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Annoying. Entirely annoying. Him and his stupid muscles.

A sip of tea did nothing to settle my thoughts. The bath had been heavenly, and I sank further into the couch as Grandpa finished up the TV shows he liked to watch each evening. The living room glowed with the soft blue light of the television where Grandpa sat in his recliner yelling answers at Jeopardy! before the contestants.

“I knew that one,” he announced.

“You always know them.”

“Darn right.”

The familiar exchange chased away some of the restlessness under my skin. The crisis had passed, and everything should have felt normal again. Instead, there was a handsome complication sleeping on my couch. A thump interrupted my thoughts.

Grandpa’s foot had caught the edge of Lane’s duffel bag, and it tipped sideways beside the couch. Something rolled across the hardwood floor. My stomach lurched.

A single orange prescription bottle rested beneath the coffee table.

My mind flashed to the first time I discovered Brett’s pills. For a moment I was frozen as I simply stared at it. I set down my mug with trembling hands and reached for it before Grandpa noticed. The label faced upward, and my chest contracted. I recognized the prescription immediately. Anxiety medication. The prescription had been filled recently.

He wouldn’t want me to see it. He moved through the world with broad shoulders and easy confidence. He stepped into every room looking like he was the life of the party. Like nothing could touch him. Emotion scorched my throat. Maybe because I knew better than most how convincing appearances could be.

I was reaching to slide the bottle back into the side pocket of his duffel when a shadow fell across the floor. Lane stood at the end of the hallway. His hair was damp from the shower. A gray T-shirt stretched across his chest.

For a second, neither of us moved. His gaze dropped immediately to the prescription bottle in my hand. Something unknown shuttered behind his eyes. I stood slowly.

“I wasn’t snooping.”

“I know.” His voice came out quieter than usual.

I held out the bottle.

“Grandpa accidentally knocked your bag over.” He took it from me. For a moment he just looked at the label. His thumb traced the edge of the bottle. Grandpa shouted another answer at the television, oblivious to both of us as long as one of his TV shows was on. Neither of us looked away.

Finally, Lane exhaled. “I figured you’d find out eventually.”

Something about the resignation in his voice hurt. I sat back down and folded my arms around myself at the chill in the air. He followed my lead and sat.

“When?”

His eyes lifted. A muscle flexed in his jaw. He knew exactly what I was asking.

“About six months after you left.”

The room tilted.

I swallowed. “Lane . . .”

His gaze dropped to the bottle again. “I drove around until sunrise because I couldn’t make myself go home. I wasn’t sleeping. I couldn’t focus on sports. I couldn’t focus on anything. That was the first time I finally admitted to myself that something was wrong—that I’d needed help for years. That was when I finally reached out and started getting the help I needed.”

My chest ached like it was cracking in half. The television continued playing in the background. The audience laughed at something. The sound felt impossibly far away. Lane gave a small shrug.

“I thought it’d get better.” His eyes found mine. “It didn’t.”

Fifteen years I had spent convincing myself that what happened only mattered to me. That I was the one who carried it. The one who broke. The one who never fully recovered. The pain in his eyes dismantled that lie.

“You should hate me,” I whispered.

A faint smile touched his mouth.

“I tried, but there’s nothing about you I could hate.”