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“I know you wanted to wait, but I’d already told him. Sorry.”
Mom’s gaze darts to mine, and we share a long, weighted look.
“Sweetie,” she says slowly, turning to my sister. “You don’t have to be sorry for that. It’s your decision who knows, always. I just didn’t know you told him. I was surprised.”
Phoebe just shrugs. “He’s a good secret keeper. I could tell.”
I look at Shawn, arching an amused brow, a look he returns with a flat look.
“Well, then,” Mom says, smiling. “Okay.”
“So where are you from?” Waylon says about as harshly as my earlier question. I don’t have to look over to see that he’s got hostility shooting from his eyes. His entire body radiates it.
“Dude,” I mutter, just as Shawn replies, “Scranton.”
“And you went to rehab because…”
“Way,” I say sharper this time, cutting him a fierce look to quit it.
This time, Shawn says nothing, and like before, tension blankets the room. Tension only he seems to be unfazed by. At least on the surface.
“It’s a valid question,” Waylon says quietly. Defensively. “We don’t know him, and now he’s here, living under our roof. He?—”
“Waylon,” Mom interjects not unkindly.
Our roof.
Because Waylon moved in not long after he turned eighteen last spring, and no longer had to stay with his legal guardian—his uncle. And with Shawn here now too…
Well, it’s lucky this is a big house, but it also means Shawn and Waylon have to share the guest room until we get another bed for the attic.
Tonight’s going to be interesting…
Waylon lifts his head, meeting her soft, understanding gaze.
Meanwhile, I’m over here, gritting my teeth, fighting the urge to throttle him. As per usual when he acts like this, but especially when it comes to Shawn. I’ve gathered enough in rehab—from the pieces he offered up in group, and in all the things he didn’t say—to know the guy deserves a fucking break.
If anything, these two share far more in common than either know. More than either would be probably willing to admit, at least not yet. Probably not for a while, seeing as both are equally tight-lipped about the shit they’ve been through.
“Do you really think I’d let someone live here who I thought was dangerous?”
Waylon just stares at my mom.
She sighs.
“I could go.”
At those three gruff words, I snap my gaze to Shawn.
Before either Mom or I can object though, Phoebe sighs dramatically. “No, you’re not going anywhere. Ignore him. We do.”
“Hey,” Waylon protests, and she responds by sticking her tongue out at him.
With a huff, he slouches in his seat.
To Shawn, I say, “She’s right.” I cut a long sideways look at Waylon. “He’ll get over it.”
When caustic hazel eyes slide to mine, I add, “And if he doesn’t, he’s got an uncle across town who’d be happy to take him back.”
