Since we were only eight years old when mom died, she was raised by our no-nonsense dad, our quietly broody older brother, Gray, and me. Our little sister, Kinley, and little brother, Tucker were just as sad and lost as she was. Our baby sister, Breanna, was just a newborn.
Marley was mom’s first little girl making them close, so losing dad is probably triggering her feelings of abandonment, that’s what the therapist called it when we were kids. First, she lost Mom, and then she lost me when I was forced into the service, even though it ended up being the best thing I ever did.
Now she almost lost Dad.
I know better than to say pretty words to try and soothe her. Marley may look innocent with her big blue eyes and porcelain skin, but she is not one for sugarcoating things, so I just kiss her temple and wipe the tears from hercheeks.
Tilting her head to make her look at me, I ask, “You okay?” She knows I’m talking about her tendency to forget to eat when she’s sad, her frame feels bony and I don’t like that.
Rolling her eyes, because she knows what I’m talking about, she says, “Yeah, I ate some oatmeal with fruit at breakfast. Sloane thinks she’s being sneaky, but I can taste the vitamin powder she puts in it.”
Good, at least someone else is looking out for her health. For a second, my thoughts go back to those luscious lips pressed against mine last night before I push them away and focus on my sister.
Her eyes widen and she sucks in a breath, “Did you meet Sloane? She took Opal’s place, I just love her to death, she fits in just like one of us.”
Gray’s words echo in my head, “Marley likes her, so keep your hands to yourself.”
Clearing my throat and keeping a mask of indifference on my face, I say, “Yep, I met her briefly when I took my things in the house.”
A slight flush heats my cheeks as the lie slides so easily from my lips. I don’t lie to my sister. Sure, I tell half-truths and leave out info when talking about work, she knows I can’t talk about work, but this isn’t work. Outside of that, she knows me as well as I know her.
Her eyebrows slightly pinch as she looks over my face and I know she knows something’s up.
Quickly changing the subject, I ask, “Are you getting plenty of sleep?” It’s hard to tell if the purple moons under her eyes are from crying or lack of sleep.
The night of our high school prom, Marley was attacked and raped by one of the drunk guys we went to school with. I walked in on it happening and beat the shit out of the guy, almost killed him, but she started having nightmares that kept her awake most of the night for a long time after, so I alsoworry about her getting plenty of sleep.
It’s not lost on me that losing Dad, her other source of strength besides me, would bring back the nightmares.
Knowing that I know her as well as I know myself, her pause confirms my suspicions, “I already called Dr. Cobble and had a phone session, she called in something to help me sleep.”
Good.
I smile and ask, “Do we need to get all the fixins’ for ice cream sundays?”
Marley’s kryptonite is ice cream with fudge, marshmallow cream, and nuts. Her lips tip up on each side and her eyes soften, “Don’t forget the whipped topping this time.”
“You got it, little sister.”
She huffs and rolls her eyes, “Only by minutes.”
Putting my arm across her shoulders, I laugh and say, “Oh, it counts.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SLOANE
SHIT.
SHIT.
Shit.
The walls of my room feel like they are closing in on me as I pace my floor, my palm on my forehead. I’ve looked at the pictures in Mr. Harlow’s office hundreds of times when I’m dusting, and even thought those pictures are nearly ten years old, he doesn’t look like the Mason in those pictures.
It must be the beard. How could I have not seen it?
Shit.
