Hell to the no. “Fuck off.”
He grunts and gets to his feet. “Fine, asshole. Forget I ever cared.”
I watch him stride across the living room, heading for the door. Fuck this. He can’t bully me into telling him about my worst nightmares, my memories from hell.
But he’s my friend. My brother. If anyone deserves to know, it’s him.
I can’t. Fear wars with shame, a deep-rooted horror that twists my guts. Not ready. Telling Dakota was… different. No idea why.
But he needs something from me. A kind of reassurance.
“Ash!” I call just as he opens the door to go. I struggle to my feet, cursing my body for taking so long to recover. “Wait.”
He stills. “What?”
“Those are some damn scary memories,” I say through gritted teeth. I stand there, face bowed, hands fisted by my sides. This is like chewing nails. “I hate them. Don’t ask me to talk about them. Please, fucker.”
“You should tell someone what happened.” He still doesn’t turn, but his back has relaxed a fraction. “It might help, man.”
“I’ve…” The truth wants out. “I’ve told Dakota what I remember.”
I fully expect him to stomp out and go, maybe not talk to me for a year. I talked to Dakota that I only just met recently instead of to him, my old friend.
But he doesn’t. Slowly, he turns around. “It’s easier, isn’t it? Talking to the girls?”
I sink back into the armchair, totally wiped out. “Yeah,” I croak. “Sometimes.”
“Okay.” He nods. “Do you… Do you mind if I ask her?”
I open my mouth to curse, but find myself nodding. “It’s okay.”
It is, I realize. Talking about the memories is like opening new wounds on the old ones. But if I don’t have to talk about them, I’m okay with Ash knowing.
He tips his head. “Thanks, man.”
As if I’ve given him a present instead of my shitty memories.
Then again, in a sense I’m laying myself wide open, bare all the way, for him to see, like I did with Dakota. He’ll know my darkest fears, see right through to my soul. I’m giving up control by tearing down my secrets, my walls.
Trust. It’s all I have, and I trust them both.
“Maybe someday you can talk about it,” Ash says, and I shrug, not sure I’ll be able to. “Anyhow…” He frowns and glances over his shoulder. “There’s someone here.”
I try to see past him, and he steps aside.
“Hey, man,” Matt says. He glances from Asher to me and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Can I come in?”
“…said you were out of hospital. I know I arrived way too late, but I had to see how you are.” Matt stops and stares at me, as if expecting something.
A reaction.
Shit, he’s really here. For a moment I thought I was dreaming—then I remembered Emma, and her funeral and sort of missed the rest of what he was saying.
I scrub a hand over my face. “Did you say Ash called you?”
“I don’t even know who he is,” Ash grumbles from my right.
When did Ash sit back down on the sofa? Wasn’t he on his way out?
“Rafaele Vestri called me,” Matt says.
I blink at him stupidly until my brain restarts. Rafe. Rafe called him?
“I’m Matt, by the way.” Matt extends his hand to Ash. “Emma’s husband.”
Ash shakes Matt’s hand, his gaze clearing. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
“Yeah. We sometimes came to visit here, before Emma fell sick.”
Ash nods, looking partly glad and partly horrified. I wonder why he stayed, but then I notice he’s sitting between Matt and me, as if to protect me. Or protect Matt from me? No idea.
It really makes me wonder what expression I wore when Matt came in.
“Rafe said you were in a coma. That you were in the hospital.” Matt frowns. “I didn’t know. If I’d known, I’d have come earlier.”
No idea what the hell to say to that. “Why are you here now?”
He flinches. “Because… we’re family, Zane.”
“You left.” Anger warms up the cold spaces inside me, so I welcome it. I’ve hung on to anger all my life to survive. Anger hasn’t let me down as much as people have. “You took the kids and left.”
“Try to understand.” He tugs on his short hair. “I had to take them away, far from home. They miss their mom. I was only trying to help them get through this.”
I nod, because I can’t speak without yelling at him to get the fuck out.
After a while, he seems to get the message anyway and stands to go. I still want to yell at him.
And I don’t want him to go. Not really.
I lurch to my feet before he takes a step. Something is tightening in my chest. Chances are I’m gonna fucking break down for the first time since I can remember myself.
Matt shifts his weight from foot to foot nervously. He may be in his mid-twenties, but in the span of a few months, his hair has gone gray. How didn’t I notice before?
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Emma loved you like her own son, and I put the needs of her other kids, our kids, above you. I shouldn’t…” He shakes his head. “I should have told you to come with us.”
“My friends are all here,” I whisper. “My job. I can’t.”
He nods. “Then we’ll visit you. As often as we can. And you should come over, too. Whenever you have the time.” He sighs. “I may be too young to be your dad, but I sure as hell think of you as my younger brother. Emma’s death… it rattled me badly, but that hasn’t changed. I hope you know it.”
“Yeah.” My eyes sting. “Listen—”
I don’t expect him to grab me in a bear hug. He thumps his fist on my back. “Family, Zane. I made a mistake, but you can count on us, for everything you need. I hope you know that.”
I see Ash get up and move toward the door. He’s blurry, and my breath hitches as the pressure in my chest finally reaches a breaking point.
Shit. I pull back and wipe a hand over my wet cheeks. Matt lets me go, his eyes suspiciously bright. He gives me a piece of paper with his new address and landline phone number. Pats my shoulder and then follows Ash out, leaving me alone to try and get myself under control.
Matt and Emma were like the parents I never had. Having at least one of them back in my life is a damn miracle, and for someone like me who doesn’t believe in miracles, that’s pretty damn awesome.
What a fucked up mess.
I stare at my ruined Mohawk in the mirror. I’m not vain, but I’ve had a Mohawk since I was fourteen. Sure, the teachers tried to get me to cut it all the time. I got expelled more times than I can count, and my foster families hated it.
Which is why I kept it. It’s part of who I am. Part of my war against my past. Yeah, that’s it. It’s a war symbol.
Which I apparently sheared off with the scissors while taking a break from trashing my apartment. Yeah, I got wasted off my ass. Really wasted, not just drunk. Shitfaced. Hammered. Plastered.