K. Bromberg: Sweet Ache

“I’ve never done this before, Quin,” he says, voice strained. I startle a bit, surprised that he knows I’m here.

I take a step toward him, holding on to a ray of hope that he’s saying what I think he’s saying.

“Never done what before?”

“Today. Tonight. You. Me. Any of this.” I try to follow what he’s saying. He’s got a habit of sharing what he’s thinking without explaining at first so I grant him the moment to formulate just what he wants to say. I step up behind him and place my hands on his shoulders, ghost my body to his back and just wait him out.

He blows out a loud breath and shakes his head ever so slightly, fingers tinkering softly on the keys. “What I just said in those lyrics … By now I’m usually shoving someone away, but you … I don’t want to do that with you. And not because I feel guilty about Hunter—which I do and always will and—”

“Shh. Shh,” I murmur into the top of his head, not wanting to rehash the seven other times tonight that I told him Hunter’s actions aren’t on him. And riding right alongside of that is the damn hope again causing my heart to squeeze in my chest in anticipation. “Even when you push me away, Hawkin …” He starts to shake his head to tell me that he’s not and so I continue so that I can explain. “It’s going to happen. It’s all you know. I’ll be patient, I’ll wait you out as long as you fight harder to keep me than you do to push me away.”

He drops his head forward, nodding. “I will fight harder…. I’m pretty sure the bruises on my knuckles are proof.” He snorts out a laugh and now I feel like shit because that’s not what I meant. I reach down and lift one of his hands up to my lips and press a kiss to the bruises there.

He draws in a deep breath. “What I’m trying to say Quin is that I almost fucked this up by not telling you about the bet. I’m sorry. I was too busy holding on to who I thought I was to recognize the man you saw in me.” Tears spring to my eyes instantly, and I squeeze his shoulders for him to continue. “But I see him now. You’ve allowed me to see him, to want to become him. I know that the promises I made to a desperate man when I was nine are not mine to keep. It’s time to start living life for me, so I can prove those theories wrong, and the first step for me is trying to make this work with you.”

He looks up to me now with a steady gaze, our eyes lock, and my smile spreads automatically. How can it not when I’m looking at this incredible man, trying to be the person so many of us have seen for so long? He’s always denied it about himself, but now he’s stepping forward. His eyes ask the question I think he’s afraid to voice aloud. I lower myself gingerly to the bench beside him.

I take in his handsome face, black eye and all, his sculpted lips, and those gray eyes holding mine captive. His unease is palpable; the vulnerability radiates off him as if he cut open a vein, and my need to soothe his worries takes over. I reach out to press my fingertips to the softness of his lips and hold them there. He kisses them gently and my heart melts at the intimacy of the action.

“Sometimes first steps entail a helluva lot of tripping and falling,” I tell him, hoping he really hears what I’m saying because I need to let him know he’s not alone here in how he feels. “But it’s okay because I promise I’ll be there to catch you when you fall.” I lean forward and replace my fingers with my lips, in a gentle reinforcement of my words. “You see, I can catch you because I already tripped and fell head over heels a while back.”

I wish I could capture the look on his face, the quick intake of air, the sudden off-chord press of the piano keys, as record of the moment, but I don’t think I need to because it’s burned into my mind without a doubt.

“Really?” he asks me, incredulity in his tone and expressed in his face. He looks to me, eyes wide, lips wanting to smile but fearful he’s misinterpreting what I’m saying. He makes me think of a little boy searching for an answer with cautious optimism.

I nod my head shyly, wanting him to see this is possible. That we can figure it all out, take everything that’s been wrong and turn it into our own kind of right. We don’t need to be perfect—we are never going to be and I’m okay with that. Bumps along the road are expected, misunderstandings and miscommunication are a given, but it’s how we move on from there that will make us last.

A shy smile starts to spread on his lips. “Well, if I’m gonna fall, there’s no place else I’d rather land than on top of you,” he deadpans, with such relief in his eyes that I want this with him, whatever this ends up being, more than ever.

The laughter falls freely from my mouth, the one thing I can always count on when it’s him and me.

I guess I took an iron to that piece of paper after all, got rid of most creases. And the ones that remain? I will love them for being there, adding in a little history, telling our story, and reminding me where we’ve been and how we got here.

And when he taps out the beginning notes of Tom Petty’s “Free Falling” on the piano in front of him, the gravity of our day fades away and the poignancy of the moment we’re sharing right now hits both of us. We erupt into another fit of laughter.

He leans in and brushes a tender kiss on my lips, so paranoid to touch me anywhere else for fear it might hurt me. I fist my hand in his hair and as much as my muscles scream, I can’t resist pulling him in closer so that we can lose ourselves in each other, sear the commitment of this moment in our minds and weave it around our hearts.

“When you feel better,” he murmurs against my lips, “I’m taking you on this piano.”

“Still working on finishing the band, are we?” I arch an eyebrow, feeling such a surge of emotion and love for this man before me.

“Sweetness, we’ve got a whole helluva lot of instruments to play yet.”

He places a lingering kiss on my lips that causes that ache to settle deep in my belly. I lean back and look into his storm-cloud gray eyes. “The only Play I want is the one right in front of me.”

Chapter 39

QUINLAN

“So here’s the schedule.” Hawke lays a calendar on the table in front of me. The ocean breeze rustles it some so I take it in my hands and hold it up to look at Bent’s tour schedule over the next few weeks. The cities and venues are marked on each day and then every few days feature bright red asterisks in pen that have no rhyme or reason.

“Thank you,” I say distractedly to the waitress as she sets down my drink. After gazing at the calendar for another minute, I still can’t figure out the red marks that bleed all over the page. “What are …?” My thought trails off when I lift my eyes and meet Hawkin’s.

He’s staring at me beneath the shield of a baseball cap, the bruise on his face almost gone now, and I can see the amusement mixed with love in his eyes clear as day. A soft smile curls up one side of his mouth as the moment stretches on. “Figure it out yet?”

“The red?”

“Mm-hm.” He nods his head and tips back the bottle of beer to his lips. There’s no specific pattern and the closer I scrutinize the dates, they cover over two-thirds of the days on the tour. I look back up at him, eyes narrowed, and shrug. Hawke leans forward and kisses me. “I’m making it count, Trixie,” he murmurs against my lips before leaning back to see my reaction. “I thought you might want to come cause trouble with me.”

My heart squeezes in my chest because my love for him has grown stronger with each passing day. I can feel my mouth fall lax in surprise before spreading into a beaming grin. “Really? You want me to come visit you on tour?”