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CHAPTERONE
Kayla
“Youknewhe was sick?”
My voice is torn with agony and disbelief.
Ryan stands at the window of our kitchen. It’s the same one Mom used to bake apple pies in, the room smelling so homely. It’s the same place we’ve had countless family scenes and so much happiness. We never worried that Mom would die in a bus crash and Dad, a few years later, would get an incurable illness—the big C. I hate even thinking of its name.
Since I was sixteen, it’s just been me and Ryan, and now he won’t look at me, gazing out over the dusty hill that leads to our small corner of California. He’s wearing his Titan’s MC jacket, the motorcycle club my dad started.
Ryan glances at me, his mop of black hair falling over his eyes. I’m nineteen. He’s thirty-two. He’s always been just as much of a father figure to me as Dad, and that was doubly true when Dad passed.
“Talk to me,” I snap, hurrying across the room.
Ryan sighs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. He’s tall and lean, with sharp cheekbones. He has Mom’s eyes. It always makes me sad when I think about that.
He’s watching the hill as if expecting an army of motorbikes to surge over it any second. He’s been tense lately, maybe because he recently split with his girlfriend, or perhaps it’s something else. He won’t talk to me.
I grab his arm, spin him roughly, and force him to look at me. “Did you know Dad was sick?”
Dad hid his illness for a year, spending most of his time at the motorcycle club, not telling me and, I thought, Ryan.
“I thought we werebothin the dark, but you knew?”
He swallows and nods shortly. “I’m sorry. He told me soon after they diagnosed him.”
“Did he make you promise not to tell?” I demand.
This could be the saving grace. If Dad, dying, hadbeggedRyan not to tell me, then I can understand. I can forgive him.
“No,” Ryan says. “I made that decision myself.”
I take a step back, shaking my head.
“It’s the anniversary tomorrow.” What an upbeat word for what it is the day my dad died. “I’m ready, and you drop this on menow?”
Ryan’s eyes flit to my duffle bag. We have a tradition of camping on the peak that overlooks our small town. It’s where Dad used to take us when we were kids. Just me and Ryan, remembering the good times. This will be our third year. Or itwould’vebeen if Ryan hadn’t thrown this news at me.
“I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me. We’ve always told each othereverything.”
“There’s no excuse,” he says darkly.
“Aren’t you going to defend yourself, at least?”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Jesus, Ryan.”
He bows his head and nods, his teeth gritted. “I never wanted to lie to you, but you must know.”
“You have to give me a reason.”
He folds his arms, turning fully to me now. A thousand versions of him flutter across my memory. My wannabe poet’s mind starts composing some probably terrible lines.
A titan, staring,
But I’m not lost.
