Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“And your brothers?”
“Shawn wants to do the same, and Jacob’s just a mess.”
“Did he tell you about the box?” I ask.
“He did. I was going to ask you if I could look sometime.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure. Of course. You can take it.”
He shakes his head. “Jacob would throw it out if I had it at our place. Can you keep it until I can look at it?”
“Sure.”
He nods, and his tongue presses against the center of his full top lip, then slides away, leaving his mouth glossy, and my mind fixates on the way he kissed me. I need to wipe that out and tell him how impossible this is.
“Just before Dad and I left, I was in my bedroom. I don’t think you knew I was home.” I rub the bone at the base of my thumb as hot embarrassment runs through me. “I heard you and your brothers talking about me. I heard everything you thought about me, and it hurt, Hayes. It really hurt. And maybe you’re telling the truth. Maybe you went into what happened between us with good intentions, but I can’t get past the old feelings.”
His expression has turned grim, and his eyes widen with sadness. “What did you hear?”
“That I looked lumpy. That my hair was a mess. That my glasses were stupid and basic. That my clothes were childish and too small. That I was ugly.”
He shakes his head and rubs his big hand over his face. “Fuck, Riley.” Glancing up, he reaches out for my hand, and I snatch it back as old tears rise and burn my throat. “I’m so sorry. We were idiots, all of us. We didn’t know what we were saying half the time. I don’t want to make excuses, but we were still cut up over what happened with Dad. It wasn’t even about you. It was about our mom and how easily she moved on, and your dad and how much he was trying to be a good guy. Everything we should have channeled toward the adults in our lives ended up on your doorstep. I’m sorry you heard something that hurt you. It was a long time ago and I’m embarrassed to say we didn’t know better.”
I shrug, cringing at the emotions that have taken me over, even after all these years. “It’s like yesterday.”
“I hate that you’ve been carrying this around for so long.”
“Words have power, Hayes.”
“They do.” He nods solemnly. “But actions have power, too. Let me make it up to you.”
This time, when he reaches for my hand, I let him take it. “How?” I ask.
“Come over to my place. I’ll cook you something.”
“You cook?” I blink, surprised. I mean, I guess he must have learned to look after himself a little but cooking for guests is very different from rustling up ramen for yourself.
“Better than my brothers,” he smiles.
“Is everything a competition with you guys?”
“Yes and no.”
Across the coffee shop, students pile in, laughing and joking, trying to find space in line. Jacob and Shawn catch sight of me and the shape of their brother holding my hand. Shawn’s expression morphs from surprise to relief. Jacob’s, on the other hand, is steely.
“Okay,” I say. “When?”
“Tonight,” he smiles. “Seven o’clock.”
And even though I’m filled with trepidation, I let him write down the address on a piece of paper before he leaves me to my studies and meets with his brothers for some fraught-looking discussion.
***
I don’t know what to expect at the Drayton house, so I’m a bundle of nerves as I climb out of my car and stand on the sidewalk, staring up at the home. Will Jacob and Shawn be there, or has Hayes made them vacate the place so it’s just me and him? What am I even expecting from tonight?
Like with every interaction I’ve had with them so far, a part of me is fascinated by them: their skills on the ice, their good looks, their reputations, and our link to the past. There’s also a part of me that wants to find out that they’re different from the assholes that broke my confidence for years. It’s as though I need to draw a line in the sand to heal the part of me they wounded.
A psychologist would probably roll their eyes at my motivations. They’d question my desire to disturb old grudges and grievances and open myself up to more of the same treatment that hurt me. They’d wonder why my heart’s fuller when I’m close to them, even though they’ve given me so little reason to feel that way. Or maybe they’d be able to explain that past links can snag a person like a fishhook, and the only way you can sever them is by tearing at your flesh.
When I knock at the door, my heart is already beating like it wants to escape the confines of my chest and fly far, far away. I wait, taking in the peeling paint and the dirt along the door trim. The mess of leaves lining the path mark the house as student accommodation, and I wonder who’ll tidy the yard before it gets slippery.