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But she hated seeing him that way, so sometimes she asked anyway. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” he snapped, cutting the turn close as he raced toward the mountain in the distance.
“Harrison, slow down.”
“I should just keep fucking driving and never come back.”
The thought of him running away gutted her. “What happened?”
“The same thing that always happens. I’m a fuck up. I should have done better. I’m just one big fucking disappointment!”
He was shouting, and even though his rage wasn’t directed at her, she felt trapped in the crossfire. The car sped up the back road at a seventy mile an hour clip.
“Harrison, slow down. You’re scaring me.”
He took a fast turn and headlights gathered up ahead where cars parked along the distant tree line. He jerked the wheel before they reached the others and slammed on the brakes, driving the car off the shoulder.
“Fuck!” His fist slammed into the steering wheel and she flinched.
Her heart raced as her back pressed into the seat. “Harrison, what happened?”
“Nothing!”
“Clearly, something—”
“I don’t want to fucking talk about it!” His voice broke and her fear elevated to concern.
“Hey.” Tentatively, she rested a hand on his arm. His skin was burning up. “Everything will work out. Whatever happened, we can fix it.”
His lips firmed into a thin line as his cheeks darkened and his jaw locked. He looked down at her hand and frowned, the tension slowly leaving his face. His fingers brushed over hers. “Your hands are so delicate.”
Lifting her hand, he traced her fingers with his. Hers were smooth and his were calloused from sports. One of his knuckles was split, the crack still red with dried blood.
“Did you hurt your hand?” Harrison was an athlete so he always had scrapes and bruises.
“It’s nothing.”
She touched his fingernails, which were bitten excruciatingly short. “You shouldn’t bite your nails.”
“Nervous habit.” He watched her as she studied his hand. It wasn’t unusual for them to explore each other that way. He never tried to pull away or hide from her, at least not in a physical sense. Emotionally, he was more guarded.
Bringing his hand to her lips, she kissed the tips of his ravaged fingernails. Then she kissed his injured knuckle. He dragged the back of his fingers softly along her jaw and she shut her eyes.
His hand glided down her neck, along the slope of her shoulder, until the side of her cardigan lowered. She didn’t stop him when he pulled open the buttons of her shirt, nor did she object when he reached between her legs to recline her seat.
“Lie back.”
Sometimes it felt like Harrison tried to escape through her. She liked offering him that sort of shelter.
He scooted onto the passenger seat with her, pulling her legs around him and positioning her exactly where he wanted. They shared an explosive chemistry, but then there were the rare moments like this, when he held her close enough to feel his heart beating against her skin.
Sometimes, he couldn’t look at her, but she felt the emotions pouring out of him as he buried his face in her neck and hair. He was inside of her, but they were no longer having sex. Sex was just a cover, an excuse for him to find the closeness he so desperately needed.
He didn’t shake from passion, but from intense emotion. “It’s okay,” she whispered as jagged breaths jerked past his lips. He hugged her tighter but didn’t say a word.
Tremors shook his shoulders and she wondered if this was how boys like Harrison cried. He never shed a tear, but she felt a strong pull to protect him.
There were several moments like that, never consistent enough to think something was truly wrong, but frequent enough for her to realize Harrison didn’t feel as in control of his life as he led everyone else to believe.
She had always hero worshipped him to some degree, but wearing his tears somehow washed away any illusions. Harrison was just as fragile and vulnerable as the rest of them.
Headlights streamed over the house when Mariella’s cousin pulled up behind her and she remembered where she was. Shaking off the hold of her memories, she climbed out of the car and greeted her cousin, Braydon, with a wave.
Braydon brushed a hand over his blond curls. Unlike her other dark-haired McCullough cousins, Braydon’s hair was full of golden waves, which was partially why the aunts called him the golden child. She and Giovanni inherited their father’s Italian coloring, and her Clooney cousins all inherited Aunt Rosemarie’s strawberry blonde hair.
“Well, this is weird,” her cousin said by way of greeting. “Never thought I’d be walking into Erin Montgomery’s house.”
She knew most people didn’t care for Erin, but she never saw her that way. To her, this would always be Harrison’s house, and Erin would always be his little sister.
