between them, reassuring and familiar as the feel of Ruth’s hand in hers, that let Hannah maintain her composure. Until they finally reached the front door and opened it to find Rae on the doorstep, her hand raised as if to knock.
“Oh!” she said. “Hannah! I’m so sorry I’m late. I was being—hey, are you okay?”
Hannah had lost count of the times she’d been asked that question tonight. But she’d never, not once, answered like this:
“No.”
22
“Well,” Evan said pleasantly. “You have about thirty seconds before I lose my temper and punch you in the face. I recommend you use those seconds to explain.”
“Hey,” Zach frowned. “He’s my brother. I’ll punch him in the face.”
“No-one’s punching me in the face,” Nate gritted out.
Evan snorted. “That’s what you think.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You know what? Go for it. Hit me. Maybe that’ll feel better than watching her run off like I’m a fucking leper.” Nate tunnelled his fingers through his hair and turned around, staring into the garden’s moonlit shadows. He sucked in a breath and forced his galloping thoughts to calm.
“It’s nothing,” she’d said, her voice light and even. Hannah was a terrible liar. He always knew when she was talking shit.
But when she’d said those words, it sounded as if she meant them. And all of a sudden, Nate wasn’t sure if he knew her as well as he thought.
You’re in love. People in love have bad judgement. People in love lie to themselves. People in love create fantasy worlds where everything is wonderful and the object of their affections feels the same, but you know Hannah’s been weird this week, and you’ve felt her drifting away from you, and...
“Hey,” Evan snapped. “I’m not fucking around. I don’t appreciate people taking advantage of my family.”
It didn’t make the slightest bit of sense, but the accusation in Evan’s tone made all of Nate’s worries disappear. Every last gnawing hesitation in his mind faded, replaced by the only truth that made sense.
Hannah kissed him when he couldn’t sleep. Hannah made fun of the shitty stick-and-poke tattoo on his knee. Hannah was his. They weren’t nothing. And if she’d managed to convince herself they were, that was okay. It was easy to lose sight of something when you kept it in the dark. He’d find her and hold her hand and tell her that he loved her until she remembered that they were everything.
He turned to face the two suspicious men, spreading his hands helplessly. “I love her. I am in love with Hannah. We are together. Our situation right now is not ideal, but life usually isn’t. I’m working on it. Okay?”
The silence that fell was punctuated only by the music floating out through the patio doors and an owl’s occasional hoot. For long, tense moments, Nate studied Evan’s glare and Zach’s scowl.
Then he lost his patience.
“If you have something to say, say it. If not, get the fuck out of my way. I need to find her.”
Finally, Zach shrugged. “Alright. I mean, I do technically trust you not to be a creepy, manipulative predator. I just really like Hannah.”
“So do I,” Nate ground out, turning to look at a stony-faced Evan. “Which is why I need to go and find her.”
Evan nodded, his eyes still narrowed. Then he stepped aside. Which was good, because Nate would knock the guy out if absolutely necessary, but it would probably take some work. Plus, Hannah wouldn’t like it.
“If you hurt her,” Evan said, “I will make a trophy out of your balls.”
Nate shrugged as he strode past the other men towards the house. “Pretty sure she’d do that herself.”
He heard Evan’s snort of laughter just before he stepped into the kitchen.
Hannah had never sat on a curb before, but she was sitting on a curb right now. Which was one of multiple signs that her mind had become an absolute shambles.
“There we go, honey,” Rae soothed, her hand circling Hannah’s back. “Let it out.”
Oh, yes. That was another sign of Hannah’s deteriorating mental state. She was crying. In public. Well, on a darkened street in the middle of the night, but still. Beside her, Ruth sat in awkward silence, radiating sympathetic mortification.
After a disturbingly long and snotty period of time, Hannah managed to stem the flow of rogue tears—they did not have a permit or a licence, damn them—and wipe her nose. If rubbing her wrist over her damp face could qualify as wiping her nose. Good God, she was acting like Josh.