He dragged in a breath, the tendons in his neck standing out as he kept going. "The next thing I remember," he said, "was banging Matilda's front door."
"I don't even remember getting there," he admitted. "One second I was at Mum's, feeling like my skin didn't fit, and the next, I was on their doorstep. I wanted to tear the whole house down. I have never committed violence against a woman, but if there was ever a time I was tempted… "
***
The door flew open. Sawyer stood there rubbing his eyes.
Sawyer's eyes had widened. "What the—Connor? Where have you been?"
"Where is she?" Connor had shoved past him into the hallway, chest heaving. "Where the fuck is she?"
"Oi... what's your problem?" Sawyer grabbed his arm, but Connor shook him off, hard enough to send him stumbling into the sideboard. A framed photo crashed to the ground, the glass shattering, but Connor barely registered it.
"Why would she do this?" Connor shouted, his voice cracking. "Why would she say that? You knew, didn't you? Didn't you?! Were you in on this?"
Sawyer frowned, pushing off the wall. "Knew what?"
"About my mum. About your dad! Did you cook that story up to mess with my head?" Connor's fists clenched. "Did you lot just sit around and laugh about it? 'Look at Connor, jumping through hoops for Matilda like a little monkey'?"
"Connor, what the hell are you talking ab—"
Connor's hand lashed out, catching Sawyer's shoulder and slamming him into the wall. A picture of his parents lurched sideways. Sawyer reacted on instinct, swinging back. His fist caught Connor's jaw, white heat exploding behind his eyes.
After that, everything blurred.
A chair went over, and a lamp crashed. They hit the coffee table and splintered one of the legs, staggered apart and then slammed together again, knocking into the sofa. Connor remembered Sawyer swearing, remembered his own voice—hoarse and unhinged—spitting words he couldn't even recall.
At some point, they both missed, both slipped, and both ended up on their arses on the living room floor.
Silence fell heavy, save for the sound of their ragged breathing echoing off the walls. The room looked like a small bomb had gone off. A cushion had split down one side, foam spilling out like guts.
They sat there, backs to the same wall, shoulders almost touching but not quite. And slowly Connor told him what happened.
Sawyer spat blood into his hand, wiped it on his jeans. "You hit like a bloody rhino," he muttered.
Connor let out a half-laugh, half-sob. His knuckles throbbed and his jaw hurt, but his chest hurt most of all.
"I thought you knew," Connor said, staring at the wreck of the coffee table. "I thought you were in on it. Her telling me I wasn't my dad's son… like it was some big joke you all shared."
Sawyer was quiet for a moment, his breathing evening out. "I hate your mum. I know she likes to pretend that we are her kids, just like you," he said finally. The honesty in it was a dull punch. "But she is the reason my parents are dead, and I'm not going to pretend I don't hate her."
Connor flinched.
"But I don't hate you," Sawyer added, his voice flatter, tired. "It wasn't your fault. You were what—eight, when it happened? You didn't ask to be pulled into this flaming pile of shit."
Connor shut his eyes.
Sawyer shifted, resting his head back against the wall. "I didn't know you both… I mean, I suspected, sure. Matty... She's got a talent for finding the worst way to do anything."
Silence stretched between them.
Sawyer cleared his throat. "You said you were with Matilda. That night in our treehouse."
Connor's stomach rolled. "Yeah."
"Connor... " Sawyer hesitated, rubbing his bruised knuckles over his mouth. "You do know she's been with other lads, right?"
Connor's head turned slowly. "What?"
