Chapter 20
Elle
Later, at some point when I’m not even paying attention, Stan slips something onto my wrist.
A watch…
Stan’s touch is brief, the kind that lingers only because it’s meant not to. I look up. He doesn’t meet my eyes right away.
“It always helped me when I was high and couldn’t keep up with the days,” he says as though he’s talking about the weather.
I realize now that Stan’s like that—an open book with pages torn and scrawled in with things he probably doesn’t remember writing.
Maybe that’s what makes him feel so different from everyone else.
He doesn’t hide the damage. He walks around with it, cracking jokes and offering warmth.
Even now, with one eye bruised and a split lip, he grins like someone who hasn’t stopped wagging his tail.
I lean into the porch railing, the breeze tugging at my hair. It’s cold, but I stay. It’s the sort of stillness I quite enjoy. Sterling and Stan are near the tree line, gathering firewood. Or, rather, Sterling is. Stan’s mostly making jokes.
Now that I’m getting a good look at them, I can tell they’re unmistakably brothers. Same gray eyes, same impressive height. But where Sterling is all sharpness and silence, Stan’s messier, someone who’s stitching himself back together, kind of like me.
Stan lifts a big branch with both hands and waves it in the air. “This one’s gotta be useful, right?” He snaps it in half with a dramatic crack. “Ah, shit.”
Sterling sighs, which is his version of shut it at Stan’s antics. I bite back a smile.
Stan glances over his shoulder at me. “You sure you don’t wanna come help, Elle?”
Sterling shoots him a look before I can answer, but I simply shake my head, half-smiling. “You two seem to have it covered.”
Stan winks. “Right. Supervising us, huh?”
“Hmm, maybe.”
My fingers ghost over the watch on my wrist. It feels foreign and comforting at the same time, an anchor in a world where time stopped making sense. Maybe Stan knew I needed it. Maybe he remembers how tangled everything got. Probably more than I do.
Then Stan watches Sterling swing the axe. He winces audibly. “Are you serious right now?” Stan calls out.
Sterling pauses mid-swing.
Stan waves both arms as if he’s trying to stop traffic. “What is that? Some top-secret mercenary chopping style? Because whatever it is, it’s not working.”
Sterling stares. It’s one of those looks that says everything. A warning dressed as silence.
But Stan seems to be immune. He steps forward, taking over. “Alright, step aside. Let a professional handle this.”
He takes the axe, rolls his shoulders, like he’s about to do something impressive, then swings and misses entirely.
There’s silence for a little while until Sterling crosses his arms. He quips, “A professional, huh?”
Stan clears his throat like that swing never happened, adjusts his grip, and tries again.
This time, the axe lands clean, sending splinters flying.
He steps back, looking proud. “See? That’s how you do it.
Pay attention, big brother.” He says the title mockingly, making me smile and raise my knitted brows.
“I already have the youth, the looks, and the muscles. Wouldn’t want you staggering too far behind. Not good for the family image.”
Sterling doesn’t give him a reaction. He simply picks up the next log.
Stan tosses the axe back. “While you’re at it, maybe make Elle some real tea? That last one tasted like boiled grass and regret.”
Sterling catches it one-handed. “It was for Elle. Not for you.”
Stan gasps. “Oh, so I just suffer while she gets treated like royalty?”
Sterling doesn’t respond. He keeps working, chopping more wood.
Stan trudges toward the porch. “You see that, Elle? He doesn’t even deny it. Probably thinks he’s doin’ ya a favor.”
“I think he is.”
Stan groans. “Unbelievable. First, he gets the fancy tea and the big bed—”
“The bed?”
“I have eyes, Elle. This cabin isn’t exactly Versailles. He’s either sleeping in the bed with you or in the drawer under the sink.”
My laugh slips out before I can stop it.
Stan perks up instantly. “There it is! Sterling, you hear that? That’s called joy. You might want to try it sometime.”
Sterling glances over, only for a short second. But the expression on his smoldering face softens, just a little. It does something to me I don’t have the words for right now. But my chest feels so wonderfully warm.
Stan catches it too, which naturally means he keeps going. “Alright, alright. If I have to keep performing to keep that sound going, I will. I’m a man of the people.”
Sterling lifts another log, barely reacting. “You don’t have to do anything, Stanley. You never do.”
“Wow. Right in the heart. You wound me.” Stan places a hand over his chest. “Elle, you hear this? This is emotional abuse.”
“I think you’ll survive,” I say, still smiling.
Sterling mutters something under his breath, barely audible. Stan leans in toward me, mock-whispering, “That’s probably his way of saying he loves us.”
