And I definitely don’t imagine how his chest would look glistening in the—
Elowen.Stop thinking about Brooks' chest.
I’m on the verge of a full mental breakdown when he interrupts my spiral.
"Can I ask you something?"
I clear my throat. "Sure," I say, a little too quickly.
Brooks stands in front of me, slowly pulling his shirt over his head. "Why don’t you ever reach out to Jasper? You know, when you’re not here? Just call him up and ask him how he's doing?"
I reach out. On his birthday. On Christmas. That’s more enough, right?
The look on Brooks’ face says otherwise.
Guilt lodges itself in my throat like a stone. "I, uh… I don’t know, really."
Brooks watches me. "He misses you."
I shift my weight. "I thought everyone was fine here."
He huffs out a quiet laugh, but there’s no humor in it. "You know they didn’t do well when you left. Especially Jasper."
How was I supposed to know that my brother struggled? He holes himself up in his room, or disappears into the woods to collect rocks and sticks. Even if I wanted to, I can't read his mind.
"He could’ve called me," I argue, defensive. "And I have tried to reach out. I mean, I share his videos. I text on holidays."
"The bare minimum," Brooks scoffs.
I cross my arms over my chest. "It’s not easy living with my family, okay? Mom’s a recluse. Jasper’s practically a forest spirit. And Dad never really ventured beyond the lumber mill. I’m not like them."
Brooks studies me for a long moment, then nods, slow and understanding. "They’re still your family. The only one you’ve got." The words sting as he says them. Brooks doesn't have family. Not like I do.
"I know," I say, and it comes out quieter than I mean for it to.
Brooks exhales, eyes softening. "For what it’s worth, I consider you family, too."
Something warm and dangerous flutters in my chest. "Really?"
He shrugs. "Family… with benefits, ideally."
I gasp, slapping his very solid stomach. "Brooks!"
He laughs, dodging another slap as he motions toward the truck. "Come on, Ellie. Let’s get you home."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ellie Girl
"How's..." Dad trails off, gesturing weakly toward my laptop. "Whatever it is you do on there?"
I chuckle. "It's going."
He exhales, his voice scratchy and raw. "How many fans do you have now?"
"Four million. And they're called followers, not fans," I correct gently.
Dad huffs a tired breath, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Anyone who watches your life as religiously as those people do—" He pauses, coughing into his fist. "They're fans."
