Page 78 of This Reckless Home

“Oh, baby.” Nox pulls me tight into his chest and I can’t stop the tears as they flow onto the bronze skin of his pecs. “He’s not your father. None of us are. Space doesn’t mean leaving, Petal.” I feel the movement of his chest as it expands then deflates. “Don't use it as an excuse to push him away before he's even decided how he feels about it.”

Nox doesn't say anything else. Just holds me while I cry into his chest, wondering how many days it takes before "processing" becomes "gone."

I want to believe him. Want to trust that Steele's distance is temporary.

But I've been here before. Waiting for someone to come back.

They never do.

“SAY SOMETHING” BY PENTATONIX

NOX

She's finally out.

I can tell by the way her breathing changes, the slight heaviness of her body against mine. She cried herself to sleep, which I've never seen her do before and fucking hate.

I don't move. Just lie here in the dark with her hair against my jaw and her hand loose on my chest, and let myself think the thoughts I don't think when she's awake.

She lied to us.

Not in words. But she carried this thing — this enormous, ugly, complicated thing — and she smiled at breakfast and she tucked the kids in and she laughed at Jus's stupid jokes and she never said a word. For weeks.

I know about carrying things. Know about keeping your face right while something rotten lives underneath it.

I also know what it feels like to have someone decide what you can and can't handle. To have a choice made for you by someone who thought they knew better. My parents were experts at that. This is for your own good, Nox. You'll understand when you're older.

She's not my parents. I know that. She didn't do it to use me, didn't do it for herself. She did it because she was protecting a kid and she was scared and she didn't know us yet.

But my skin still prickled when I realized how long she'd known us before she told us. How many mornings. How many nights.

The thing is, I can't leave. I've known that since the second week in this house, when I stopped pretending I was going to. Something in me just — locked. Around her, around this chaos, around these kids who trail after us like ducklings.

So I stayed in the back of that car and I held her while she told us, and I kept holding her because she was shaking and someone fucking had to. And I told myself the feelings were just shock. Just the adjustment. Just me needing time to sort through it.

But it's been days now and I'm still sorting.

She shifts in her sleep, her hand curling slightly against my chest.

You're everything, I think, and mean it, and hate how much I mean it.

That's the thing no one tells you about letting someone in. It doesn't make you safe. It just gives the hurt a more specific address.

I press my lips to the top of her head, so quietly it barely counts.

Then I close my eyes and stay.

“HOLD ME WHILE YOU WAIT” BY LILLIAN HEPLER

BLOSSOM

Tuesday afternoon and I'm peeling potatoes for dinner when I look up to find Anatole leaning against the counter right beside me. I missed him coming in, so lost in the fog that won’t seem to lift these days.

“You know he's not leaving, right?” he says quietly, his ice blue eyes boring into me. His jaw is tight, tattooed arms crossed over his broad chest.

My hands freeze, my breathing stuttering out. “He said he needs time⁠—”

“Time to think, Bloom. Not time to decide if you're worth staying for.” Anatole's eyes are steady on mine, not wavering for even a second and they somehow lend me a little strength. “He already knows you are. We all know you are.”