“I’m sure,” I say, nodding as if it’s serious. Stan and I share a laugh, and seeing his face light up feels good. The spots of blood and bruises on his face have almost faded away.
Sterling chops another log, the swing clean and hard. “You want to be useful, Stanley? Maybe gather the wood instead of running your mouth.”
Stan snorts. “Right, right. But you should know watching you chop is real taxing for me.”
“It must be. You barely lifted a finger.”
“I lift morale. That’s gotta count for something.”
Sterling swings again. The axe splits the wood through, the crack ringing in the air. He doesn’t answer Stan.
But Stan keeps talking. “See, Elle, this is what I’ve had to deal with my whole life. Middle brother over there thinks he’s above all this human stuff. But I know the truth.” He gestures grandly toward Sterling. “Deep down, he’s just a big ol’ softie.”
Sterling stops mid-motion, turns his head, and pins him with a look sharp enough to peel bark off a tree. “Do you want to keep your wrists intact?”
Stan clutches his chest with mock horror. “Elle, ya hear that? That was a threat. Straight-up intimidation. Classic deflection.”
I shake my head, laughing some more.
Sterling brings the axe down again, the log splitting in two.
Stan flinches a little, but there’s a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, and I can tell he’s enjoying this too.
The brotherly bickering. The tense atmosphere.
The jokes he cuts the tension with. Maybe even the simple act of chopping and gathering wood.
There’s no trouble waiting for us at this moment.
Everything about this moment lets us take a breath. It’s oddly domestic in a way I don’t think any of us expected after everything that’s taken place.
Stan shakes some sawdust off of him, then stretches with a loud groan. “Y’know, people used to think we were twins growing up,” he says to me. “Can you believe that?”
I tilt my head, eyeing the two of them. “I guess I can see it.”
Stan points, looking rather triumphant. “Yes! But see, the biggest difference was Sterling had this weird snow-hair thing going on that just got whiter over time, and I…” He pauses dramatically, running a hand through his dark strands. “I became a perfect specimen.”
Sterling doesn’t even glance up. “Specimen is generous.”
Stan grins. “Would you prefer awe-inspiring masculine perfection? I can work with that.”
Sterling, unimpressed, resumes stacking the wood.
Stan flexes, arms up and proud. “I mean, look at this. Bigger, stronger, sexier. You name it, I’ve got it.”
I press my lips together, but a giggle escapes anyway.
Stan’s not much bigger than Sterling. In fact, they’re both tall, broad, and built like they could carry the weight of the world if they had to.
It’s simply that Stan seems to prefer wearing tighter shirts that show his physique off, whereas Sterling wears dark clothes he can move easily in.
Stan points at my lingering giggles, looking like he’s won a prize. “See! Elle agrees. She thinks I’m a work of art.”
Sterling looks up at that, his expression bland but deadly. “You grew sideways more than up.”
“Wow. Body-shaming? Elle, you catching this?”
“It’s important to eat well,” I say, shrugging and trying not to smile too hard.
“I do eat well! I have a fast metabolism,” Stan insists with a smile. “And these muscles need fuel. You think this”—he gestures at himself again—“just happens?”
Sterling shakes his head and mutters, “It’s a miracle you’ve made it this far in life.”
“A miracle called charisma and resilience,” Stan corrects with a wink. He leans toward me. “He forgets I did all the hard work making us look good. Sterling’s been coasting off my glow.”
Sterling doesn’t look our way when he says, “Coasting is preferable to whatever you’re doing.”
Another giggle slips out of me. Both brothers respond at once. Stan beams, and Sterling glances at me with something too subtle to tell from the distance between us, but it makes my heart want to jump out of my chest just to reach him.
I rest my chin on my folded arms, still leaning into the porch rail, and let myself be still.
I don’t always feel this present in a moment.
Usually, I’m clawing my way toward the current moment or drifting somewhere too far behind it.
Or I’m wrapped in memories from the past that don’t feel like they belong to me.
But I’m learning to let it all go. To simply be here. That’s enough. That’s more than enough.
After a while, I ask, “How far apart are you in years?”
Stan squints up at the sky as if the answer could be floating somewhere there in the light blue. I know that habit quite well, trying to find something to ground myself with, when my mind refuses to remember things as clearly as I need them to.
“Uh… Let’s see. I’m… And Sterling is… Wait.” Stan frowns, visibly struggling. “Hold on. Give me a second.”
Sterling stacks another log. “Why even try when your brain doesn’t work?”