Chapter 2
Now
Silas
I’ve heard it said that rain is good luck on a wedding day. That is all well and good, and truly, I want nothing but the best for my brother and Wren going forward forever, but . . . enough is enough already.
We’re forty-five minutes into the reception and the weather still hasn’t let up.
I recruited my future brother-in-law, Fisher, to help me bring in a few tables to spread across the barn, and then my sister quickly stepped in, moving flowers and decorations around until she managed to make everything look like it was meant to be this way.
I start searching for Sage again, now, to see if she has any ideas on what we can do about dancing.
There’s only enough room for one or two couples inside the barn.
“If you’re looking for Bea, I just saw her over by the food tables.”
I turn to my eldest brother with a dull look but drop it when I see the drink he’s holding aloft for me. “Looking for Sage, actually,” I tell Ellis, before I take it and clink the glass to his.
“She snuck off with Fisher after they brought in the rest of the food. Probably defiling some corner of my house as we speak,” he says into his whiskey.
“And yet you remain spectacularly unbothered,” I laugh.
Ellis’s eyes track to Wren across the room, and it’s clear that nothing could bother this guy today.
His stare stays locked on her when he speaks again.
“Sorry, Si. Need to tell the DJ to play something slow. Time to dance with my wife.” He hands me his empty glass without a second glance, then stalks off toward his bride.
A hot puff of air brushes across the back of my neck, followed by something wet.
I spin around to face a horse’s yellow-toothed smile.
“Hope,” I chide. “You know I love you, but I can’t have you messing up my hair.
I’m trying to see about a girl soon.” She flaps her gums at me and gives her head a little toss.
“A human girl. Red hair like copper and shiny as a new penny. Gold-and-green eyes.” Eyes that were missing their typical fire, so sad they unnerved me when I saw them today.
I grimace when I recall trying to get them to spark again and some of the stupid shit I said.
“A mouth that is . . . a mouth.” Yeah, that mouth has always been a problem for me.
Soft and excessively plump and at odds with the rest of her face.
Hope nuzzles my shoulder and lips at my collar. I let out a sigh. “That’s what I’m best at, Hope. Teasing. Providing a good time. Nothing too serious.” Probably why Bea hasn’t called or texted me back in months, too. I don’t know that I’d be anyone’s first call on a dark day.
“This is becoming a thing for you, huh?” says Fisher when he appears at my side.
I snort a laugh, grateful for his dry teasing and the diversion.
Last month, Fisher and Sage took a vacation to Greece and left me in charge of their small farm.
Instead of sending me pictures of the Mediterranean coastline, Sage sent me pictures of every stray cat they came across, and Fisher sent me pictures of Sage petting every damned one of those cats.
I reciprocated with videos of myself, conversing with their medley of animals from home.
“Guess so,” I say. “Done doing nasty things with my baby sister?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “For now. You about to start doing nasty things with Hope here? Think that’ll put a damper on a really fine day. Especially since it looks like the rain’s about to quit.”
“Is it?” I’m too eager to my own ears. I spot Bea and her mom at a table at the far end of the barn.
“Who you looking for?” His arm floats up on instinct, before Sage comes over and tucks herself into his side.
“Don’t know when to quit, do you?” she says to me, before providing a sidelong explanation to Fisher. “Si’s had it bad for Bea Marshall for years, probably because she’s never fallen for his charms.”
She did once, I think. And there was nothing tricky about it. It was honest and more memorable than every other fling I’ve ever had, put together—an ungenerous thought that I don’t feel great about.
“Bothering her and bullying her into liking you didn’t pan out?” Fisher remarks.
“Sadly, not everyone is as weak-minded as you,” I tell him.
There’s no point trying to explain that for how bad I have, indeed, had it for Bea, I have also just missed her friendship.
They wouldn’t believe me, anyway. I’m not sure I believe myself.
But Sage continues eyeing me sharply. “What?” I ask.
“It’s nothing. . . . Never mind,” she fibs.
“What is it?” I force a smile to put her at ease.
She hesitates another moment, then blows a heavy sigh. “I know you and Bea have always been . . . different sides of the same coin, I guess. Or, like, the same sides of different coins, maybe? Prolific coins, at that.”
