"Would it have done any good?"
He saw the flicker of something that looked like pain on her face. "No," she whispered.
"I didn't think so. And honestly, back then I wasn't sure I wanted to."
"No." She licked her lips. "Of course, you wouldn't have."
"Right." He wiped his hands on his jeans, feeling ten kinds of awkward. She was right there, just inches from him. The woman he craved with all his heart and soul--and he was making fucking small talk. "So, you saw Richie," he prompted because right then, that was the best he could think of.
"Yeah. I would have gone sooner but, I was afraid I might see you there, and--"
"Yeah. Couldn't have that."
"No," she whispered. "I was afraid I couldn't bear it."
He wanted to cry out that she'd been able to stand being with him for the two years they'd dated. Sleeping in his bed. Squeezing every bit of satisfaction from him as she screamed his name over and over in pleasure. That she could handle, but seeing him would have killed her. Because she'd had her epiphany. She'd realized what a fool she'd been, and she'd run away from him far and fast.
But all he said was, "Why did you go see him?"
Another little shrug. "I had my reasons. Mostly, I wanted to see that he was okay." She licked her lips. "And I thought he would know if you were okay. I couldn't imagine that you wouldn't have been by to see him yet."
"I had. I told him everything. Pretty goddamn selfish of me considering all he'd just been through, but then again, there's only so much you can say after thank God you're still alive. Well, thank God and the governor, anyway."
"Right," she said, her face tilted down as she twisted her fingers together. He frowned as a chill raced up his spine. Something was off. He just couldn't figure out what. "Brooke?"
When she lifted her face, he saw tears in her eyes.
"Brooke?" he repeated. "What is it?"
"It's just so tragic, what happened to him. And I was so relieved when his sentence got commuted." She flashed a smile, a smile that looked forced. "I'm just emotional, is all."
He didn't believe her, but he wasn't going to press. God knew, he'd pressed her enough that night.
He shifted on the seat, maneuvering into a more comfortable position. The seat was designed for two, but it was still crowded, especially if the two were adults trying very hard not to touch each other. When he was resettled, he realized that his leg was bumping up against hers.
And, having noticed it, that one tiny point of connection was all that he could think about.
"How's your dad?" she asked, apparently unaffected by their contact.
"He's doing okay. Mentally, he's still gone most days, but there are some good ones when he remembers me. Some bad ones when he only thinks about Richie." He'd had a stroke after Richie's first appeal had been denied, and had been in a nursing home ever since. "He's been in that home for years now," Spencer said with a shake of his head. "It's the longest he stayed in one place his whole life."
His father had never had a place of his own. He'd dragged Richie and Spencer from rental to rental, sometimes living out of a toolshed while he did renovation work on someone's house. Always building or fixing a home for someone else, never for himself or his family. Not enough money. Not enough time.
The irony was that now Spencer was nomadic, bunking with friends from the old neighborhood while he waited for title to the mansion, not wanting to spend a dime of his remaining cash on something as ridiculous as rent.
"I'm sorry," she said, but he just shrugged.
"We live a hard life, we Dean men. My dad worked his ass off, even if he never got the golden ticket."
"He did a good job with you."
Spencer ran his fingers through his hair. He'd forgotten how easy she was to talk to. How much he enjoyed just having her beside him. "He tried, that's for sure. And how did I repay him? I dropped out of the school he and Richie worked so hard to get me in."
"Cut yourself some slack. We both know there were extenuating circumstances. Your brother had just been sent up. Then later, your dad got ill. But you got your shit together, Spence." She shifted, the denim of her jeans scraping against his. "You made something of yourself."
"Did I?" He met her eyes, hyperaware of her proximity. Of the contact between them. "All I can do is work with my hands. All that corporate bullshit? The financial planning? It's a fucking nightmare to me, and that makes me weak."
"Nobody likes that stuff."