approach it the Michael Flynn way. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, just tired.”

Liar. “I’m only going to ask this one more time—are you sure?”

He looked her way. “I’m sure.”

“Okay.”

His eyes sought the road. “You know how I get when I don’t blow off steam after work. That’s all.”

“Oh, sorry. Is it too late to—”

“I’m fine.” He said it too quick, too gruff.

Laurel watched the scene streaking by her window—brick and ocean and sleeping steel cranes and more brick—for the rest of the drive, triumph forgotten, worries settling in like old friends around a smoky bar.