I swallow shards of glass. His thumb swipes away the first tear. “None of that,” he murmurs. “Be mad. Claw my eyes out. Punch me in the dick. Anger, I can handle. Your tears? Hate them almost as much as I hate your sperm donor of a dad.”
I choke out a laugh.
His glassy eyes sparkle as something presses into my chest. I look down to see a tattered composition book covered in blue scribbles. I still can’t manage to speak around the agony spreading like an infection through me.
“The doctors had us journal every day.” He blushes.CadeWarren is fucking embarrassed.“I know it’s not an excuse, but I figured it’s only fair.”
He steps back. The loss of his proximity leaves me hollow. With a sad smile, he nods at the journal now clutched tight over my heart. “Warning, it’s kind of scary in there, but if you make it out alive and don’t hate me… I’m staying with my Dad.”
Then he disappears around the side of the building. I stare into the vacuum of his absence long after he’s gone.
Hinges squeal, jolting me back to myself.
Mae’s head pokes out from around the door.
My bottom lip quivers.
For once, the endless burning isn’t the loudest pain in my body. It’s too much to process. I don’t even know where to begin.
She rushes over, her arms circling me in a surprisingly tight embrace. Sniffling, I accept the comfort she’s offering because I’m not that strong. Not against this.
“Go home,” she murmurs. I think of my drained bank account. She huffs as if reading my mind. “You are family. We take care of family.”
Family.
I haven’t had one of those in a long time.
Fifty-One
SEBA
I’m an IDIOT.
I had one job— onefuckingjob. Pick up my clinically insane stepbrother from the airport and bring him home. Point A to Point B. Simple. Easy-peasy.
Clearly, I forgot who I was dealing with. Cade played me like a fucking fiddle and I let him. I let him because I missed him and was hopelessly distracted by his beautiful face.
Goddammit.
Declan is gonna murder me.
Hands on my head, I pace laps around the kitchen island, sweat dripping down my spine, soaking my shirt, my hair, my jeans.
Heels click on the tile at a leisurely stroll— a complete contrast to the frantic stomping of my boots.
“Did you try calling him again?” Mom asks without looking up from her phone. Her acrylic nails click on the screen as she ambles to the breakfast nook, where she perches against the table and tucks a lock of recently highlighted hair behind her ear. The changes started small— new makeup, a haircut, some different clothes— until one day, I didn’t recognize myown mother. This woman in front of me is a stranger. A carbon copy of the other church-going wives of St. Gemma’s Parish.
I level a deadpan glare. “He sent me to voicemail.Again.”
She blinks at me, unfazed. “He used to prank you all the time. I’m sure he’ll be back any second.”
Her nonchalance grates on my nerves. She doesn’t get it. Granted, it’s not like I told her about us. Or what we did together. The thought of explaining our history to her makes me want to dig my own grave with my bare hands. But that’s a problem for another day. Right now, I need that menace back under this roof— and hopefully undermelater.
“This isn’t some dumb prank,” I scoff.
Her botoxed brow doesn’t budge, but the corners of her eyes twitch. It’s the first reaction I’ve seen from her since I burst through the front door, cursing like a sailor.
“Look, I understand you’re upset about the truck?—”
