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Duke sighed gratefully and hugged me back, murmuring into my ear, “Thank you. And just ignore Vaughn. I usually do. He’s only jealous because you did something for me that he couldn’t.”
&
nbsp; I cringed over that bit of inappropriateness, but I had to admit, the derisive answering snort that came behind me from the man who must be big brother Vaughn was pretty satisfying.
“Take care of yourself, will you,” I ordered gently. “And keep in touch. For as long as you can.”
He nodded and kissed my cheek. “Of course.”
I touched his shoulder as I pulled away and whispered, “Bye.”
When I turned, I nearly ran into his brother again, who was still scowling and still hovering. God, he was tall. And gorgeous.
Still...
He didn’t get a goodbye from me. I merely glowered back and edged around him, muttering, “Excuse me,” as I left.
I never saw Duke alive again. He didn’t contact me, and I never contacted him.
Seven weeks after that morning, I attended his funeral.
And a week after that, I sank numbly onto the closed seat of my toilet in my bathroom, blinking in shock at the positive results of the home pregnancy test quivering in my hand.
3
VAUGHN
Clutching an empty cardboard box to my chest, I pushed open the door to Duke’s room, and then I just stood there, staring into the darkened abyss.
I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t go inside. Not yet.
Legs shaking and sweat gathering, I collapsed to my knees and gasped. The box threatened to collapse in my arms as I squeezed it close and bowed my head.
Eyes clamped shut, I tried to settle my ragged breaths by inhaling deeply as I sat the rest of the way down and pressed my back to the hallway wall, but it didn’t help. It still felt like I was going to lose my shit at any moment.
I don’t know what was wrong with me.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t done this before. I’d only been nineteen when my parents had died in a car accident. A freshman in college, I’d dropped out of school to come home and take care of my thirteen-year-old brother. And there was no way Duke had wanted anything to do with cleaning out their room after they were gone, meaning the entire, agonizing task had been left up to me.
So why couldn’t I clean out his room now that he was gone?
And why was it so much harder to accept the fact that my baby brother was dead too?
Pushing the now-tattered box off my lap, I pulled my knees up to my chest so I could hug them, and I recalled the last meaningful conversation we’d had together before he had passed.
He’d been bedridden by that time, his bones and muscles too exhausted to even try much movement. Every shift he made on the mattress caused him to wince and clutch his swollen abdomen. His face had a pale, bluish tinge and was perpetually damp from the constant night sweats and recurring fevers, and he coughed a lot due to the tumors pressing on his trachea.
His appetite had been gone, and when he tried to eat, his nausea typically caused him to vomit it all up, anyway. I’d learned to bring him the blandest, most odorless liquid meals possible—since chewing also hurt his jaws—and even then, he’d begun to turn up his nose at everything I offered him.
“Got you some supper,” I announced, keeping my voice quiet as I nudged the door open with my toe and entered. “Lentils and broth.”
With a groan, Duke had turned his face to the side and barely lifted a hand, rejecting it.
I could still remember the vile flood of panic that hit my taste buds. I wanted to take the soup to him anyway, manually open his jaws with my hand and pour it down his throat, anything to replenish his strength and get him out of this state. But he looked so miserable, I couldn’t argue with a single thing he wanted.
So I’d swallowed down the fear and nodded, backing from the room to return the bowl to the kitchen. When I returned, I carried a hardback with the bookmark sticking out at about the three-quarters finished area.
“Want me to read to you?” I asked, starting for the chair at his bedside and settling down.