A laugh rockets out of me. “Did you just politely call us sluts?”
“I’m saying that I know Bea can handle herself and always has, even when it comes to you, but after Merritt—she’s vulnerable, Silas. Now is probably not the time to pursue your conquest.”
She’s said it playfully enough. Sarcastically enough.
And still it stings. The ruined skin over my right knee feels hot and itchy beneath my slacks all of a sudden.
I run my fingers over the scars on my neck where it’s gone tighter and try to unclench my jaw.
I end up undoing the top button of my shirt and loosening my tie, like that’ll make the smile stay loose on my face.
“Nah,” I say eventually. “You know it’s all for fun. Just thought I’d cheer her up.” Nothing too serious. “Besides, I think she might be seeing someone?” Maybe? Maybe not? Trying to get pregnant is a weird joke to make, if it was, in fact, a joke.
I feel a tap on my shoulder then. When I turn, I find Bea with her chin tilted proudly, arms folded across her middle and an eyebrow lifted at me.
“I promised a dance,” she says, huffing like she’s full of regrets. It’s fake as hell. I can’t stop a grin. “I don’t think my mom will want to stay too late is all,” she insists.
I throw a terse wave at Sage and Fisher and offer Bea my good hand, smile pulling wider when she takes it straightaway. And then I lead her toward the driveway dance floor.
The air is still hanging heavy outside, but the mist is taking a break. I tug her a little harder than I mean to, and she tumbles into me.
“Sorry,” I say, my chuckle ruffling her hair.
She slides her free hand up my chest until it drapes over my shoulder, the curve of her mouth sliding up with it. “No, you’re not,” she says.
No, I’m not.
She’s wearing a low-cut dark blue dress with orange flowers printed all over, with frilly, gauzy sleeves that make me want to laugh, inexplicably.
What the hell could those insubstantial sleeves be protecting?
A half inch of each shoulder? The single beauty mark just below her right collarbone?
She’s got boots on her feet like we all do, since anything dressier would be wasted on a town that’s perennially wet.
The song isn’t exactly a slow number, but it’s something in between. When I try to sway us to the rhythm, Bea goes stiff. Her eyes dart back and forth like she’s sifting through her thoughts on a teleprompter.
“Is it the song?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she replies, brows pinching sharply.
“She—Merritt used to get fixated on certain songs. I’m talking repeat, nonstop, until she’d burn out on it and find a new one.
” She tries to smile, but I think it costs her too much.
She blows out a long, shaky breath instead, scanning the area like she’s already thinking of making a break for it.
“What if you let yourself cry for this one?” I offer. “Close your eyes and remember and just cry if you want. Squeeze my hand so hard it hurts. And I promise I’ll cheer you up for the next song.”
“I’ve been fine, I don’t even know why this is getting to me right now,” she says, her voice too small. “I can’t let my mom see me lose it.” She straightens her fingers like she’s about to pull away.
“I won’t let her,” I promise. But when she gives the barest tug again, I practically growl out a please, accidental desperation spilling into the word.
Those startled eyes find mine again, and the fear in them clears, right before she lets them fall closed.
I keep us angled away from the opening to the barn where anyone else might see her, but I stay watching Bea and a hundred micro-expressions that flit over her face.
The finespun muscles that tighten and loosen around her full mouth, her brow, the delicate, sparkly skin of her lids.
I keep us moving, and she keeps letting me, no matter that we get a little off beat.
And when tears spill out from beneath her lashes, I catch her mouth also shaping into a smile, right before her head settles onto my shoulder.
I feel the breath of a small laugh, some inside joke I’m not in on and want to be.
By the time the next song rolls around, she’s grinning with damp cheeks.
When she looks up at me again, the spikes of her lashes form little crowns above her eyes.
“Now,” I say, throat too tight around some feeling I can’t name, determined to deliver on my promise. “Now do you want me to toss you around a bit? Work you over ’til you feel good?”
Bea’s head dips back with the force of her cackle. “Do you hear yourself when you say those things?” she says. “Do you even recognize your own innuendos anymore?”
I know every step to this particular dance. My brows shoot up innocently, her laugh still ringing in my ears. “I was talking about dancing, Trix. What gutter did your mind get off to?”