“He’s your brother,” he said, lifting his gaze from construction reports long enough to send me a compassionate glance. “Hug him. If I had a brother, I’d hug him until he couldn’t breathe.”
“He probably ain’t the hugging type,” I muttered.
Lucas didn’t answer right away, and the weight of my brother arriving injured and angry, plus the thought of Dad deciding to head back out here, lodged itself in my chest likea shard of glass. I was startled when Lucas climbed into my lap, straddled me awkwardly, knees braced on either side of mine, arms wrapping around my shoulders like this was the most natural thing in the world. I stiffened out of reflex, then let myself go.
“You’re hugging me.”
“You’re different.”
“Jesus, Jesse, you’re wound tight,” he murmured against my mouth. “I bet you’ve got a hundred fears fighting for space in your head right now.”
I huffed out a breath. “You don’t know half of it.”
He smiled, thumbs brushing along my jaw. “I love that you’re the hugging type,” he said, as if it was a secret only he knew.
“I’m really not,” I said, even as my hands came up to hold him close.
Lucas kissed me, slow and sure, and I realized he wasn’t afraid of what came next. “Youarewith me,” he said quietly. “And I love you.”
“I love you,” I murmured. It still felt weird to say that, but I tried to show Lucas every moment how I was feeling, but… what if I was messing up? “Honestly, Lucas, baby, I do.”
“I know.” He chuckled, and we made out lazily, gentle and sweet and everything I wanted.
“Tell me somegoodstuff about Hoyt,” he asked when we stopped kissing long enough to talk.
“Good stuff?” I tried hard to root through memories that weren’t good, every one of them darkened by my dad being there, but then, I brightened. “The Pop-Tart thing.”
“What about it?” Lucas glanced up at me. “They suck.”
“Nah, not the way Hoyt made ‘em. They were all about balance. Not burned. Not limp. He made me a strawberry one for my birthday, toasted just enough that the outside cracked when you bit into it, but the inside stayed soft and warm. He said a Pop-Tart should hold together, just as anything worth making does, and that now I was ten, I should know that. He showed me, and I did one, and he was so proud of me, and then… we went outside, and that was it… Dad was there…” My breath hitched. “And it all went wrong.”
“Focus on the Pop-Tart,” Lucas murmured. “I mean, when you see him, channel the Pop-Tart love.” Lucas shifted in my lap, the movement small but deliberate, and he brushed his thumb along my jaw one last time and kissed me.
“Why don’t you head out and check on Boone? Give you a minute to breathe.”
I nodded, even though a part of me wanted to keep him right there, and when he slid off my lap, the loss of his warmth was immediate. I headed for the door, boots thudding on the boards, and a moment later, I was halfway down the porch steps when I saw the truck idling in the drive, exhaust puffing white into the cold. A Dodge I didn’t recognize at first, hitched to a trailer that looked like it had seen better decades.
Then, the driver’s door opened.
Hoyt climbed out slowly, and I got my first real look at him. Same height. Same shoulders. Older around the edges, thinner through the face, it was all bruised purple and black as if he’d lost a fight with the world and kept going anyway. My chest tightened hard enough that it stole my breath.
He lifted a hand in a half-wave. I mirrored it before I could stop myself.
Guess we were doing this.
He stood for a beat; boots planted on land he hadn’t set foot on in years. I came down the rest of the steps, hands loose at my sides, forcing myself not to rush him, not to retreat either. Three feet apart. Close enough to see the damage.
“Hey,” he said, like it was any other day. “You got taller,” he said, and the sound of his voice hit me harder than seeing him. Not the words. The voice. Same gravel under it, same rough edge that used to cut through the house when he was angry or laughing too loud. My chest locked up, breath stalling like my body didn’t know how to move past that sound. I’d heard him in my head for years, heard him on the phone two days back, but this was real and impossible to ignore. He was here.
“You got older,” I said. My eyes went straight to the bruises before I could help it. “You look bad.”
“I know.” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but it did. I could see it in the way he held himself, the careful angle of his shoulders, the way he shifted his weight as though every movement cost him something. I’d seen Hoyt in pain before, back when I was too young to understand. Back when all I was trying to do was wedge myself between him and Dad, hands up, heart pounding, on that last day before Hoyt walked out and never came back. I should say something, but the words didn’t come easily.
“The bruising will fade,” he added with a rueful look andanother cautious shrug, twisting the moment into something smaller with a smirk. “The ugly’s here to stay.”
“Stupid,” I muttered. The word slipped out far too easily. His eyes widened, and he stiffened, before forcing himself to relax, nonchalant, as if he didn’t care what I said. Suddenly, he was sixteen again, all anger and sharp edges. “You were never ugly,” I said with a smile. “Just stupid.”
He laughed under his breath.
