comforting in a way layers of clothes wouldn’t be.
By the time we’ve moved to his bed and he huddles against me, wet and sticky from all the crying, I feel like I’m the only one in the world who can anchor him.
Seeing him like this, I know without a doubt I’ll never break my half of the pact. How could I? The few times we’ve made eye contact, the terrified little boy from my memories has been the one staring back at me. The tough nineteen-year-old that works way too hard and loves way too deeply is gone, at least for the night.
When I finally cry, the tears are for James, not for our mother.
Dinnertime comes and goes without our father shouting at me to make him something to eat. The television clicked on hours ago and I’ve heard the creaky hinges of our refrigerator opening and closing at least half a dozen times. I can’t believe he’s moved on so quickly, though I suppose it makes sense. Can’t mourn what you never loved.
Or what you killed.
The cold look he gave me before leaving her room?
It was a warning.
Closing my eyes, I force all the violent, bitter thoughts from my mind and focus on the warmth of my brother’s body and his soothing fingers threading through my hair. His warmth, his heart, his life—all three feel more vital than ever. If he knew what our father did, he’d lose it. I have to hide this from him. I won’t let him snap and throw away everything.
Save James.
It’s my turn to protect my brother.
Instead of nightmares like I expect, my dreams that night are filled with Sam—his smooth skin, hot kisses, and gentle touches. We’re tangled together in the front seat of his car again, but this time he’s shirtless. I can’t get enough of how his skin feels sliding against mine when he pushes up my shirt.
His hot palms are on my ribs. His mouth travels lazily from my hair to my cheeks to my closed eyes. When he finally kisses me, I’m stunned by how loved and treasured I feel. Kissing him in my dreams is almost better than kissing him in person.
Almost.
I wake up at 2:17 in the morning, lying next to my snoring brother but aching for Sam. Comforting James drained all my strength, and now all I want is for Sam to hold me. I’ve always had my brother to help me figure out what I’m feeling, but maybe Sam can make sense of the dark thoughts twisting my mind—my anger, and the twinge of grief I’m feeling over my mother, father, and James. If he can’t, maybe he can make me forget.
Closing my eyes, I try to find my way back to Sam and my dreams.
Nineteen
I haven’t heard from Sam in four and a half days. Not that I’ve been counting.
By the time our father reluctantly exchanges “mourning” with his family for the boys at the mill, and James finally drags himself to work, I give up thinking I mean anything to him. But even if I don’t, his dad died, for God’s sake. He knows how this feels.
I’m so disappointed. Both in him and in me.
Which is why, when he finally knocks on the door late Thursday morning, I refuse to answer. He’s persistent, though. After enduring his incessant knocking and pleas for nearly half an hour, I toss the book I’m reading onto my bed and stomp to the front door.
I open the door and glare at him. “What do you want?”
“Thank God.” He yanks me into his arms. “I just found out this morning. What happened? Are you okay?”
Glare still firmly in place, I wedge my arms between us and shove. “Maybe if you stopped by or called or something, you would’ve known sooner.”
He frowns. “I’ve been working. And every time I drove by—which was a lot—your brother’s truck was out front. I would’ve shown up anyway if I’d known, though. Why didn’t you call me?” Frown deepening, he says, “Hell, why didn’t James call me?”
My anger bleeds away. Of course he didn’t stop by. I made him promise to keep this—us—a secret. I slip the ball chain out from under his shirt and rub one of the steel dog tags with my
By the time we’ve moved to his bed and he huddles against me, wet and sticky from all the crying, I feel like I’m the only one in the world who can anchor him.
Seeing him like this, I know without a doubt I’ll never break my half of the pact. How could I? The few times we’ve made eye contact, the terrified little boy from my memories has been the one staring back at me. The tough nineteen-year-old that works way too hard and loves way too deeply is gone, at least for the night.
When I finally cry, the tears are for James, not for our mother.
Dinnertime comes and goes without our father shouting at me to make him something to eat. The television clicked on hours ago and I’ve heard the creaky hinges of our refrigerator opening and closing at least half a dozen times. I can’t believe he’s moved on so quickly, though I suppose it makes sense. Can’t mourn what you never loved.
Or what you killed.
The cold look he gave me before leaving her room?
It was a warning.
Closing my eyes, I force all the violent, bitter thoughts from my mind and focus on the warmth of my brother’s body and his soothing fingers threading through my hair. His warmth, his heart, his life—all three feel more vital than ever. If he knew what our father did, he’d lose it. I have to hide this from him. I won’t let him snap and throw away everything.
Save James.
It’s my turn to protect my brother.
Instead of nightmares like I expect, my dreams that night are filled with Sam—his smooth skin, hot kisses, and gentle touches. We’re tangled together in the front seat of his car again, but this time he’s shirtless. I can’t get enough of how his skin feels sliding against mine when he pushes up my shirt.
His hot palms are on my ribs. His mouth travels lazily from my hair to my cheeks to my closed eyes. When he finally kisses me, I’m stunned by how loved and treasured I feel. Kissing him in my dreams is almost better than kissing him in person.
Almost.
I wake up at 2:17 in the morning, lying next to my snoring brother but aching for Sam. Comforting James drained all my strength, and now all I want is for Sam to hold me. I’ve always had my brother to help me figure out what I’m feeling, but maybe Sam can make sense of the dark thoughts twisting my mind—my anger, and the twinge of grief I’m feeling over my mother, father, and James. If he can’t, maybe he can make me forget.
Closing my eyes, I try to find my way back to Sam and my dreams.
Nineteen
I haven’t heard from Sam in four and a half days. Not that I’ve been counting.
By the time our father reluctantly exchanges “mourning” with his family for the boys at the mill, and James finally drags himself to work, I give up thinking I mean anything to him. But even if I don’t, his dad died, for God’s sake. He knows how this feels.
I’m so disappointed. Both in him and in me.
Which is why, when he finally knocks on the door late Thursday morning, I refuse to answer. He’s persistent, though. After enduring his incessant knocking and pleas for nearly half an hour, I toss the book I’m reading onto my bed and stomp to the front door.
I open the door and glare at him. “What do you want?”
“Thank God.” He yanks me into his arms. “I just found out this morning. What happened? Are you okay?”
Glare still firmly in place, I wedge my arms between us and shove. “Maybe if you stopped by or called or something, you would’ve known sooner.”
He frowns. “I’ve been working. And every time I drove by—which was a lot—your brother’s truck was out front. I would’ve shown up anyway if I’d known, though. Why didn’t you call me?” Frown deepening, he says, “Hell, why didn’t James call me?”
My anger bleeds away. Of course he didn’t stop by. I made him promise to keep this—us—a secret. I slip the ball chain out from under his shirt and rub one of the steel dog tags with my
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