The “your brother” and “my husband” shit Charlie sometimes liked to pull was another layer of guilt on top of the several he already had. Though Luke bristled, he didn’t take the bait. She knew damn well what Sam meant to the both of them. Sure, Charlie could have wet dreams all she wanted about the McCormick she’d never touched, but that didn’t hold a candle to the fact that she’d married the other one. Luke liked to remind himself of this whenever he threatened to get taken away by Charlie’s claims. As far as selling the property went, he supposed her reaction wasn’t the worst outcome -- but he was certain that saying “hey, you should sell” would have gone much more poorly if they’d played house together for a few weeks first.

He spread his arms wide and pointed at the ceiling. “Look at this place! It’s full of rooms for kids you’re [i]never[/i] going to have with him. His fucking picture is on almost every fucking wall. His truck is still in the driveway, Charlie. You’re going to live here? Really? In this mausoleum of a house? Or say you do move on -- what’s the new guy supposed to do? Recreate your dead husband’s dream with you?” Luke couldn’t argue and sit still. He was moving, pacing, tense. Further, he was cagey from travelling for two days, and being in Sam’s space without him was odd. A stubborn part of him still believed that Sam was going to walk through the door. Maybe Luke’s lack of acceptance was why he wanted to force Charlie into selling. Or maybe it was because selling his childhood home had been the quickest way to get rid of his father’s memory after he’d finally, finally died.

[i]I don’t have the luxury of running away when shit happens.[/i]

Luke wasn’t going to forget or ignore what had just come out of her mouth, but if they snapped at each other after each jab, then the rebuilding process was going to be incredibly difficult for the both of them. “I said I wanted to be here,” he reminded her, “and you’re not going to change my mind.” Hopefully the yelling, pacing, and pointing was over. As he started to cool, he went back to his coffee, feeling a slight headache build behind his eyes. The scotch he’d drank at Sam’s grave was wearing off.

“I don’t know. I’m sure you don’t know either. But selling is my opinion. I can’t make you. If keeping it is what you want, then maybe you can prove me wrong. I want to help you. I do. I really do.” Exhausted eyes found hers. “It’s just the hardest option.”