“I don’t remember a time when she was pursuing something that shewasn’tpassionate about. My sister raised her to follow her dreams, no matter what they cost her.”
I hold off on replying for a moment, considering my next words carefully. “Your tattoo is for her, right? Your sister?”
His right hand escapes the hot water for the briefest moment, just long enough for me to see the butterfly that spans across the back of it and the initials beneath its wing before sinking back out of view. My chest pinches as I register the pain in his expression and the ghosts that follow, finding refuge in his eyes.
“Do you talk about her much?” I murmur, tugging free the fork he’s scrubbing furiously and dipping it into the clear water.
“Not enough.”
“I won’t pretend to know what it’s like to lose a sibling, but is it alright if I still tell you that I’m sorry that you do?”
Silence pulses between us. It’s tense, but despite how long I wait for him to snap at me to mind my own business, no anger appears. No, when he turns his head, his eyes are too sad to be mad.
The bubbles in the sink pop around his fingers when they flex. “That’s fine, Brielle.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, twisting and grabbing his hand, letting the bubbles crawl up my wrist. “For your loss, but also Evie’s.”
“She’d appreciate that,” he says, tone so rough it sounds painful.
“And you?”
The corners of his mouth lift, but there’s nothing happy about the grimace that appears. I tighten my grip immediately, not risking him pulling away.
“So do I.”
“Then why don’t I believe you?”
“Leave it,” he says, almost pleading.
Frustration gnaws at me while I nod and shut myself down before I misstep. I’ve never had problems speaking my mind and pushing when I want to learn more than I’m being offered. Clearly, from my efforts to get Roman to the point he can even stand here in my kitchen with me, that’s been to my benefit. Up until now, I’ve had no issue continuing to dig and poke.
This isn’t the same.
I know that if I did the same thing in this moment, he’d run.
“Come with me,” I tell him while tugging on his hand.
Water drips from our knuckles to the kitchen tile as I pull him away from the sink and into the living room. He doesn’t fight me, and for some reason, that makes me happy. His discomfort may be causing him to pull back, but he’s still here, and that counts for something.
The black leather photo album on the coffee table is the same one I brought home with me from his house. It’s full of the verysame nearly naked photos of myself that I’ve stared at a million times. I’ve debated on blowing my favourite one up and hanging it on my bedroom wall, but the thought of having my brother stumble upon it made me toss that idea in the burn pile.
Instead, the album stays on this table with a sticky note that readsFor Everyone But Wes + Dad’s eyes.
“Sit, Rome.”
His tongue skates across his teeth while he does as I say and sinks into the couch. The wide spread of his long legs looks mighty inviting. I suck in a sharp, head-clearing breath and turn away, reaching for the album.
“I doubt Evie showed you the photos we took, but if you’re up for it, I’d like to do that now. They’re really incredible.”
“Are you sure?” he rasps, staring at the book trapped in my grasp.
“Very. I know that you’ve seen more of her work than I have, but these are different.”
He tips his chin and slowly wraps his fingers around mine on the edge of the album. They linger there, strong and steadying despite his drawn expression. That’s . . . him.
Always strong, dependable. The guy who holds everyone up despite his own problems.
That’s great most of the time. But what about the days when it isn’t? Who takes care of him when the weight of everyone else’s shit gets too heavy?
