“Ky—” I begin, not wanting her to worry anyone.
“Jesus, bro,” Blake says. “You don’t do anything in half-measures, do you?”
“Like I said, I’m good.” I start to shrug but stop when a lightning bolt of pain shoots through my body. Right. The shoulder.
And now that I’m thinking about pain, my head is throbbing, the skin on the side of my scalp where that fucker hit me pulled so tight it aches and burns.
Cool, cool.
“Good,” my mom says. “Then I should get Blake home.”
“Mom!” he snaps. “Stop.”
Her eyes flare, and I brace again. Because I know the look on her face means that nothing good is going to come of this.
Hell, part of me wishes they’d just go, that they never came in the first place.
The rest…well, that piece of me wishes they—she—would just see me.
As if on cue, her eyes flick to mine, holding as accusation bleeds into the brown depths that are so much like my own.
“Do you know what your brother did?”
“Oh, Christ,” Blake mutters.
“He booked an Uber!” she snaps. “And the driver was actually helping him load up his equipment!” More accusation. “Do you know how dirty public cars are? The number of people in and out, and?—”
Kylie’s hand wraps around my uninjured one, holds tightly.
“Mom,” Blake says, neatly cutting her off when she sucks in a breath to continue her tirade. “This is Kylie. Kylie, this is Donna, Colt’s and my mom, and Frank, our dad. Mom, Dad you probably recognize Kylie’s name from the calls you didn’t return.”
“Blake,” Kylie says softly, her eyes filled with warning.
“Isn’t it great she’s here?” he asks brightly, ignoring the tension in the room.
My dad’s gaze slides from his phone at the mention of his name and he nods briefly before immediately losing interest and returning his focus to winning levels on Candy Crush or whatever the fuck he does on his cell.
(Though, apparently, that doesn’t extend to returning phone calls).
My mom…well, her expression continues to be sour.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Madden,” Kylie says.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” my mom replies distractedly…and bitchily.
Kylie’s fingers tighten ever so slightly on mine.
“You convince her to let you be her boyfriend yet?” Blake asks before my mom can say anything unforgivable.
“Blake,” I warn, not needing any more of his brand of interference, not as the pain is ramping up and fatigue is creeping back in.
I just want to go home.
And God, I wonder how many times Blake felt the same.
His gaze holds mine and though he’s teasing and joking, like normal, I see it there—the burden of dealing with my mom’s attention, the heavy weight of having to do this over and over again (the stays, the surgeries, the stitches, the pain) as his heart failed, as he got a little worse, year by year by year.
“Turns out it didn’t take much convincing,” Kylie says and we both look over at her. She smiles at me then turns the gorgeousness of that beam of sunshine toward my brother.
