I thought I’d gotten past this. I thought I was getting better. My body shook as I cried into Ryan’s lap, realizing it was never really going to get better.
This was all there was.
Chapter Six
Ryan
OLIVIA FELL BACK into a funk I couldn’t drag her out of for the next three days. Luckily, I had Mondays off from work. I puttered around the house while she slept late, tackling some of the easier projects on our never-ending “honey do” list. It kept my hands busy while staying close by in case she needed anything. Stitch followed closely on my heels as if he knew something was off. I wished I could call Dr. Paul for advice, but he wasn’t my therapist.
Maybe Olivia was right. Maybe marriage counseling was the answer. I was still angry about her lying to me, even though I was trying hard to forgive her. They’d both been right about one thing—it had been my idea. Part of me wanted to hold onto my justifiable anger, but the rational side knew I had to come to peace with what happened if we were going to save our marriage. And if not peace, then at least come to terms with my responsibility as the catalyst.
I grunted as I crawled under the laundry room sink and worked on fixing the small leak. I was sure I just needed to tighten the slip nut and maybe wrap the old pipe with a little plumbing tape. I lay on my back, looking up at the ancient piping system. They sure didn’t make things like they used to. As I worked on tightening the clamp, I thought of Brighton. It wasn’t the first time I wished things could’ve turned out differently. He’s someone I would’ve felt comfortable talking through stuff like this with—and not just about the leak, but how to make things right with Liv.
I heard a small creak I didn’t like and pulled my hand back. I inspected the pipe, and it looked as good as it could for a house that was over a hundred years old, so I went back to tightening the slip nut.
I didn’t like how I’d left things with Brighton on Friday. Yeah, I had every right to be pissed about what he’d done with Olivia. But I certainly hadn’t intended to see where everything went down. I don’t know what came over me. But the jealousy burned hot in my core as I stood there staring at him, thinking about him touching her without me.
That was the kicker. The part I was afraid to examine too closely.
Without me.
The truth was, I missed us all being together more than I cared to admit. I wished I could rewind time and reconsider how quickly I’d cut everything off out of fear. Because as weird as it sounded, there was a part of me that loved the way he touched her. Loved the way she opened up with him differently than she was able to with me. Not better, just . . . different.
I wasn’t sure how I really felt about everything now. I was torn between being angry and upset to just wanting everything to go back to the way it was—when Brighton was a part of the solution and not the problem.
It wasn’t even the physicality that was the issue—he’d been right about that. The emotional intimacy that drew them to one another was what terrified me the most. I knew she loved me. That wasn’t even a question. What I didn’t know was whether she loved him too much to truly let him go. And if she couldn’t? What then?
I didn’t have time to ponder the answer because the corroded pipe creaked a little louder, then proceeded to snap. Residual dirty water that was lingering in the P-trap dripped all over my clean, white T-shirt. I held a section of the broken pipe in my hand and cursed. On my way out of the cabinet, I hit my head on the hardwood casing and swore again.
I marched over to Brighton’s house and knocked. His truck was in the driveway, and I knew he could help me fix this. I knocked louder. When he still didn’t answer, I tested the knob and found it unlocked.
Pushing the door open, I called out, “Kerrington? You home?”
Home. The thought lodged itself in my heart. He hadn’t lived here for most of the summer, staying with us instead as the dirty renovations amped up. Still, it now felt like Brighton’s home. The thought of anyone else living here churned my stomach and made me feel like I had a bad case of indigestion. I’d have to talk to him about Livy’s reaction to the family she’d seen at the open house. Maybe ask if he could be a little picky about who he sold it to. I knew I didn’t have a right to ask. But if he loved her like he said he did, he’d do anything to protect her, wouldn’t he? And I needed his help doing just that.
I searched the first floor and couldn’t find him anywhere, so I headed up to the second floor to the library. It called to me like a siren, my curiosity luring me in farther, deeper into the heart of the home. Kerrington wasn’t there, but the door to the small, hidden room was open, taunting me.
I ground my jaw, unable to step toward it, even though I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The room was small—not long enough for a man as tall as Brighton to lay down on the cozy reading bench. That meant one of two things—and both options created a poisonous mix of rage and desire within me.
“Ryan?”
I swung around at the sound of Brighton’s voice, dropping the corroded pipe.
“What the hell are you doing in here? Did you come to take me out? With a pipe? In the library?”
I snorted. He had no clue the crazy thoughts that were racing through my mind right now. But as I stood there staring at him, the anger slowly ebbed from being directed at him and aimed at all we’d lost. And I didn’t know what the hell to do with any of that.
“Nah, I’m no Professor Plum,” I joked. “If anyone wants to take you out, I’ll leave it in Miss Scarlett’s hands. She’s more than capable.”
“Touché,” he said. “But seriously. What’s with the pipe?”
“I was trying to fix our laundry room sink. Had a little leak. Now I have a gaping hole where this pipe used to be.”
“And you’re here because . . . ?”
“I don’t know. I thought you could fix it really quick. Surely you have some PVC pipe lying around. Maybe a new P-Trap?”
Brighton folded his arms over his broad chest and lifted a brow. “I’m not your personal handyman, Ryan. Why don’t you just call a plumber?”
I started to answer, then stopped. Why had I come over here instead of calling a plumber? “Look, can we sit and talk for a minute?”
Brighton eyed the pipe, skeptical. I set it on the nearest table and walked over to the couch. “I’ll be careful not to get my dirty shirt anywhere near your fancy pillows.”
He sauntered over, but it didn’t escape me that his eyes flickered briefly to the hidden room. “Hang on,” he said. He walked over and pressed a button inside the small space. The wall immediately began to close, a bookcase swiftly covering up the evidence of my wife’s affair.
He joined me in the sitting area, plopping down in one of the comfortable armchairs near the fireplace. His arms draped over the back, his body filling the space with his overwhelming presence. Is this what she’d fallen for? The confidence that radiated off Brighton was brighter than Edward Cullen’s chest in the sunlight. He was a man unapologetically used to taking up space, yet never caring that all eyes were on him. I couldn’t help but recall the first time I’d met him. How I thought he would be a douchebag with his square, firm jawline, overly bright smile, and shirtless chest flexing as he crossed the yard toward me after a long day of hard work.