Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(22)

“Biscuits and gravy and bacon and eggs. Come on, sit down.” She motioned me forward, her tone sweet and melodic. Tilting her head to the side, her long, red hair spilled over the bare skin of her shoulder, framing her exquisite face. It was like something out of a dream, but the reality of it was a nightmare.

I didn’t know what Cletus had told her, but it was clear he’d done some serious over-exaggerating. When he got here, my brother and I were going to have words.

“You don’t need to stay,” I said, my voice low. Please. Leave. Now.

As though reading my thoughts, she responded softly, “How about this? The sooner you eat, the sooner I’ll leave.”

I debated my options, eventually conceding with a stiff nod. Eating would be the quickest way to be rid of her; I could eat everything in less than five minutes, but arguing with Scarlet was a gift that lasted a lifetime. Crossing to the desk, I pulled out the chair for myself and she stepped back. In my peripheral vision I saw her claim the rocking chair. She’d moved it closer, sitting on the edge of it just four or so feet away.

“It’s your momma’s biscuit recipe. Ashley gave it to me.”

Absentmindedly, I nodded again, my stomach cold and sour despite the delicious looking meal before me. I still had no appetite, my tongue tasted like sawdust, the smell of the food made me sick. But I’d eat it, every single bite.

I’d just placed the napkin on my lap and picked up my fork when she said, “Hey, Billy.”

“Yeah?”

“Why’d the early bird end up in Alpha Centauri?”

It was like being sideswiped, the blow coming out of nowhere. A booming, jarring shock of pain radiated from my heart to my limbs, debilitating me for a second. I closed my eyes, grimacing in the wake of it.

“Are you okay?” Her concerned voice was suddenly closer, I felt her hand press against my forehead, touching me. She touched me. “You don’t have a fever. Is it your hip? Can I—”

I pushed back from the table, standing, limping and stumbling away from wherever she was.

Without a doubt, I believed Scarlet had no idea what she did to me. She’d never sought to hurt me on purpose, I truly believed that. But in the end, it didn’t matter. It hadn’t mattered when we were teenagers and she left with Ben McClure; it hadn’t mattered during our short, tortuous months together or the years since; it definitely didn’t matter now.

In the end, it hurt badly, and I couldn’t handle any more hurt right now, especially not her brand of it. And given everything going on, I didn’t have the energy to lie—or hide, or pretend I wasn’t affected by her presence—in order to protect her feelings.

So I struggled to calm my racing pulse and the painful aftershocks squeezing my heart with every beat.

“Billy—”

I lifted a hand to stay her, closed my eyes briefly. When I opened them, I kept my attention affixed to the floor at her feet.

“Claire,” I began, hoping my use of her legal name would place more than just distance between us as I picked through my words carefully, “Please leave.”

“You’re in pain,” she both accused and pleaded. “I know the doctors gave you something for it, why won’t you take it?”

I winced. “It doesn’t—”

“Don’t tell me it doesn’t hurt. I know what I saw, it nearly doubled you over just now.”

“It’s not my hip.”

“Like hell it isn’t. Take a Tylenol, or anything! Something over the counter. I know sometimes pain meds can make people feel funny, out of it, and you don’t want the loss of control. I get that.”

She moved closer, and so I stepped back. “You don’t get it. You don’t understand.”

“Then tell me so I can help you—”

“It’s you,” I blurted, part of me regretting the words as soon as I said them.

But there was no taking back the truth now. As tired as I was of being rejected by this woman, I was equally tired of trying to hurt her with false indifference and simmering resentment. She’d never sought to injure, but—to my shame—the same couldn’t be said for me. I’d wanted to matter to her and in my desperation to matter, I’d been hostile and harsh, unkind.

But I didn’t want to try to force her to care about me anymore. She didn’t want me, I got it, message finally fucking received. I didn’t want to be that idiotic wasp, a modern-day Man of La Mancha, mindlessly hurling itself against an invisible, impenetrable barrier, or chasing windmills. I wanted peace. Quiet. Numbness. Silence. I wanted her to leave me alone.

I was done.

Rubbing my forehead with my fingertips, I committed to the truth. “It’s you, being here. It’s not my hip or my back. It’s you. I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to talk to you, and I don’t want you to tell me any goddamn jokes. I’ll eat whatever y’all bring up, but I’m asking you to leave and not come back.”

Steadying myself, I lifted my gaze to her wide, watchful one, hoping she’d understand the goal of my intentions was honesty. But my next words stalled as I looked at her, taking in her glassy eyes and ashen skin.

“Are you—are you okay?” The question launched out of me, propelled by concern. Truly, she did not look well.

Her mouth opened and closed with no sound and she stared at me, like I’d just slapped her.