Broody Brit by Naima Simone

Chapter Sixteen

Axel

I’m a miserable fuck.

There’s no getting around that.

Stepping out of the loo, I scrub the towel over my head, face, and body. And against my will, I glance at my silent phone. Who am I hoping will call? Mum? Zenobia?

Both have equal chances of happening.

Zero.

Rubbing at my chest, I stare at it hard, as if willing it to ring. But it remains stubbornly silent. And the heaviness weighing my sternum down doesn’t lessen in the slightest.

I returned to Simon’s house from hospital last night with orders to stay away from the workshop for a couple of days. So bolting there is out of the question. But at some point during the early morning hours while staring up at the ceiling, it hit me that I need to stop being a rank coward. I’ve used art as my escape hatch, my hiding place for so long that it’s become a habit. I’ve become comfortable with it and made excuses for avoiding my parents, Simon, the world.

You’re running scared. And it’s not being scared that makes you a coward… No, it’s that instead of confronting it, you choose to hurt me. To push me away to save yourself. That makes you a coward.

Zenobia’s words haunt me as pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. They struck me hard and clawed their way deep because she’s right. And not just about her. If I’m brutally honest, I’ve done the same—pushed people away—with others. Just look at last night with Simon. I lashed out like a wounded animal. If I can’t make it good with Zenobia, I can with him. He’s been the one person in my life who hasn’t left me.

Yet.

After last night, I’m not sure I can say that. But I need to find him and apologize. Fear is a leaden weight in my gut, but I leave the flat and head toward the kitchen entrance. Since he worked the later shift at hospital, I’m hoping he’s here. Because this newfound bravery? It might have an expiration date. Like twenty minutes.

The kitchen is empty, and I nearly stumble to a stop, the hollow ache in my chest like a solid punch. For the first morning since I arrived in the States, in this house, there’s no Zenobia. And the loneliness that had throbbed like a toothache until this moment yawns into a mortal injury.

I push through the kitchen on bare feet and move into the living room. And find Simon reclined on the couch, a cup of coffee and saucer balanced on his flat stomach and Grey’s Anatomy on the television.

“You know George dies, right?”

He flicks a glance at me.

“Yeah, hit by a semi. Such an undignified way to go out.” He arches an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You got roped into girls’ night?”

When I nod, he snickers, then a moment later, sobers.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

Nodding, he raises his cup to his mouth and sips. “Are you going to follow doctor’s orders and rest for the next couple of days?”

“Yeah.” I scrub a hand over my beard and drop in a chair next to the couch. “Can we talk?”

He eyes me, shifting his cup and saucer to the coffee table in front of him and sitting straight. “You? I don’t know. Can you?”

His teasing smirk steals the sting out of the ribbing words, and that tight thing squeezing the hell out of my ribs relaxes a fraction. “I’m going to give it my best shot, mate.”

At “mate,” Simon’s eyes widen, and I sigh, dropping my elbows onto my thighs.

“I’m sorry.” I laugh, and it’s rusty to my ears and throat. “I probably need to be more specific for what, yeah? First, I’ve been a dick. You were kind enough to invite me to stay here in your home with your family, and I’ve been an ungrateful ass. I’m sorry for that. And I apologize for last night.”

It requires a lot to maintain his gaze, but I do. Because this man, who has been a better friend to me than any other person in my life, deserves that much.

“Zenobia was right when she called me out on my shit. I’m using this as an excuse, but I’ve become so accustomed to not measuring up to who I believed people wanted me to be, that I used it as a wall to keep people out. To push them away before they could reject me. That’s what I did with you and Calliope. In my mind, as soon as you felt your debt to Blake was paid in full, you wouldn’t want anything to do with me. So I distanced myself first. Only you refused to go away.”

I shake my head.

“Part of me was afraid to come here. Because I believed the more time you spent around me, the faster you would realize I wasn’t worth your trouble and you’d finally reach that breaking point. And I’d lose the one person who hadn’t given up on me.”

I swallow hard past the constriction in my throat. Admitting that truth that I’d just now acknowledged to myself—my fear of losing Simon, of having him see me as unworthy—was difficult.

And liberating.

“Last night, at hospital, with you seeing how weak I was, how much of a burden I could be, I panicked. And I resorted to what has become a pattern for me. I hurt you, Simon. And I’m sorry.”

He bows his head, studying his loosely clasped fingers between his thighs. “Thank you for that. It took a lot for you to come find me and say it.” Another few moments of silence beats between us before he leans back and looks at me. “But it wasn’t necessary. I forgave you last night. When I said I knew you, those weren’t just words. I meant them. You might believe I’ve remained in contact with you all these years because of my friendship with Blake—and yes, that’s part of it—but it’s not the whole reason.”

He rises with a heavy sigh, crossing over to the big window on the other side of the living room. Standing in front of it, he stares out of over the front yard, his back to me.

“Before Blake died, he would sneak your drawings out of your room and show them off to Calliope and me, because he knew you were much too shy to share them with anyone. God, he was so proud of you. Where most big brothers found their younger brothers annoying, that wasn’t the case with you. He genuinely adored you and bragged about how brilliant and gifted you were. And when he died…” His voice thickens on those last two words, and my throat tightens in sympathy.

Then Simon clears his throat, his shoulders straightening.

“When he died, I lost a best friend, but you lost a brother. And true, Blake would’ve wanted me to watch out for you, but Axel, you have it all wrong.”

Simon turns around, and the stark emotion—pain, grief, love—etching his face has me rising to my feet. “The way Blake loved you, the way he saw you, it wasn’t you who should’ve been worried about measuring up. I was afraid—have always been afraid—that I wasn’t good enough for you. I’ve been scared I failed you. Because you deserve better.”

Shock petrifies me. Nothing and everything roll through my head in a deafening roar. How could successful, smart, proud Simon Hogue feel unworthy of me? It doesn’t make sense. And my mind can’t wrap around it.

“Axel.” Simon recrosses the room and stops in front of me. “I’m sorry too. Because instead of thinking you knew that my actions spoke for themselves, I should’ve told you all of this before. Starting now, let me make it abundantly clear. I love you. Not like a brother. Because to me, you are my brother.”

He hauls me into his arms.

His tight embrace cracks the ice on my paralysis, and I hug him back. Just as tightly. Just as fiercely.

As a brother.

“I love you, too.”