Chapter 22
Chapter
Twenty-Two
Logan
The last thing I want to do is be surrounded by people, especially after last night.
But Christian insisted, muttering something about “team morale” and “If one more person mopes in the RV, I’m driving it off a cliff.”
So, here we are: at some pop-up night market in downtown Indy where every corner of the place smells like roasted corn and fried sugar. String lights hang from overhead canopies while a live band plays some folky cover of Devils & Angels by Royal Bliss in the middle of the square
Huck’s already pulling Taylor into a ridiculous twirl, Christian and Arya are making out under a waterfall of fairy lights, and Devon’s pretending not to watch them from across the crowd.
But, like always, my eyes settle on her.
My wife.
Salem dances alone, lit up by the glow of lanterns and the pulsing beat surrounding us. She’s swaying like the music is in her soul, long hair loose and flowing in the gentle breeze. The space around her is wide enough for others to step in, but no one else dares to fill it.
Not even me.
Especially not me.
There's currently a war going on inside my head.
Seeing her so carefree should make me happy, but it doesn't. All I feel is misery. Part of me just wants this tour to end so I can crawl back to my dad-who-isn’t-my-dad and beg for my job back.
Return to my monotonous existence of crunching numbers and eating whole pizzas by myself until I waste away to nothing.
I’m halfway through nursing my third beer when Devon quietly sidles up to me. His arms are crossed over his tank top, inked arms on display as he watches Christian lower Arya into a dip.
“You know,” he says slowly, his jaw flexing at the corners, “I get tired of being everyone's backup plan sometimes.” Before I can ask what that means, he nudges my arm roughly, spilling my beer. “Dance with me.”
I turn slowly and blink at him. “What?”
He doesn’t even glance my way. “Everyone else is partnered up. Salem’s clearly doing her ‘don't need no man’ shit, and I’m not in the mood to third wheel for the hundredth time. So.” He finally swings his hard gaze to mine with a shrug. “Dance with me.”
“We’re not—” I choke, my heart stuttering. “You’re my brother.”
The second those words are out, they sound wrong. So wrong and ridiculous and not even close to the truth.
“Adopted,” Dev mutters, looking away, but not before I catch the pain flash across his amber eyes. “Forget it.”
He starts to leave, and fuck, my chest squeezes at the look on his face because he looks like me. Not physically, obviously, but emotionally.
Drained. Hurting. Lonely.
Before I can stop myself, I snatch his arm to halt him in his tracks. “Wait.”
He looks down at my hand, then back at me, his expression smoothing out as he gives me a chance to speak.
“Just a normal dance, right? No… weird stuff?”
Dev's lips twitch into a smirk and he raises two fingers in the air. “Scout's honor. Just a boring, run-of-the-mill church dance with at least nine inches between us.” I scowl, moving to yank my hand away, but he traps it in place. “And no dick jokes. Got it.”
Rolling my eyes, I let him tug me through the crowd toward the middle of the dance floor. “You can't give a scout's honor unless you’re actually a scout.”
“Who says I’m not?” Spinning around, his lips relax into an easy grin.
“Grandma and Grandpa put you in scouts?”
Devon shrugs, pulling me closer as he gazes around the square. “They put me in a lot of things. Hard to keep track.”
Now that sounds like bullshit, but I let it go because this is awkward as hell.
We were never really close, him and I. All I remember growing up is that he never came around much.
Neither did my grandparents, for that matter.
Now I understand why. The first time Dev and I actually spent significant time together was my sophomore year of high school when he visited for spring break.
He'd swooped in, then left again just as fast. The guy's a complete mystery.
Well… Other than the fact that I—
No. I cut that image off at the knees, and we both fall silent as we start to dance. I zero in on a spot above Devon’s left shoulder, letting the memory from all those years ago take over my racing thoughts.
“You’re cheating,” Huck grumbles, shaking thick, blond curls off his brow before jabbing me with his controller.
“You just suck at hiding,” I shoot back, grinning wide.
He rolls his eyes and respawns, shifting his position on the floor to rest against my bed.
We've got Call of Duty on mute, and my remote is within reach in case one of our parents comes in to check on us.
Technically, we aren't supposed to be playing this game, so I have something else loaded up on another input.
Both of our dads are in the living room watching basketball, half-yelling at the screen like they're coaching from the couch. Huck’s mom is helping with dinner in the kitchen while mine nurses the triplets.
She just gave birth a month ago. I can't believe I have three little brothers after sixteen years of being an only child.
