“I’m fine,” I said quickly.Tooquickly. “Why?”
“You look…heavy.”
I scoffed. “You trying to say I’ve gained weight or something?”
“No, no!” he protested, throwing up his hands, and my face broke into a smile.
“I’m teasing, Sean.”
“I just mean…mentally.” He gestured to his own eyes then tapped his temple. “You look like you’ve got some shit going on up here.”
Ugh. Damn him for knowing me so well.
I hadn’t planned to tell him about the break-in, but suddenly, it all came spilling out of my mouth. The way the fear from that night had triggered me, uncovered old wounds. How moving in with Lane brought up even more shit.
It felt good to unburden myself with all of it. Sean and I had never been particularly close, but I supposed it was never too late to try to fix that.
He listened intently, without judgement or interruptions.
When I finished, Sean said, “Why didn’t you come to me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you or drag you and your family into my drama.”
Sean reached out and captured my hand with his. “Sutton, youaremy family, as much as Gretchen and the boys.”
My nose and the backs of my eyes stung as tears threatened to fall, and I blinked rapidly, hoping to quell them.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” I said, grateful my voice didn’t wobble. “But I’m safe with Lane, and I trust him to find out who is responsible for destroying my house.”
“Is there more going on between you two?”
In the wake of my assault, Lane had rarely left my side unless he absolutely had to—and until I pushed him away—so my family knew all about our short-lived relationship. I’d been caving in on myself, but I remembered feeling even slightly lighter after unburdening myself, of sharinguswith someone else.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“But you want there to be.”
With my gaze downcast, I nodded. Sean took my lack of verbal response to mean I didn’t want to discuss it further, though, and when he let the subject drop, I was grateful.
The silence that descended was tense, and I was compelled to break it, so I blurted the thought pressing at the forefront of my mind.
“I haven’t been the best sister.”
I’d spent years taking his lack of interest in my life as an indication that he didn’t care about me, but maybe, the sad truth was I hadn’t let him in. Hadn’t given him the opportunity to ask, to care, to love me. While I’d touched on family issues in therapy, the bulk of my time had been devoted to healing from the rape. I should’ve realized I’d also needed to heal fromthis—the sense of feeling unloved in my own family.
This conversation was doing wonders for my fragile heart.
“And I haven’t been the best brother,” he admitted. “I’d say we’re even.”
“Love you,” I whispered.
“Love you too, kid,” he said, letting go of my hand to ruffle my hair like he’d done so many times when we were actual children.
A weight I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying was lifted off my shoulders, and when I went to bed that night, I slept better with one less thing plaguing my subconscious.
The following morning, I contentedly sipped my coffee while the boys opened gifts. Because it got dark so early this time of year and my brother knew I hated driving at night, especially in the snow, we had Christmas lunch around one p.m., and I was on the road headed home before four.
Turning on an audiobook of the first in my favorite fantasy series, I allowed my mind to wander on the drive.
