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“Fuck no.” Jude scowls.
I shrug again. “Suit yourself.”
I stump inside the house, noticing how much effort it takes to lift my feet. The motion of walking no longer feels automatic. My heart rate increases. I feel the muscle squeezing blood like a hand wringing out a sponge.
“What the fuck?”I whisper. “What did you do?”
I don’t know if I’m talking to Dane or myself. I must have been insane to invite that man into my head.
I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s got to be some self-destructive urge that pulls me back to him again and again.
There are ninety-six tiles in the main entryway, and sixteen steps to the second level, but only thirty-nine railings—one is missing. The chandeliers are made of brass and the birds on the wallpaper are finches…
My eyes dart everywhere, counting everything. My heart beats way too fast.
I scale the second set of stairs to my room and throw myself down on the bed, covering my ears and closing my eyes.
When I lift my head again, everything is normal. The room is dark and cool. The silence is just silence.
My phone buzzes next to the bed:
Emma
I don’t want to keep bugging you, but you’re missing a whole lot of fun
My thumbs move across the screen. I type, change my mind, then send this instead:
Leaving now
Emma’s response is instant:
Hell yes! Get your ass down here!
I smile as I tuck my phone in my pocket. It’s nice to feel wanted, even just as another warm body at a party.
I flip through the six pieces of clothes hung up in the wardrobe, pulling out the shirt I’d consider the “nicest,” meaning there’s no paint smeared on it or visible holes. The same can’t be said of my jeans.
I brush my hair, add a little eyeliner and lip gloss, and spritz on some of Jude’s cologne. In the cracked mirror, by lamplight, I’m looking pretty damn good.
Jude’s out in the yard, elbow deep in engine parts.
“Sure you don’t want to come?”
“No thanks.” He leans all his weight on his wrench, trying to loosen a rusty screw. “I’m going to get this thing running smoothly.”
My brother becomes incredibly productive when he’s avoiding something he hates more.
“Don’t stay up too late.”
“Same to you,” he says, giving me a look.
Okay, okay, message received.
For the hundredth time, I remind myself to stop babying him. Though that would be a hell of lot easier if he’d occasionally act like an adult.
He’s twenty,I remind myself.Not a kid anymore.
And for once, as I look at him hunched over in the stark lamplight, I can actually see it.
