Belonging. For the first time in my life, I had the chance to know what that word meant.
And so did Dean.
My heart thumped. A wild tenderness filled me as I looked at him standing there in his wrinkled shirt and torn jeans, his face still scratched, his hair spilling across his forehead.
I couldn’t bear to let him out of my life. And I knew I could be everything for him that he was for me. I could heal his wounds, be his anchor, treasure him. Together we could create our own world, one of warmth and affection, protected from the slings and arrows of the world.
For despite our differences, our struggles, our childhoods at opposite ends of the spectrum… Dean and I were the same.
We had both been weighted by destructive secrets at too young an age. We’d both been forced into actions we hadn’t wanted, and then we’d blamed ourselves when things went horribly wrong. At thirteen, our lives had changed drastically, starting us on a twisting path toward freedom and redemption.
Dean had tried to appease his guilt by caring for his sick grandfather. I’d escaped back to Twelve Oaks. We had both worked so hard to uphold an ideal image of who we thought we should be. But even as we struggled to extricate ourselves from our pasts, we’d become inevitably tangled up in them.
Until now.
Our gazes locked and held. We understood each other down to our very bones. We were the only people who ever would.
“Say yes,” he said.
I said yes. There was no other response.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dean
January 26
don’t remember much about my brother as a boy. That is, I’m not sure if my memories are real or fabricated. I know we used to toss a football around in the backyard. I know he struggled in school. I know he liked Legos and trains.
That’s all I know for sure. The rest is hazy, cut off by the twenty-five-year-old incident that has always been like a living thing, venomous and cold. I think my brother played soccer. I think he had a rock collection. I think he liked bugs. I think his favorite sandwich was something strange, like cheese and jelly or peanut butter and bologna. I can’t remember.
I wait for him in front of the garage. It’s a clear day, cool, like a thousand other California days. The sound of his motorcycle vibrates through the air as he turns onto our street.
Tension stiffens my spine. His bike roars into the driveway. He stops and pulls off his helmet. Looks at me. Even from a distance, I sense his wariness.
Good.
I walk toward him. He’s unshaven, his hair too long, wearing a ratty jacket and torn jeans. He’s thinner too, with dark circles under his eyes. A slight bump on the bridge of his nose.
“My wife is here.” I stop in front of him. “You say one rude thing to her… you even look at her wrong, and I’ll take you down.”
His expression hardens. “Hold a grudge much, bro?”
“Understand?”
Archer mutters something under his breath. He shoves off his bike. “Good to see you too.”
“I told Mom you were on your way.” I walk toward the house. He follows. “Where are you staying?”
“With a friend in Campbell.”
“Leave Mom the contact info. She’s been complaining she can’t reach you.”
We go into the kitchen. Archer yanks open the refrigerator and peers at the contents.
“Where’s your wife?” he asks.
Avoiding you. “Went to run a couple errands.”
“What’s her name again?”
My jaw tightens. “Olivia.”
“Yeah. Shakespearean, right? When did you marry her?”
“Three years ago.”
He pulls a soda out and twists off the top. “Going well?”
“Fine. Heard you told Mom you were getting married.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs, tilting his head back to gulp the soda. He swipes his mouth with his sleeve. “Didn’t work out. Better now than getting a divorce, huh?”
He shoots me a smile that’s not a smile.
“Where’s Paige?” he asks, leaning against the counter.
“Out with Mom.”
“How long’re you staying?”
“Week or so. Until Dad is out of the hospital.”
Archer doesn’t bother asking how he’s doing. I wait for him to ask for money. I hate that our grandfather left me the custodian of Archer’s inheritance, but it’s a responsibility I can’t escape. Archer has five years left to fulfill our grandfather’s conditions. If he doesn’t, the money all goes to charity.
Silence falls. I fold my arms across my chest. The clock over the kitchen table ticks.
“You all right?” I finally ask.
Archer shrugs. “Sure.”
“Working?”
“Was. Installed hardwood floors for a few months. Bet you don’t know the difference between red oak and white oak.”
“Red oak has a stronger grain. White oak is harder and more durable.”
Archer laughs. I turn as the front door opens and Liv comes in, giving me a faint smile. She’s seen Archer’s bike in the driveway, and her expression is wary. She looks past me into the kitchen.
“Hello, Archer.”
He lifts the soda in a salute. “Olivia.”
“Liv.”
“Yeah.” He takes another drink. Doesn’t look at her.
Good. I hope he’s embarrassed. Ashamed.
“How are you?” Liv asks him.