Page 30 of Austin

I rise from the floor. With outstretched arms and a shoe in one hand, I tell her the one part of the story that is mine to tell. “Beckett raced last night and lost his car in a wager.”

She sways her head to the side and looks out the window, giving a disappointed shake. “Is this another one of his messes you’ll have to clean up?”

I tug on my shoe a little too firmly at the thought. “Yes.”

“He’s a big boy, Jalynn. If you don’t start letting him pick up the pieces to his own life, he’ll never learn.”

“Too late for that.”

Her hand rests on my shoulder as she looks me straight in the eye. “I’ve known you since we were teenagers and watched you plan your life around Beckett. You were supposed to move to Boston and go to Emerson. Instead, you stayed here and studied at Davis.”

“It’s a good school.”

“It’s not what you wanted. It’s what you decided was your destiny.” She narrows her eyes. “At twenty-three, you’re supposed to be reckless and making bad decisions. Instead, you’re playing mother to your brother. What happens when you fall? Who’s gonna pick you up?”

I raise my brows and give a sarcastic answer, “You, obviously.”

“Then, fall. Let Beckett fall, too. You won’t know how strong you are unless you risk cracking a bit.” Her ethereal Erykah Badu tone makes me feel like I can do just that. “And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let a handsome young Sexton catch you on the way down.”

“This has nothing to do with Austin.”

She looks at me with a knowing grin. “Honey, this has everything to do with Austin.”

* * *

I leave our apartment and head down the long staircase to the main entrance. When I open the door, Beckett’s standing out front, leaning against a pole. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. Obviously, he hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep.

“Not right now. I’m running late for work.” I shoulder past him.

He steps in front of me. His tone is accusatory. “Why were you there last night?”

I look at his hand that is now on my bicep, and rage fills me. “Why was I there? I got you that damn race, and you went and did something so stupid.” With force, I pull my arm from him.

“You what? You got me that race?” I watch as his arms cross in front of his body, his feet parting in a protective stance, proving he’s not letting me leave without answers. “How?”

Shit. This is exactly why I didn’t want to talk to anyone right now. My brain and emotions are not in the right place.

“I said, not now. You need to leave.” I step around him, my eyes shooting to the street and the row of cars lining the block, and I realize I don’t see his anywhere. “Please tell me, you still have your car.”

The exchange tilts in my favor. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks down. He doesn’t need to say anything more. My anger—both for him and Austin—just hit DEFCON Five, and I need to leave before I say or do something I regret.

“You go and lose the one thing you actually own, and you’re here to yell at me for being at the race? Put the blame where it belongs, Beckett. You’re mad at yourself. Not me.”

“You know who he is. Help me get it back.”

“I can’t always be there to pick up the pieces. You got yourself in this predicament. Leave me out of it.” I turn to leave, needing out of this conversation.

“I’ll fix this,” Beckett yells after me. “I’ll find out who that fucker is myself. I’ll get it back. I promise you that. You know I don’t stop until I get what I want.”

My body freezes. I know Beckett. If there’s one thing about him, it’s that he’s persistent.

I get up close to him, pushing my finger into his chest. “I’m only going to say this once, so listen carefully. You will not go after him. You will not try to find him. You will take your loss and move on. You hear me?”

To my surprise, he lets me storm off down the street. I’m sure I just surprised the hell out of him, as I did myself. I’ve never raised my voice to my brother, and I’m not sure what came over me, but it felt so good to finally say exactly what was on my mind.

My entire bus ride to work, I focus on bringing down my emotions that have gone from anger to guilt and are now morphing into a sad kind of hurt.

I was ten years old when my mom died of cancer. The day of her funeral, Beckett went out and set fire to our tree house. It was a dilapidated old thing, but it was our safe haven. I still don’t understand why he chose to take his anger out on it. Was it the memory of happy times he wanted to destroy, or did he secretly hope to get burned in the flames?