“I know,” Michael said, crouching to rub his neck. “You miss her, too.”
The dog jumped on the sofa and whined again. Michael couldn’t even bring himself to sit on the sofa, but that was where Clancy spent most of his time, curled up on the ugly afghan she’d probably left on purpose for the dog. And then there were the two sweaters folded neatly on the dining table next to the vase of dead flowers. What the hell was he supposed to do with those? Even a charity would have a hard time placing sweaters with mismatched sleeves.
After two more trips to the bar, the ache in his chest hadn’t loosened. But his ability to focus had. His thoughts ping-ponged back and forth, from staying the course and giving her space, to seeking her out and trying to set things straight.
He was home alone on a Friday night, wandering his empty apartment in his underwear and getting drunk. Pathetic.
“We can’t go on like this,” he said to Clancy, who lifted his head. “We either need to move on, or…or…” Or what? Get her to move in? It wasn’t going to happen. There was nothing he could say that would show her how he felt or how wrongly she had read the situation.
Dr. Whittelsey was right. It was that rigidity and need for control that had fucked him over. Instead of plowing ahead with his plan, he should have taken the time to explain exactly why he didn’t want her in the photos with him, rather than let her jump to an understandably wrong conclusion. But by now she knew. He downed the last of his glass and placed it in the kitchen sink where it belonged.
“Even Michael Anderson can’t control everything,” she’d said.
But at that time, he’d thought he could. Not her. Never her, but the situation. Mia couldn’t be controlled. That was one of the things about her that had attracted him the most. Her impulsiveness and sense of whimsy.
From the kitchen, he shuffled to the mantle again and ran his fingers over the items on the picture frame, stopping at the ice cream wrapper. “You’re not what I need,” she’d said when he kissed her on the bridge.
No shit.
“But she’s what I need, Clancy. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
The dog flopped his tail twice.
“What I need…” Oh, hell. It was turning into a regular pity party. “What I need is more scotch.”
A loud knock sounded on the door, and adrenaline bounced through his brain, almost making him feel sober. That same adrenaline dropped to his feet when he opened the door to find his brothers there.
“Hey! Nice outfit, Mikey,” Will said, walking in without an invitation.
“Looking good there, big brother,” Chance muttered, following right behind.
He looked down at his underwear then back at his brothers. “I’m in my own home after midnight on a Friday night. You’re lucky I’m wearing anything at all. You should call first.”
Will sat on the sofa and Clancy leapt immediately into his lap. “No, it was a planned surprise attack.”
Chance picked up the half empty bottle of scotch from the bar. “You shouldn’t be drinking alone, Michael.”
“I’m not.”
Both of his brothers glanced toward this bedroom then back at him.
“I’m…” He tried to look nonchalant, which was hard to do wearing only underwear. “I’m drinking with Clancy.”
“Aw, shit. Don’t tell me you’ve developed a sense of humor,” Will said. “It’s going to be a lot harder if you have.”
“What’s going to be harder?”
“This is an intervention,” Chance said.
Michael barked out a laugh. “I’ve only had four drinks. I’m barely buzzed. What the fuck?”
Will pitched some newspapers on the table. “Have you seen the papers?”
“No.” Suddenly, his buzz morphed into a headache.
“Well you should.”
He had intentionally not read anything since the wedding. He couldn’t bear seeing the things they’d say about her. It had taken all of his self-control, but he’d resisted. “No.”
“Newest Catch in the Anderson Web,” Chance read.
“Michael Anderson’s Love ’em and Leave ’em Legacy Continues,” Will added.
“Forever Eligible.”
“Wild Weekend Getaway Ends in Violence.”
That got his attention. “What?”
Will turned the paper to show the picture of him holding Jason by the collar.
He groaned and sat in a chair opposite the sofa.
“What’s going on, Michael? You told us you had everything under control.” Will set the papers down and relaxed back against the sofa cushions.
“You assaulted a guy over a Type B,” Chance added.
Michael shook his head to clear it. Type B: Those who want me for sex.
God. They’d labeled Mia as a Type B, exactly as he knew they would. “No. It’s not like that.”
His brothers sat perfectly still, their attention unwavering on his face.
Shit. He’d never had to explain himself to his brothers before. Not ever in his life. “She’s not like that.”