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His face hardens, nostrils flaring.
“Because he stays here out of choice,” I say pointedly. “And he’ll do best to remember that.”
Despite the vitriol blazing back at me, I see the wheels turning in his head. When it clicks, he drops his gaze, his jaw working furiously.
Yeah, asshole.
Waylon might’ve had a shit upbringing, but at least he has multiple people who’d fight like hell to keep a roof over his head. Shawn has no one but us. If my mom didn’t get assigned to him in the hospital, if she didn’t push him into going to rehab, if she didn’t insist he come live with us when we both got out today…
He’d be back on the streets.
Probably dead by now.
“May I be excused?” Waylon says tightly, not looking up from his plate.
Mom’s frowning. “You know you never have to ask that.”
With a short, tense nod, Waylon pushes away from the table, grabbing his plate setting, and taking it to the counter. He hesitates, like he’s warring with himself.
“It’s okay, I’ve got it,” Mom says.
Frowning, I watch as the tension leaves his spine, and he quickly ducks out of the kitchen, disappearing down the hall. A moment later, footsteps can be heard thudding up the stairs.
Turning back to Mom, I find her giving me a small smile.
Across from me, Phoebe leans over, stopping just shy of actually touching Shawn. I don’t miss how rigid he gets. He doesn’t even breathe. He’s frozen.
“His dad was a dick,” she whispers before I can so much as tell her to give him space.
“Phoebe!” Mom admonishes.
My sister retreats with a shrug. “What? It’s true.”
Shawn’s gaze meets mine, and I purse my lips, unsure what to say. She’s far from wrong…but it doesn’t feel any more right dishing out Waylon’s past to him, than it would to tell Waylon about Shawn’s.
His eyes tighten, and a dangerous sort of knowingness peeks out from their depths. Not breaking my gaze, he gives me a small nod, telling me without words he knows it’s not personal.
Releasing a breath, I reach for my water, taking another gulp.
In the corner of my eye, Mom lifts her glass, flashing me a small, rueful smile. “Welcome home, kids.”
Knocking on the door for the second time in a matter of seconds, this time I call out loudly, “Seriously, dude? Let me in.”
I’m about to knock for a third time, when finally the door swings open to reveal slitted hazel eyes glaring back at me. “What?”
“Are you done feeling sorry for yourself yet?”
His lip curls in a sneer, and I arch a brow.
“Fuck you.”
I make a come-hither gesture with my fingers. “Keep it coming. That all you got?”
The look on his face is vicious, the fury in his eyes more unrestrained than I’ve ever seen it.
Come on, asshole. Let me have it.
But just when I think he might, he shuts down. His gaze hardens, growing flat. “Go away.”
