Chapter Twenty
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A man can’t even crash out in private these days. It’s terrible.
Fox
I am in heaven and hell simultaneously, and it’s all Poem Eloise Devoe’s fault.
I could strangle her.
I could worship her.
I could take this afternoon, put it in a tiny little jar, and wear it around my neck every day for the rest of my life.
Or, I could burn it, erase the itch under my skin that demands the instant gratification ofmore, and continue on my path of growth until I am actually worthy of an afternoon with Poem’s body beneath me and her mouth on mine.
I groan, banging my head against my desk. The desk that the unfortunate love of my life was on a mere hour ago. The desk that I banished her from because, despite her insistence that I wouldn’t be receiving a “full” anything, her pliancy and willingness shifted to such a degree that she began to insist to the contrary.
She’s upstairs cooling off now, and I’m in my office doing work—the very important work of bashing a dent into this wood.
My office door creaks, and I jump, putting my chair between me and the person entering.
Wolfe pauses in the doorway, eyebrows rising. “You okay, buddy?”
I slump over my chairback, groaning. “No,” I answer. “I am not okay.”
He hums. “Is this about your whole proving-you’re-a-good-person thing?” he asks, moving to sit on the corner of my desk.
“Don’t sit there,” I hiss. “Sit somewhere else.”
He pauses, hovering over the wood as he slowly turns his head to take in the significant lack of other seating in the room.
“The floor,” I grunt. “Or stand. I don’t care. You can’t sit there.”
He glances at the floor and, specifically, the desk’s worth of paperwork spread about it. “I guess I’ll stand, then.”
“Great,” I reply, falling into my chair. Which I could have offered to him, I suppose, but… “You’re not supposed to know about my ‘whole proving-I’m-a-good-person thing’,” I grumble. “Isn’t anything private anymore?”
“No,” he answers. “Not when you’re twins. And not when you do absolutely nothing to hide it.”
I scowl. “You should mind your own business.”
“Youaremy business,” he retorts. “Is that what your current dishevelment is about? You think you aren’t making progress?”
I glare. “No. Well, yes, but no. Kind of.”
“Your clarity is appreciated.” He snorts. “If it’s worth anything, Almond and I have talked about it, and we both think you’re being ridiculous. You’ve been home for years, and all you’ve done in those years is be the absolute best version of yourself. You took on the bar when neither of us wanted it but Mom and Dad wouldn’t sell to anyonebutus. You saved not only your siblings from a life they never wanted but your parents from a life without retirement.” He levels a severe stare on me, forcing eye contact where I try to evade it. “You help all of us anytime we ask, and often you help before we even get a chance to. You’re here for me, for Al, for our parents, for Amia. You volunteer in the community, too, and we all know that most of the donations to Warren and Emerson’s goodwill fund come from you. You donate food to the homeless shelter. You donatetime to Mrs. Grant when her lousy grandson can’t be bothered to come home for a weekend to change her lightbulbs and clean her gutters. You do so much good, Fox. Youareso much good, and we all wish that you could see it and stop striving for whatever ‘more’ you think there is.”
My jaw sets. “There’s plenty more I could be,” I reply. “For one, Mom and Dad don’t trust me yet, even if I did make retirement an option for them. For two, I spent almost a decade off being a moron on my bike, not a care in the world for what was going on here or how much I was missing—how much I was forcing you guys to experience without me. Celebrations. Holidays. Birthdays. Illnesses. I wasn’t even here when Amia was born, Wolfe. I saw her in person, what, once? When she was a little baby?” I shake my head, sharp. “I know I’ve been better since I’ve been home. I know I’ve made up for some of that, but not all. I have more atoning to do. More good to do.”
A frustrated huff of air escapes him as his hands land on his hips. “What more is there?” he asks. “How much more before you feel like you can finally rest? Where’s the line between enough and not?”
“I kissed Poem,” I snap, moving us straight to the point instead of dwelling in some vague land where I maybe could be a decent person. Recent, specific events say otherwise.
My brother’s eyes widen, and his jaw drops. “You what?”
“And after, she kissed me,” I continue.
