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The thought haunts me, has anger curling in my belly and my fists clenching at my sides. I want to lash out at her, to yell at her for having the nerve to lecture me when she’s the one who let my brother get hurt. She’s the one who stood there and let him fall out of the fucking chair.
But yelling at her won’t do any good. Nothing will.
I turn around and walk back into the family room. Once there, I pick up the phone and dial the pizza place I’ve got on speed dial.
“I thought Luc was cooking?” Cam asked, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah, well, there’s cooking and then there’s cooking,” I tell her.
She looks confused for a second, but then her face clears and she rolls her eyes. “I don’t even want to know.”
Yeah, neither do I. About anything. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be the way the night is going.
We devour four large pizzas between us before Logan starts to look a little tired from everything that happened today. He fights it, but his endurance still isn’t what it used to be, though it’s been six months since the accident. But he’s had several major surgeries and goes through a lot of physical and occupational therapy every day, so it’s no surprise that he still tires pretty easily.
Sarah offers to stay, but to be honest, I don’t want her here. I’m still annoyed with her—for the fall, for her pity, for the way she acts like she knows more about my brother than I do. Luc and Cameron came together and they head out right behind her, but Z isn’t in any hurry to take off. Ophelia’s taking a night class in Salt Lake tonight and he has nothing else to do but hang out here, play video games and bug me.
That’s actually fine with me. I need a distraction. Between what happened to Logan and the conversation I had with Tansy today—not to mention, Tansy herself—my mind feels like it’s on speed. I keep jumping back and forth between worry for my brother, thoughts about that kid Timmy and images of Tansy’s slender neck and shoulders beneath my lips.
Which is ridiculous, considering how fast she shut me down. Yeah, I made a mistake when I first met her, thought she was like the rest of the sun- and snowbunnies who come up here. Thought she just wanted to get laid by the once famous snowboarder, Ash Lewis. And that was fine. More than fine, really. With her pixie-cut pink hair and her big hazel eyes, she was adorable. More than adorable. She was beautiful.
Really beautiful.
Not to mention tiny. Normally, I don’t go for girls who look like her—all pale and soft and fragile-looking—but there was something about her that got to me. Maybe it was those eyes of hers, so big and dark and earnest. Maybe it was that husky bedroom voice, totally not what I expected to come out of her tiny frame. Or maybe it was the way s
he talked about Timmy. The way she fought me—fought for him—when I said I couldn’t go to Oregon.
I don’t know, but whatever she’s got, I’m still thinking about her hours later and that’s a problem. One, because it’s not like I’ll ever see her again. And two, it’s not like I’m in the position to do any more than fuck and run. Not right now, with Logan in the shape he’s in.
“Hey.” Z nudges me with his foot—I’m sprawled out on the floor in front of the sofa, pretending to watch as he and Logan play Call of Duty this time—and I glance back at him to see what’s up. He’s nodding at my brother, who has fallen asleep with the controller still in his hand.
Poor kid.
“I’ve got him,” I say, jumping to my feet. I pick him up—which is no easy feat as he’s almost as tall as I am—and carry him down the hallway to my parents’ bedroom. His bedroom, I remind myself as I set him on the midnight blue bedspread Ophelia picked out when she redesigned the room for him.
It’s the only bedroom on the first floor, so of course it made sense to give it to Logan. But for my whole life—right up until Logan came home from the hospital—this had been my parents’ room. It seems strange that it’s not anymore. Stranger still that they’re gone. Sometimes I swear I can still smell my mom’s perfume lingering in the corners of the room.
“Is he okay?” Z asks, and for the first time I realize he’s right behind me, pushing Logan’s wheelchair.
“Yeah.” I pull a blanket over my brother, who mumbles sleepily for a minute, but then rolls right back over and goes back to sleep. I step away as Z positions the chair next to the bed, so Logan can reach it when he wakes up in the morning. I change his catheter bag really quickly, dispose of the old one in the biowaste trashcan in the corner, then wash my hands in the bathroom.
Z’s waiting for me when I get back to the room. He claps a hand on my back, propels me out the door and back down the hallway before shoving me toward the couch.
He disappears into the kitchen, comes back with a beer and another can of Coke—which he tosses to me. I guess everyone knows my no-alcohol rule.
“How ’bout you?” he asks as he settles on the couch.
“How about me what?”
“How are you doing?”
I stiffen. I hate that fucking question, almost as much as I hate the way he’s looking at me, his eyes all intense and serious and probing. Like he’s a fucking shrink or something, which is a fucking laugh, considering how screwed up he is.
“I’m good,” I tell him, taking a long swig of my drink.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I try not to get defensive, but it’s hard. He’s poking at me, looking for something. A reaction, a weakness? I don’t know and I don’t give a fuck. Not right now.
