I'm reading on the way to work. I can't concentrate on a single word, but it's enough to keep my eyes away from Brax. Anything I ever say to him seems to end in an argument.
Like today, for instance. He told me I had no choice but to have him drive me to work. I'd argued that I didn't need a 24 hour bodyguard, but he wouldn't take no for an answer.
So here I am. Sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, holding a book with an unknown plot.
"You haven't flipped the page in more than five minutes," he suddenly states. "Slow reader?"
His comment almost sounds like an accusation. Like I should be worried he's sought out the truth. "Maybe I am," I defend, biting my tongue when I realise I've broken my own rule about talking.
I frown, trying to concentrate before I eventually give up, slamming the book closed. I rest it in my lap; fingers curling over the top as I try to decipher what kind of mood he's in.
"Don't wanna talk to me, Rhea?" he says sarcastically.
He pronounces my name the way you grimace from a bad taste in your mouth. I wonder if that's what I am to him.
"I can count on one hand how many times we've talked. But I can count on seven trillion hands how many times those have ended in arguments," I retort.
"There aren't even seven trillion hands on the planet," he deadpans.
"You know what I meant," I growl.
"Do I?"
"You're giving me a headache," I sigh, turning towards the window.
"Don't I know it," he grumbles.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
He pulls up outside Cash's bar. He doesn't bother finding a car spot; he sits idling in the car park. I turn back to him, waiting for an answer.
"Did you ever think that maybe the reason I'm confusing, is because you confuse me?"
I'm startled by his honesty. I blink a few times before pulling on the door handle, mumbling a goodbye. I shoulder my bag, walking briskly inside to fight the sudden chill that wasn't caused by the winter air.
I feel Beckett's eyes — or more accurately, his glare, — on me for the remainder of my shift. He won't talk to me. I know he's upset about where I'm living again, but it isn't up to him to decide.
It isn't even really up to me anymore. Some days, I think I'm a passenger in my own life.
"Here we are, sir," I place a peppercorn steak and chips in front of a customer, offering him a half hearted smile. "Anything else I can get for you?"
"You," he says, sultry.
"How about... each shit and die?" I giggle, flipping him the finger before turning away.
Kidding. If I've learnt anything from working here, it's that customer service is important. Even when you're dealing with dickheads. Especially, dickheads.
"Unfortunately, I'm not up for sale," I offer instead, shrugging my shoulders. I turn away from him, my forced smile dropping as soon as I'm back in the kitchen.
Cash has always told me to tell him if anyone harasses me, but it happens so often that I don't let myself care anymore. When I step into this bar, words just become words. I learnt that a long time ago.
Besides, it's not all bad. I get to work with my best friend. Even if said best friend is currently glaring at me like I've insulted Star Wars, his favourite franchise. Which I've definitely done on several occasions when he's tried making me sit through an entire film.
"Can we talk?" I plead, grabbing table seven's meals as I follow after Beckett. He grunts, grabbing an order too as we walk through the double doors back into the bar.
"Beckett," I sigh. "I know you're mad, but—"
"Here we are," Beckett says to the two ladies sitting opposite each other. They begin to flirt with him and I move away to find table seven.
When I look back, he's storming towards the kitchen. His hands slam into the double doors and they spin back and forth violently. Cash appears in my periphery, taking orders at the bar. He frowns, but continues on like he's used to this behaviour from his employees.
I walk after Beckett, finding him in the kitchen as he waits for the next order. "Beckett—"
"I don't get it!" he whirls around on me.
I watch the chef, Timmy, as he cringes. I don't know him very well, because he's always so quite and reserved. I can only imagine how awkward he must feel being stuck in the middle of an oncoming argument.
"I know," I say, my hands moving out towards him. "I know you're upset about this, but—"
"Why did you leave in the first place?" he says exasperated. "Because you weren't safe there? Because you hate them?"
"It's complicated," I plead, but it lands on deaf ears. I sound as convincing as a priest speaking to atheists.
He's already turning away from me, dismissing anything I have to say. "It's always complicated with you. Do you know what this is doing to your friends? Maia is going crazy at home. Layla—"
"I'm doing this for them!" I shout, point a finger at my chest. "All of this is for them!"
"No, it's not!" Beckett snaps, his eyes ablaze as he turns back around. He's holding a stack of clean plates, slamming them down against the bench in front of him. "It's about you. You trying to prove something to yourself. That people don't always leave them if you leave first, right?"
