Page 163 of Love Felt Like This

“Jimmy booked me a flight,” I say. “I’m leaving in two hours.”

Beverly inhales, pushing her shoulders up to her ears, then forces a smile that would be so beautiful if her eyebrows didn’t give her sadness away.

“Then we should get you packing.”

When she squeezes my hand, I wish she wouldn’t let go.

Greg finally claps, definitively ending the discussion. “I’ll prepare snacks for the road.”

Rob stares at the ground. As if he could feel me watching, his eyes dart up. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he walks back to his bedroom and shuts the door.

Beverly’s head tilts to the side as she bites her bottom lip, looking from my hands to her brother’s closed door.

“Go,” I say. “Talk to him.”

Nana pats her forearm. “I’ll help Griffin pack, honey.”

Beverly’s eyes find mine, and I give the best smile I can manage.

“Go,” I repeat. “We can go to the airport and talk then.”

The thought of an airport feels too definitive, so I push the thought aside. Now isn’t the time, anyway.

Beverly nods. “Okay. But save the toy packing for me,” she says, pointing a finger. “I want to make sure Ava is getting all the good stuff.”

“You got it, B.”

Beverly is still so positive.

Chapter Thirty-Four

A Cool Guy

Beverly

I now know Beau is the biggest dickwad in the world. Not just a runner-up—not a bronze or silver trophy, oh no—but literally the biggest wad of dicks ever.

I know that. But my brother doesn’t.

I lightly knock on Rob’s door. After a couple of seconds of no response, I knock again. Finally, I hear him say, “Come in.” I creak the door open and slide myself through. I lean my back against it to shut it.

“Hey, bud. How’s it going?”

“It’s all right.” But his grip on the video game controller says otherwise.

“Mind if I sit?” I ask, already walking to the center of the room—the only truly empty space—and then taking a seat on the ground.

Rob’s room is the type of teenage-boy lair that probably stresses Momma out. There’s a sock graveyard next to the perfectly empty laundry hamper, a propped-open trombone case with sheet music spilling out, and walls coated in various flyers for concerts. I spot Griffin Harvey’s last album cover hung over his desk, topped with his book bag, its open zipper spitting out notebooks.

The TV glows, and the logo for his usual video game appears.

“Need a second player?” I ask.

The corner of Rob’s mouth crooks up into a smile. “Last time you played, you kept running into walls.”

“I was figuring out how to reload.”

He huffs out a chuckle. It sounds so similar to Griffin’s exhausted laugh, but that realization only hurts more. I don’t want my brother to be exhausted. He’s fourteen, for Pete’s sake. He’s got so many years ahead of him to sulk.