Seven
Nate
I’m not supposed to like kissing my stepbrother so much, but I lost control of myself, and it was so easy to reach for him whenever my lips tingled with need. I told myself I was only practicing so I didn’t suck when it happened for real, but all those times with him felt like more than what they were supposed to. Our parents almost walked in on us several times and that’s when it kicked in. This really is wrong, isn’t it?
Maybe it was something we could come back from at first, but I let it go too far, wanting more, my body seeking out other places of his, and that was dangerous. No, we aren’t blood related, but we’re still brothers. If we have to sneak around and hide behind walls, then clearly we’re doing something we shouldn’t. I keep reminding myself of that fact every time he smiles at me. Every time we’re only inches apart. Every time my heart picks up when he looks at me, expecting me to do more than hug him goodbye or hello.
We go on like we always have before the day at the lake—only hugs and fists bumps, with neither feeling like enough. How were they ever enough before? How can I go back to before I kissed him? Before he permanently imprinted his lips on mine. I’m driving myself crazy thinking of ways to prevent us from being alone for too long without it becoming too obvious. I’m not doing this because I want to. It’s because I have to. He doesn’t bring it up and neither do I.
If we got caught, he’d take the blame. He’d get in trouble. Not me. I see the way my parents eye him with concern when we leave the house together. They still don’t trust him, treating him like he’s some dangerous wild animal like everyone in town claims. None of these assholes know him like I do. They can pretend all they want, but only I get the pleasure of experiencing all that is Jace.
Sure, he makes mistakes. Who the hell doesn’t? His father was born a bad person and tried to pass that on to someone else, but Jace isn’t like him. He realized how wrong everything was around him the older he got. Nothing inside him was built to be evil. He’s not, and that’s a hill I’ll gladly die on a thousand times over. It’s not other people I worry about him hurting—it’s himself. I’ve seen the cuts and bruises. He says he doesn’t know where they came from, but I do, and I try to hide every sharp object I find and hold his hands to keep them distracted.
It’s not enough. I want to do more. If only he’d tell me what I can do to make him stop hurting and stop screaming in his sleep. On really bad nights he winds up in the closet, and I have to resist the urge to follow him in there and wrap my arms around him to let him know everything’s okay. But I want him to feel like it is too, not just hear it.
Loud footsteps behind me pull me from my reverie. When I turn around, Jace is dressed in his favorite hoodie paired with jeans and pink Vans. I bought him those shoes for Christmas, telling him he needed a little color with his outfits. I didn’t think he’d wear them but he puts them on every day.
“Hey,” he says, grabbing the bread from my hand to pull out two slices.
“Hey. Where’ve you been hiding?” As if I wasn’t doing the same. It was probably as intentional for him as it was for me.
“Outside raking leaves like Dad asked. I’m about to head to work in an hour. Picked up an extra shift at the restaurant.”
“Oh . . . cool.” I smear peanut butter on the back of each slice and he does the same, putting everything away as soon as he’s done. He’s the clean and tidy one out of the two of us, never able to leave behind a mess for too long. It’s like he does it on autopilot, not realizing he’s picking up after himself and organizing the shelves as he puts things back. I’m guessing it was something expected of him before.
“You doing anything today?”
I shrug, smooshing my two pieces of bread between my fingers. “Yeah. Meeting Layla at the mall.”
“Fun. Who’s all going?”
“Just us and her brother Michael.”
He lifts a brow, his sandwich paused at his lips. “The one who keeps asking you out?”
“Yeah.” I blush. “That’s the one.” Maybe today will be the day I say yes. If I keep my lips occupied with his then I won’t have to keep thinking about Jace’s so much. A lot of guys find me attractive but there are always whispers around Jace about how hot or sexy he is. The bad-boy vibe he carries only adds to the appeal, and girls often flock around him until they realize who he is.
Not Starla, though. She lives across the street and uses every opportunity she has to talk to him, but I don’t think he realizes she likes him. I’m not sure these kinds of things are obvious to him. They certainly are to me, and when I bring her up he laughs it off, shaking his head.
“If you think she’s cute, you should go for it, ” I usually say.
Not anymore. Not after . . . I grit my teeth, avoiding eye contact when Jace looks from his sandwich to me again. Not after I caught her touching him every time she pretended to check the mail over the last few days and I started getting jealous. I don’t want to care, but I do. My skin grows uncomfortable and a wave of nausea washes over me whenever I see them smiling at each other.
“So is this like some double date?” His voice echoes around the kitchen.
I bite into my food, shaking my head, and using the peanut butter sticking to the roof of my mouth as an excuse for taking a long time to answer. “No. We’re just all hanging out and doing some shopping. I need some new swim trunks and sunglasses.”
“Well, who knows, maybe you can put all that kissing practice to good use afterwards.” He lowers his gaze at me and a piece of bread hangs in my throat a little too long, nearly causing me to choke.
“Yeah, maybe.” I study his blank expression, waiting for it to change the longer he thinks about what I said, but it never does.
Instead, he responds with, “I better get going before I’m late. I have to catch the bus today and the next one comes in ten minutes.”
“I can give you a ride, if you want?”
“Nah. That’s okay.” He finishes off the remainder of his sandwich and walks to the fridge to grab a soda, but only takes a sip before he puts it back. One of the rules, I assume. I try not to ask too many questions because I know he gets that enough from everyone else—our parents, his therapist, neighbors, and whoever else spots any of his weird habits. “Don’t want to make you late for your date,” he bites out, snatching his phone from the counter.
Is he jealous? Does he not want me to go? I’d stay if he asked me—show up to his work and order food until his shift ends. I do that sometimes, eating my weight in cheesecake.
“It’s not a date,” I remind him.
Walking past me, he pauses halfway to the front door and looks back. “If you think he’s cute, you should go for it.” His eyes bore into mine and then he’s exiting the house, slamming the door behind him. I sit here for a long time staring after him, trying to figure out if he meant those words or not. I did when I used to say them, but stopped when they no longer felt right.
What did they feel like to him when they exited his mouth?
Not wanting to sit here all day driving myself crazy over the answer, I text Layla, telling her to meet me at the mall an hour early.