Why was Dimitri so hell-bent on protecting him? It didn’t make any sense, really. What made somebody so instantly protective of another?
“Did you mean it back there, or were you just being nice?” Arlo blurted.
Dimitri arched his brow. “Mean what?”
Arlo’s face flushed hot. God, he was such an idiot. “Never mind,” he mumbled.
He tried to duck under Dimitri’s arm like he’d done a hundred times that day, but Dimitri must have anticipated his move because he planted his hand low against the wall, ensuring Arlo couldn’t escape. That left him no choice but to turn and look up at Dimitri or stay with his back to him, neither of which seemed like a great option.
“Mean what?” Dimitri murmured, his voice warm, almost teasing.
Arlo let his eyelids float closed, unable to look at him as he said, “That you’d take care of me if I let you.”
He sucked in a sharp breath as fingertips caressed his cheek. He was half convinced this was some kind of sensory hallucination, that Holden had hit him and killed him and Dimitri was just some heavenly apparition gifted to him as a reward for all his pain and suffering. “I meant it. But you have to ask. I can’t just step in without your permission. My mother says normal people don’t do that.”
Arlo vaguely remembered Dimitri’s mother. She was pretty in the kind of nineties grunge aesthetic that was popular towards the end of the decade. Black hair, tattoos, pale blue eyes just like Dimitri’s. Did he talk about Arlo to his mom? What did he mean by ‘normal’ people?
Arlo’s lids fluttered open to find Dimitri examining his face, his lower lip trapped between his teeth. “What?”
“I like looking at your face,” Dimitri said, his voice a rough whisper, like he was imparting a huge secret.
Arlo shook his head, bemused. “I like looking at your face, too. I always have.”
“Always?” Dimitri asked, his head dipping lower until they were only inches apart.
Forever.Arlo had wanted Dimitri since before he was old enough to even know what wanting somebody like that meant. “Since the day I dragged my mat over to yours in pre-k.”
Dimitri’s eyes widened. “You remember that?”
Arlo scoffed, shaking his head. “I remember everything. Who forgets the boy who set your parents’ bed on fire?”
Dimitri sighed. “My mom made us move after that.”
Arlo leaned back against the wall. “My parents told me you’d been put in jail.”
Dimitri rolled his eyes. “Please, your shithead dad wouldn’t risk the cops realizing he was hurting you.”
Arlo frowned, keeping his voice low only because the conversation felt so heavy. “Why’d you do it? Are you crazy? I mean, I am, too. I’m not judging. But did you know they would die if you did it?” Dimitri nodded, not even an ounce of regret in his eyes. “And you didn’t care?”
Dimitri’s fingers trailed from his cheek to his throat, his thumb settling over Arlo’s pulse. “I cared. I wanted them to die.”
Dimitri had to feel Arlo’s pulse racing. Maybe that was what he was doing—judging Arlo’s reaction to such a bold statement. He should have felt horror, revulsion. Dimitri was standing there telling Arlo he’d tried to murder his parents in the most gruesome way possible. But, to Arlo, it felt like somebody was handing him roses.
“Why?” Arlo knew why, but he wanted to hear him say it.
“Because they were hurting you. I promised to protect you.”
Arlo shook his head. “We were five.”
“Even at five I knew you were mine.”
Arlo was certain the air had just been punched from his lungs. “You can’t say stuff like that.”
“Why?”
“Because…” Arlo floundered. “You just can’t.”
Dimitri frowned. “But why? Why can’t we just tell the truth?”
