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“She means pleasantly,” Connor says with a growing grin.
Rose drills a glare between his blue eyes. “I hate your voice.”
“You love my voice,” he rephrases.
I hope they continue to digress so I can leave this conversation without saying another word.
Rose unknowingly scoots closer to him, their eyes locked together in battle. “Is your name Rose Calloway—no, it’s not. Therefore, you shouldn’t translate my already intelligible words.”
“I’m reading the subtext of your statements.”
Rose snorts.
He continues, “Yes, you hate my voice, but you also love my voice. Tell me otherwise, and I’ll stop.”
“You’ll stop chiming in?” She’s disbelieving.
Connor arches a brow. “Only if I’m wrong, which I know I’m not.”
Rose rolls her eyes and sighs. “How can I both love and hate your voice?” She doesn’t deny the fact that she does.
“Because,” he says, “you’re a beautiful paradox.”
Rose nearly smiles, but she seems to remember me, her game-face returning. Straightening up, she says, “Where was I?”
I shake my head. I’m just as lost.
“You want to be blunt with her,” Connor reminds Rose. He’s firmly on his wife’s side, not about to come to my defense, if I even need one.
“Willow,” Rose begins, “we all feel a semblance of responsibility for you, and while that may seem absurd since you’re seventeen and clearly a young adult, we’re still the people that’ll take care of you if something were to go horribly awry in Philly.”
I nod, hardly breathing.
Rose is about to swing a figurative axe. I see the power simmer through her. “Therefore,” she says, “you have to think about us when you’re out late at night. Alone. With too many fucking perverts that know your name when you have no idea who they are. Not to mention, the rabid, foaming-at-the-repulsive-mouth paparazzi.” Rose lets out a single breath, on a hot streak. “We’re all you have here, and we’d break our backs for you. Leave your phone on. Text. Call—whatever it takes.”
The last three words ring in my head like a cliffhanger to a story about family and friendship and love. She’s asking me to embrace them entirely, even when I don’t fully know her beyond the media and the encouragements she’s given me in the past—but I’m not here to be a burden or a nuisance.
I’ve already screwed that up. Yet, I still feel myself retracting. Wanting to distance myself so I’ll never ever bother them again.
In the most tranquil voice, Connor says, “We also recognize your reluctance to integrate with the six of us.”
They have?
“When we go out,” he continues, “you decline our invites because you’re afraid to be a hassle, and you refuse to move in because you’re afraid to alter Lo’s life.”
I ruined that tonight. Before, I was a peaceful shadow. Now I’ve become trouble. Someone Lo probably wishes he could return.
I’m sorry, Lo.
Connor edges forward on the couch, as though reaching towards me with his calming eyes alone. “You have affected Loren Hale.” It crushes me, tears welling, and before I apologize, he says, “You have brought your brother love, and with love comes an unbearable amount of worry that I used to believe made people weak.”
Rose is watching her husband, eyes cast proudly and affectionately on him, and I’m caught in Connor’s vortex of wisdom and reverence.
“Lo isn’t weak,” Connor tells me. “He’s just trying to figure out how to love a sister and protect a sister at the same time, all without hurting you with his imaginative vocabulary.”
Rose nods in agreement. “If someone knows how to slaughter with words, it’s Loren Hale.”
“And he’s afraid to slaughter you,” Connor finishes.
My lips part, and they wait for me to speak. “Maybe…maybe I should stay away.”
Rose gapes. “No. That’s not what we’re trying to say. We want you here. With us.” She nearly rises out of passion, but Connor tugs her down, seeing that I’m uncomfortable. Rose continues on in a fiery rant, “You are family. We are family, and family fucks up and can be the biggest pains in the asses—but we’re also the very best when we’re together. Not apart.”
I want that.
I do.
It sounds beautiful, but I can’t fuck Lo up. He has a baby and a wife, and he’s a recovering addict. So is Lily.
I wipe my wet eyes beneath my glasses, and then I hear the front door swing open. I go very still. Rose cranes her neck over her shoulder as Ryke Meadows storms into the house. Not acknowledging us, he sets his focused eyes on the kitchen door, his features hard, jaw scruffy and dark brown hair messy. Somehow he knows that his brother lies behind the kitchen door.
He heads straight for him.
Ryke vanishes inside, the better sibling to Loren Hale between the two of us.
I slump in my seat, and then Daisy enters the living room. “Hey, guys,” she greets with a bright smile that eviscerates the lingering tension.
