He laughs. “I had braces well past graduation.”
“No fucking way.” I squeeze my hand in his and muffle the swear that falls from my lip by pressing my face into his shoulder.
“Serious,” he says, his body tense. “Got them off two weeks before I met Riona.” He leans closer, his lips in my hair and his breath on my skin, making every nerve tingle.
I look up at him, taking my eyes off the kids dancing awkwardly around us, and lean back so I can properly see his face. “You’d probably make braces look cool.”
“Boone." He whispers his brothers name and nods in confirmation, "he made braces look cool. I looked like Andre the Giant had a baby with Steve Urkel.” He teases himself, and I feel him relax.
“Okay, so maybe you weren’t grabbing ass in high school.” I’m very aware of where his hand is on my lower back.Do it, I won’t stop you.
His eyes break from mine, and his brows furrow together tightly before whispering under his breath. “I’m going to kill little shit.”
I hold on to him tighter, my eyes finding what his do. Auggie’s hand is beneath Daisy’s chin, and they’re sharing the smallest of kisses. The kind that she’ll remember for the rest of her life. “Brighton,” I warn him. “She’ll hate you forever if you interrupt that.”
He turns his attention back to me.You’re adorable when you’re all worked up, and it’s fucking annoying.I cock my head to the side, and we lock into a staring competition that feels endless. “Fine,” he huffs, and I know I’ve won.
“Oh—I see the nerd now,” I tease, and he shakes his head, annoyed. “What? It’s there.” I keep going until he spins me out, laughing.
Brighton says goodnight to Daisy and drops onto the couch beside me, leaving a careful stretch of space between us. After the dance, we cleaned the gym with the committee, drove a few kids home, and finally landed back here. I kick my shoes off and curl my legs up beneath me with my head resting on the back of the couch. Brighton leans back, his hands on his thighs, and stares at the ceiling.
“Never again,” he mutters.
“Pussy,” I snort, and he scowls. “We throw four dances a year, not including Prom.”
“Why?” A cross between a laugh and a scoff leaves his lips.
“Kids like to dance.” I rake my fingers through my hair, then glance at my busted hand.
“Is it still sore?” he asks, and I don’t know how he clocked that glance without even looking—but I hate that he did.
“Yeah, a little.” I chew my lip, mad at myself for an unpreventable injury.
“How many games are you out for?” He asks, finally turning his head and prying one eye open to look at me.
“Five. Minimum. Until the brace is off.” I try to move my fingers, but they’re stiff, and a stubborn pain lingers beneath the surface around the joints. “I should get to bed. I still have to make six a.m. practice, and Coach will kill me if I’m exhausted and injured.”
“Yeah,” Brighton nods, “yeah, go.”
He stares at me in the silence, and it feels like the apartment forgets how to breathe. I want to tell him to stop, but that would require me to explain why it feels like that and…I just can’t.
I collect my stuff and wander to bed, crawling in and curling up under the blankets. Tonight the bed feels bigger than usual—and the apartment feels louder, too. I can hear every creak and groan the old building makes as the wind picks up outside, welcoming a storm to Harbor that we desperately need to quell the heat wave we’ve been under.
The analog clock Brighton keeps in the guest room ticks like it’s wired to a speaker, and I can hear people laughing down the street as they stumble home from the bars on Main Street. I check my phone and nearly two sleepless hours have passed.I’m so screwed for tomorrow.Rolling onto my back, I look up at my ceiling and inhale sharply.
“Stars.” Tons of glow-in-the-dark stars, stuck to the roof in different formations, and enough to count until I fall asleep. He stuck them all to my fucking ceiling. “Damn you,” I swear, flipping back the blankets on a mission.
The second I open my door, my stomach drops—something’s wrong. The apartment is dark as ever, with the street lamps outside pouring through the living room windows. The floorboards creak heavily at the end of the hallway, and I see Brighton’s large frame shadowed against the wall. I open my mouth to complain about the stars in my room when his whole body jerks.He’s sleepwalking again.
“Brighton,” I call out to him, trying to draw him out toward me and away from Daisy’s room before he wakes her, but he freezes, his head cocking to the side like he heard me but didn’t register what I said. “Hey.” I snap my fingers. His shoulders turn toward me. Something’s wrong. It doesn’t feel like last time.
He stalks down the hallway, his form seemingly growing in size with every heavy step he takes until he’s standing two feet in front of me with a glazed-over look on his face. I try to think about what worked the first time.Contact.
I step forward, and his body tenses further as I reach out to touch him, but his hand snaps out and clamps around my wrist. It’s clear in his movements that this is worse than before; he’s stronger than me, even in his sleep, but I step into his space and try to coax his fingers off my skin as my heart rate beats up beneath my chest.
Stay calm. Panicking isn’t going to help.
I repeat that to myself over and over again as he remains locked around me.He’s not your father; this isn’t that. Take a deep breath.I inhale and look up at him.
