I stand in the middle of the kitchen for a full minute, ears straining for any sign of sirens, my brain conjuring worst-case scenarios like it’s on commission.
What if they decide Davis violated some probation term we don’t know about? What if the Jamison’s embellish the story, as they’re known to do? What if Pierce’s parents want their pound of flesh and it’s easier to start with the Miller who has a record?
What if this pushes Davis too far? What if a night in a holding cell is all it takes to knock his feet out from under him and send him back into the spiral he just climbed out of?
What if I’ve ruined everything again?
I pace.
From the kitchen to the living room to the front door and back, wearing a path into the thin carpet. I even consider turning my phone on and calling Mom to make sure everything’s okay. According to the clock, it’s only been three minutes, but it feels like three hours.
I imagine Davis in handcuffs. I imagine Mom arguing with a cop twice her size and getting arrested, too. I imagine Mr. and Mrs. Jamison watching from behind their picture window, clutching their pearls while their lawyer drafts a statement about ongoing harassment by an unstable individual with a history of substance abuse.
My fists clench. I want to hit something, which is exactly what got me here in the first place.And everyone thinks it was uncharacteristic of me.
A knock at the door has my heart jumping into my throat.
Instead of answering it, I immediately start overthinking who it could be. If it were the police, it’d be a harder knock. Maybe an announcement of their intentions.
But why would the police be here? Unless the Jamisons’ really are charging me to the fullest extent of the law.
The knock comes again, and I shake my head, trying to rattle my brain into its usual level of function again.
Just answer it, idiot.
I cross the living room in a few long strides, wrap my damp palm around the doorknob, and fling it open.
Beck.
Lincoln fucking Beckett is standing on my porch in a dark coat and jeans, his hair mussed by the wind, his eyes wide and bright and so painfully familiar, that for a second, I forget how to breathe.
“Brody.” He says my name like he doesn’t quite believe I’m real. Like he’s not the one who showed up out of nowhere, at my childhood home, without notice or invitation.
All the air in my lungs leaves me in a rush. I think I might pass out.
CHAPTER 31
BECK
Brody stares at me as though he’s looking at a ghost. He’s pale and blank-faced.
“What are you doing here?”
His voice sounds rough, like he has a sore throat. Is he sick again? Does it make me a bad person if I hope he needs me to come in and take care of him?
He’d probably like an answer. It’s the least I can do after showing up unannounced on his front porch in the middle of the day on Christmas Eve, but I can’t get my mouth to form anything but his name. My brain completely stalls out at the relief I feel just seeing him in front of me.
He’s standing in the doorway of this tiny home that I can easily imagine a younger version of him running around in, wearing the thinnest pair of cotton shorts I’ve ever seen, hanging low on his hips and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. His legs are bare, tanned even in December, muscles thick and defined. On top, he’s wearing a worn blue T-shirt with a faded rainbow Superman logo stretched tight over his chest.
Rainbow. Superman.
It’s so endearing I might actually pass out.
“What are you doing here?” he asks again.
My mouth goes completely dry. Every speech I practiced on the drive is gone.
Brody, I didn’t tell Pierce.
