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“I know it isn’t. But I’m trying—”
“No, I meant a blanket apology isn’t good enough. You don’t just get to say you’re sorry when you haven’t even figured out what you did to piss me off in the first place.”
Fuck. So he caught that. I rub the back of my neck, hoping to dispel a little bit of the tension that’s settled there. No such luck. “So why don’t you tell me why you’re angry and then we’ll talk about it. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Yeah, right. I’ve heard that before.” He makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat.
It scrapes along my nerve endings, starts to tick me off. I’m trying here and if he would meet me at just a quarter of the way, everything would be so much easier.
“What do you want from me?” I demand suddenly. “I know I’m fucking up here, but I’m trying. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Not really, no,” he says with a sneer.
That really pisses me off. “Goddamnit, Logan. You’re not being fair. How can I—”
“I’m not being fair?” The words come out choked and bitter and angry, so angry. “I’m not being fair? Screw you, Ash!”
He’s as frustrated as I am now, and he reaches out, pulls his chair a little closer, then goes to swing himself into it. It’s an awkward angle, especially with me sitting next to him on the bed, and I leap up. “Here, let me help.”
He knocks my hand away, moves to the chair. But he must have forgotten to lock the wheels when he got out, because it slides out from under him and he ends up on the floor at my feet before I can catch him.
“Fuck. Are you all right?” I bend down, try to pick him up, but he bats my hands away a second time.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t fucking touch me!”
“Logan. Damn it. Let me help—”
“I don’t want your help!” he screams, and the words cut right through me. As do the unshed tears I hear in his voice. “Can’t you see that? Just leave me alone!”
Goddamnit.
Teeth gritted and hands clenched, I force myself to step back and watch as my brother struggles to pull himself up from the floor. But he still is only fourteen and he’s only been going to PT for a few months. He’s got good upper body strength but—
“Shit!” He punches out at the chair, sends it flying back into the wall. “Shit, shit, shit.” Harsh sobs are pouring out of him, loud and rough and so fucking painful that they have tears burning in my own eyes.
Knowing the last thing he wants from me is sympathy right now, I blink them back. And though I want nothing more than to go to him, to hug him and help him, I stay where I am. Watching. Waiting.
I swear it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Harder than walking away from my Olympic dream. Harder even than burying my parents.
When his sobs finally quiet, and he’s wiping his face on the sleeve of his hoodie—more proof that he’s just a sad, scared little kid, in case I needed it—I crouch down next to him. “Can I help you—”
“No!” He plants his hands on my chest and shoves me away from him, hard.
I’m so shocked that I nearly end up falling on my ass, probably would have if I hadn’t managed to tangle my fingers in the bedcovers.
“Victor will help me.” He reaches for his phone with fumbling fingers.
“But I’m right here. There’s no reason to bother Victor—”
“No!”
“Damn it,” I tell him as the last string I’ve got on my temper snaps. “You’re acting like a spoiled brat!” Before I think better of it, I grab him. Haul him up. Then settle him in his chair.
“You asshole!” He swings out with his fists, punches me in the face and the ribs. He keeps it up, punching and screaming and swearing at me with every ounce of strength he’s got.
“What the hell!” I stumble back, shocked at the attack. More shocked at the look on his face and the words spewing from his mouth. It’s like he hates me. Like he actually hates me.
I’m not sure how long this goes on. It feels like a million years but probably isn’t more than three or four minutes. Logan finally winds down, ends up sitting in his chair with his arms wrapped protectively around his body while he glares at me.
