Page 19 of Coming Home

The silence settled into the high ceilings, gray and heavy. Then Theo shifted his weight, his eyes tracking the light off the massive glass wall, and when his voice dropped low, my shoulders went tight before he'd said a word.

"I've been thinking about Em."

My pulse kicked. I didn't move a muscle in my face.

"I should've broken her door down when she went dark," he muttered, "Should've disturbed her until she had to look me in the eye, instead of sending those texts she could just swipe into the trash." He looked down at his palms. "I was so goddamn terrified of pushing her further into James's corner that I chose to do nothing. And doing nothing... it's just a clean word for abandonment, isn't it? I acted like her agent when she needed a brother."

"She'll find her way back," I said, my voice thick.

Theo looked at me for a long, unreadable moment.

"Yeah," he said, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket with a single, practiced motion. "I hope so."

The businessman slid back over his features like a steel shutter. He clapped his heavy hand against my shoulder on his way to the entryway, telling me to get my laps in, telling me to stay off the blogs, reminding me that the only thing that mattered was the wall at the end of the pool in two months.

"Tell Abbie I said hi," I called out.

"I will." He paused with his hand on the brass lock, turning his head slightly. "You look rough, Ralph. Get some sleep."

"Always do."

He stepped out, and the heavy door clicked shut behind him. I let out a breath that emptied my chest.

I gave it thirty seconds to ensure his car had cleared the gate, then I walked down the hall. The guest room door was swung wide. The mattress was empty.

I followed the faint sound of a breath to the bathroom.

She was sitting on the white tile floor, her spine pressed hard against the porcelain of the tub, her knees pulled tight into the center of her chest. The gray hoodie swallowed her, her small hands lost inside the cuffs. She was crying without making a single sound.

I leaned my shoulder against the doorframe, looking down at her.

"He asked about you."

Her head turned just enough for her eyes to clear the fabric of her sleeve. They were red, swollen, and rubbed raw.

"Your family's missing you, Em."

She shook her head, her chin dragging against her knees. "They miss the girl who won the state championship. They miss the portrait on the wall. Not the mess I've become."

"That's not the man who was just standing in my kitchen. That's a man who loves his sister so much the silence is killing him."

She looked away, her throat jumping as she swallowed down another sob.

"Why are you acting like this?" she snapped, her voice turning sharp through the tears. "You've seen what I look like now. You can see it, Ralph. I'm different. I'm... I'm heavier, I'm slower, I'm broken in every way that used to matter. And you're standing there in your expensive kitchen acting like I just walked out of a practice lane from 2020. Why won't you ask the damn questions? Why won't you look at me like I'm a disaster?"

"Because you're not a disaster."

She let out a laugh that splintered into a cough. "You've always been too decent for your own good, Brandt. It's infuriating."

"So I've been told."

She dug the back of her sleeve into her eyes, clearing the dampness, and then her chin came up. Then she lifted her eyes to mine, already hunting for a fight, the same flat stare she used to level at whoever had the nerve to line up in the lane beside her.

"If you're so decent," she said, her eyes narrowing into slits, "then how did a man that gentle end up body-checking a spectator into a row of metal chairs on national television?"

I went still.

Then the corner of my mouth started to tug upward. I couldn't stop it if I wanted to. "You've been tracking my media schedule?"