9 Leo Wherever I Go—Noah Rinker
Leo
Wherever I Go—Noah Rinker
“You did what? Fuck, Leo!”
For once, I’m the one on the receiving end of a bollocking from Sterling. It doesn’t feel great. I much prefer being the one to lecture and berate while the other two are up to unhinged things. That’s our modus operandi.
“What?” I shrug him off. “Fletcher refuses to update us.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to snoop!”
“See that’s where we disagree.”
Fisting the medical report addressed to Fletcher that dropped through our letterbox, Sterling rakes his eyes over the update once more. Though, there is little to update on. Fletcher’s laryngeal burns from the accident are healing, but third-degree scarring on vocal cords isn’t a quick fix.
We never would’ve got the truth about his chances of recovery out of him, so I had to take matters into my own hands. But now we know, we can deal with it. As a family. Albeit a decidedly fucked-up one.
“I knew his chances of ever speaking again were low,” Sterling grumbles, gaze glued to the paperwork. “But this . . . it’s worse than I thought. He must be in agony every single day.”
“They’ve prescribed stronger painkillers for that,” I point out. “Plus, they’ve given him a referral to some kind of veterans’ psychologist and a speech therapist. He needs to accept the help.”
“Like he’s going to make those appointments.”
“Then we need to do it for him, Sterl. The man’s traumatised and facing a lifelong disability. There’s absolutely no shame in getting some support. Pills, therapy, the works.”
Dumping the papers on the kitchen table, Sterling pinches between his eyes. Something’s been off with him ever since that city trip. I heard Eden tagged along, but for the life of me, I can’t get any intel out of him. Or understand why he’s acting so cagey.
Eden has similarly kept to herself since. Head down, focused on work and the tavern. Not even Cassidy will offer me any information about the dark-haired paradox working her taps every single night. It’s infuriating to feel out of the loop.
“I’ll take Fletcher hiking this weekend,” Sterling decides. “Try and talk him around.”
“You think it’ll work?”
“Not a chance, but we have to try.”
Damn. He has changed his tune.
“Okay.” I nod in agreement. “We’ll try. Want me to come?”
“No, I don’t want him to feel ganged up on. This has to be one on one.”
“You might need backup.”
“It’s not an intervention.” He shakes his head. “I need to get him to relax and open up.”
I’d be lying if I said the rejection doesn’t sting. I’m used to being needed. Purposefully so.
“In the meantime, you have to own up to the snooping and apologise.” Sterling eviscerates me with a stern look. “Then learn some boundaries, Leo. Don’t let care and obsession blur.”
“Obsession? He’s my friend!”
“Doesn’t give you the right to do this,” he snaps. “I know you like to mother us all, but this isn’t healthy.”
Teeth clenched, I resist the urge to argue with him. It won’t get me anywhere. This isn’t mothering—it’s belonging. My role in this family is to care for the two men who’ve given me a home and a purpose. Without this family, this life . . . I’d be just another statistic lost in the system.
I know how it feels to be unwanted. Hell, I was abandoned by my birth family before I even understood the meaning of the word. No one deserves to feel the alienation of trying to find your place in the world when you’re tossed aside by the people meant to protect you.
“Fine. Believe what you want.”
“Where are you going?” Sterling barks.
Shoving house keys into my pocket while I pull a dark beanie on, my feet hesitate in the doorway. “The lake. I’ll apologise after work.”
“Leo . . .”
“I’m not sorry! I’m trying to look out for him!”
“This isn’t what love looks like,” he deadpans.
“This is exactly what it looks like to me.”
“Control?”
“Care! I don’t give a shit about trivial things like boundaries or privacy when it comes to keeping our friend alive.”
Sterling’s flinch physically stings. But I don’t take it back.
“You should think about that before we come down to find him dead one morning because he felt like there was no other way out.”
I slam the door on his stunned expression before steam blasts from my ears and I actually explode. We’ve never really fallen out. Not seriously, at least. But my adoptive brother is stepping very close to some wounds that won’t take well to being attacked by his foot-in-mouth syndrome.
The brisk walk to Hawkthorpe’s tourist centre in the pouring rain doesn’t settle my anger. Usually, the hike through dense woodland and a carpet of pine calms me. But nothing can stop this hurtling freight train of rejection from docking at every last mental station.
This isn’t healthy.
Neither is his four-year grieving process and pent-up rage, but I keep my mouth shut.
“Asshole,” I grumble.
The lake is riotous this morning, taunting me with its immutability. Out here, nothing changes. Nature is eternal. These steep peaks and towering firs have seen humanity come and go like a mere drop in the ocean. Surely our problems pale in comparison.
But no. I’m still mad.
Obsession? Screw him.
