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“It was worth a try.” I shrug.
“Hey, but on a serious note, do you need me to come with you?”
I turn to face him and realize he’s not talking about the party.
“I’m not even sure if I’m going.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t,” he retorts pensively. “Maybe the reason why you haven’t gone home all these years is a good one, so don’t put yourself in a position where you need to be reminded of it.”
He’s right.
I don’t want to go back there.
And if it wasn’t for Lottie, I wouldn’t.
“I just need to do something. This might be my only shot.”
“Sounds to me like you need some backup then. Give me twenty minutes to shower, and I’ll go with you.”
“Jack,” I begin to refuse.
“Hey, I’m going. We’re a family on the rink and off of it. Your ghosts are my ghosts. Understand?”
I nod because I know he’ll end up following me even if I say no.
Like I said, they don’t make them like Jack Donovan anymore.
“Now let’s hurry up before my pain-in-the-ass brother figures out we got plans of our own and tries to come with us. You know he hates being left out.”
I can’t help but laugh because it’s true—Caleb hates being out of the loop about everything and anything. But there are justsome things that are just too personal to share. And me breaking into my childhood home is one of them.
“Are you sure no one is home?” Jack asks behind me as I jimmy the lock.
“I’m sure.”
She’s with him.
She wouldn’t leave his side.
Not now.
When the lock gives way, I add some pressure on it and open the door.
“Mind telling me how you got so handy with that thing?” Jack arches a brow as I swing the door open for him.
“Let’s just say there were plenty of nights my father thought I’d be better off sleeping on the street than inside the house. I didn’t mind it so much in the summer, but New York winters can be a bitch.”
His gaze saddens, but thankfully, he doesn’t ask any further questions.
“Then get what you came here for. Can’t get arrested in New York City, Nate. Erin would kill me.”
I give him a curt nod and walk down the long corridor to my old room. I keep my head hung low, refusing to look at my surroundings, not wanting to remember all that went down in this house.
Unfortunately, when I step into my room, I’m unable to keep those memories at bay.
My hands ball into fists as a boulder hits my chest when I see that my room is exactly the same—a shrine to my own personal hell.
I see the young boy I used to be asleep in his bed, only to be woken by the sound of a belt.