I draw back, stung. Tears are in my eyes as I stare at him. "This isn't— this has nothing to do with my brother. I'm not going anywhere. Bad people are after me, Beckett. I'm sick of having this argument. Am I really just supposed to let them get hurt too?"
"I didn't say this was about Dean," he whispers. "It's about—"
"No," I hold out a hand. "No, it's not."
"Denying it doesn't make it any less true," he softens. "I'm sorry for yelling, but I know you. You're doing this out of guilt—"
"That isn't true," I blurt, shaking my head. I wipe my eyes furiously. "I'm not—"
"You know you couldn't have saved her," he states. "You almost died— you did die. There was nothing you could do. Being selfless and pushing everyone away isn't going to bring her back."
"Stop!" I shout, turning my back on him. My shoulders heave as I walk towards the staff toilets.
"Rhea!" Beckett calls.
"What the hell is going on in here?" Cash snaps. I don't turn around to hear is wrath.
"Nothing, boss. Just a misunderstanding..." Beckett begins.
I push through the door, exiting the bathrooms as my lungs fill with fresh air. I heave, holding a hand over my mouth. It's strange how you can be so aware you're having a panic attack, yet there is nothing you can do but wait for it to be over.
I count backwards from ten, then up to five. I gasp, my lungs constricting. Nothing works.
I fall back onto the lower step, hugging my knees to my chest. I lean against the building, my eyes staring off into the darkness.
Everything is too much, but I know I have no other option but to push through. It's how I've dealt with everything my whole life.
I don't know what's going on with me and Brax. I don't know when I'll be able to go home. I don't know what Dylan's cousins are planning.
I've just got to accept that I can't control everything, but at least I'm protecting my friends. Beckett isn't always right. He isn't.
"Rhea?"
I jump, wiping my eyes as I look up. Brax is standing against the wall, one leg up behind him as he lights a cigarette. Smoke blows from his mouth and nose, before he walks towards me.
"Why are you still here?" I frown. "I've been working for three hours now."
He shrugs, raking a hand through his hair. It's hard to see him in the dark, but I already know that his eyes will be holding that vague stare as he watches me.
"You've been waiting this whole time?" I whisper. "Why?"
"Saves me from coming back later."
"That's why I could have driven here myself," I sniff, wiping my damp cheeks. "You didn't need to stay."
He ignores me, the light from his cigarette glowing in the dark. "Why are you sitting out here? It's fucking freezing. You're not even wearing a jumper."
His words seem to register, because my skin suddenly grows goosebumps. I hold my knees tighter against my chest. "I'm on break," I say, which isn't entirely a lie.
"Do you always cry when you're on break?" he grunts. "Did someone do this to you?"
"No," I shake my head. "I'm fine."
"Sure," he places the cigarette between his lips, before stamping it out with his foot. "That's why you ran out here like the fucking building was on fire."
"Just needed some air," I admit, staring at my hands. "Everything is... a lot, right now. I don't know why I'm telling you any of this."
He takes a seat beside me and I try not to react. I try not to show my surprise. "Why are you being like this?" I ask.
"Like what?"
"Like, not a huge asshole."
He scoffs and I watch his annoyingly nice side profile. "I saw you crying. It— I don't know," he clears his throat. "I thought of what I would do if it were Sof sitting here by herself. It didn't— I didn't like it."
"It's because you care. About your family," I say, bumping his shoulder. "We all have one weakness. Even you."
"What's yours?" he whispers.
He's watching me and I'm suddenly aware of just how close we are. That we are having a conversation without fighting for once.
"How much time do we have?" I joke. "I'm not sure I should tell you anyway. You'll probably use them against me."
I'm still wary of him. I'm trying to learn from my mistakes. One good conversation with him doesn't amount for all the bad ones we've had. I'm sure this side of Brax won't last very long anyway.
The wind blows a strand of hair in front of his face. I push it behind his ear before I think better of it. He doesn't move as I do it. His eyelids seem to flutter but I pull my hand away quickly, like I've just burnt myself.
"What did you mean in the car? About me being confusing?" I ask, because I know if I don't do it now, I never will.
"It's not that hard to understand," he says. "What do I really know about you, Rhea?"
"Maybe it's better that you never know anything at all," I state.
I stand up, turning around to walk back inside. "Go home," I state. "You don't have to wait for another three hours. You're clearly bored if you're talking to me."
I don't wait for his reply as I walk back inside, ready to face an undoubtedly angry boss.