I won’t apologise for how I care.
By lunchtime, I’ve plotted my brother’s death fifteen times over and constructed a fairly solid alibi. Frustration has fuelled my work for the last few hours while tidying the centre up, ready for reopening in the rapidly approaching springtime.
Tossing the last of the outdated catalogues and programmes into the recycling outside, a figure on the nearby lake’s platform catches my eye. They’re alone in the embrace of rain-soaked fir trees. Utterly still.
Is that . . . ?
Even with her hood tugged up, I recognise Eden’s stray strands of inky hair and delicate curves. I’ve found myself absently watching her enough times while conjuring up ridiculous excuses to prop up Cass’s bar.
“What the hell?” I mutter under my breath.
She’s soaked through without a coat or umbrella in sight, legs stretched over the edge of the jetty. Her stare is fixed ahead on the lake’s undulating surface. The rain hasn’t eased up, but that doesn’t seem to bother her.
Eden doesn’t acknowledge me calling her name as I tug on an old raincoat and jog towards the platform. The wind has picked up, howling down the mountain ridges to knife the air with aggressive raindrops.
“Hey, Eden? Eden!”
Still that lifeless stare refuses to lift.
“Eden?” I crouch down, hand hovering over her wet shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“I have to leave,” she replies.
“Leave? Why?”
“Can’t stay here . . . it’s not safe. Nowhere is.”
“What are you talking about?” I raise my voice to be heard over the gale. “Why isn’t it safe?”
Rain slopes over her cheeks, forming silvery rivulets akin to tears. I want to reach out and brush them aside, but I’m terrified of startling her.
“Eden? You’re soaked. Please come inside.”
“Leave me alone,” she croaks.
“Not a chance. You’re going to catch your death out here.”
“Maybe that’s the plan.”
The wind beats into me, almost knocking us both into the lake. Our foreheads lightly brush when I lean closer, begging her with my eyes.
“Talk to me then,” I entreat.
“You can’t help.”
“Try me.”
Eden smiles gut wrenchingly. “Not with this.”
“Is it that bad?”
“Worse,” she rasps.
I’m not the suspicious type, but more than beautifully pigmented melanin dances in those big doe eyes. She isn’t just reserved. No. Eden is keeping secrets, destructive ones. I can taste them waltzing in the air left between us.
“At least let me take you inside to dry and warm up,” I plead through lashing rain. “We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”
“Why won’t you just leave me here?”
“I couldn’t do that any more than I can stop breathing, sweetheart. I’m not about to walk away from you in this state so don’t expect me to.”
Slower than approaching a startled deer, I give her the opportunity to pull away before touching her shoulder. The recoil I half expected doesn’t come, and she timidly leans into my touch.
“You’re shivering.”
“I’m so cold,” she whimpers.
“Please come inside with me.”
“We don’t have to talk?”
“Not if you don’t want to. I promise.”
Reaching out my other hand, I curl my fingers, silently inviting her to accept. The mistrust is clear. She plays a good game, but there’s something so incredibly broken behind Eden’s careful act.
Her smiles are a little too brittle. A little too precise. Fixed in place over time through practice and repetition—I remember the process well when I faced years of adoption interviews. You play the role, not the reality.
Tentatively accepting my hand, the shock of frozen skin zaps me. When she lifts her knees to find her feet, I’m stunned to realise they’re bare and blue, dripping wet from lake-water.
She’s been submerged this whole time. As she prepares to stand, I get a brief glimpse of the bare soles. A lead weight settles in my gut at the sight of thin, silvery scars criss-crossing her skin in the perfect hiding place.
“Where are your shoes?”
“Just here,” she mumbles.
“Are you crazy?”
“Maybe.”
“Jesus. We need to get you dry right now. That lake is just above freezing.”
“I like the cold.”
“Do you also like hypothermia?” I stand to pull her up.
Knees knocking, Eden gingerly rises to her feet. I’m surprised they haven’t snapped clean off. Her tiny painted toes look ready to shrivel up, but all I can think about are those well-placed scars.
“It helps me,” she explains tiredly. “I wanted to feel something.”
“You won’t be feeling anything if you end up with frostbite, crazy woman.”
Stripping my raincoat off, I drape it around her trembling shoulders. It’s futile at this point, but it makes me feel mildly better. She picks up a pair of unlaced shoes that I hadn’t noticed, then squeezes my hand.
“Take it slow, the centre’s just up ahead. I’ll light the fire when we’re inside.”
“You’re working today?” Eden asks weakly.
“Prepping to open in a couple weeks. Plus, it was an excuse to get out of the house before I broke Sterling’s nose.” At the edge of the jetty, I halt. “Can I lift you? The path’s rough here and you’re barefoot.”