“So,” Huck says pointedly, eyes on the game as he aims for where I'm camped out on top of a building. “Zachary, Elijah, and Gabe? I'm sensing a theme here.”
I snort at my brother's names, sniping his character with a single headshot. “Mom likes Bible names. Guess what she would have named them if they were girls?”
“Don't tell me.”
“Mary, Beth, and Esther,” I blurt anyway, laughing at the way he wrinkles his nose. Honestly, he shouldn't be surprised. My parents' names are Joel and Sarah, for fuck's sake.
He opens his mouth to respond, only to be cut off by the sound of the doorbell chiming through the house.
“Logan!” Dad shouts gruffly. “Door!”
I groan and toss my controller aside, wondering why he can't get it himself. “Pause the game, man.”
“I’m not gonna cheat,” Huck says, already smirking.
He’s absolutely going to cheat.
Scowling in his direction, I jog down the hall and wipe my sweaty hands on my pajamas before pulling open the front door.
Blinding light hits my irises. The midday sun shines so bright that I shield my eyes and blink several times to clear the spots dancing in my vision. When I can finally see again, I lower my hand… and gape at the man standing on the porch in a black tank top and ripped jeans.
He turns to glance over his shoulder, sending dark brown waves falling to one side of his face. The other half of his head is shaved. His throat flexes with a swallow, and I swallow, too, watching the motion before scanning the veins that pop on his muscled arms.
Straightening my spine, I avert my gaze to prevent myself from thinking about what other veiny appendages he might have. “Can I help you?”
The man smiles and gives me an up nod. “Hey, kid.”
I freeze, nearly choking on my own spit. “Devon?”
His pierced bottom lip twitches. “Been long enough that you forgot me, huh?”
I mean, I'd say. Last time I saw him was during my great aunt June's funeral—five years ago. I'd been eleven, and he'd been just a scrawny teenager in a too-big suit, sitting awkwardly beside me at the kid's table. We hadn't talked much, but I remember him making me laugh.
He's taller than I remember, broader. Definitely no longer gangly, like I am, and his toned biceps look like he totally works out—
Jesus. Am I really checking out my uncle right now? What the fuck is happening?
“What are you… Are you visiting?” I ask, my traitorous voice cracking halfway through the question.
He lifts a duffel bag in his hand. “Not just visiting. Staying for a bit.”
My stomach flips, and I hate that I immediately think about how close the guest room is to mine. “Why?”
“Your mom asked me to. Am I allowed in, or is the dress code dork only?”
“Huh?” I frown down at my Star Wars pajamas, the bottom hems pooling around my feet. “It’s laundry day.”
It’s totally not.
Devon just snickers and pushes past me into the house. “Sure it is.” His eyes scan the family portraits that hang over the entryway. “Place hasn’t changed a bit.”
Except to me, it feels like it has in just the span of seconds. Everything feels smaller with him in it: the ceilings, the hallway, the space between us.
His duffel thuds against the tile as he drops it by the stairs. “Your dad around anywhere?”
“Yeah,” I say too quickly, my damn voice squeakier than a door hinge. “He's in the living room with Aaron. Huck’s dad. My best friend.”
Devon turns and flashes a grin, the one that used to make me follow him around all the time when I was a kid. Now, it just makes my skin feel too tight. And holy hell, when did he get so… manly?
“So,” he says, pulling a lighter from his pocket before flicking it open and shut. “Still afraid of the dark, or did you grow out of that?”
“Shut up,” I mutter as I spin on my heel to storm toward my room. “I was eleven.”
His laugh echoes behind me when I flee down the hall. Huck’s still sprawled on my bed playing the game that he most definitely didn’t pause, conveniently in the lead.
“Wow, you died again,” he deadpans without looking up.
I drop onto the floor and grab my controller silently, but I don’t rejoin the match. All I can hear is Devon’s voice from the living room, and it's making me feel itchy. Uncomfortable. Dirty for some reason.
Definitely will not be confessing this to the bishop during church on Sunday.
I draw in a ragged breath and blink away the memory when someone bumps into my shoulder, jostling me. My lungs feel like they're on fire.
That was the last time I saw Dev for a long while.
He'd show up sporadically after that, never stay too long, and never talk to my parents.
They'd gotten into some fight before he left—I always assumed it was because he'd told them he was bisexual.
Apparently, that was the week they'd admitted the truth to him. That he was their real son. Not me.
Suddenly, there are too many people. The music is too loud, and my skin is too hot. Devon doesn’t say anything, just places one hand lightly on my shoulder and lets the other linger at my waist like he thinks I’ll bolt.
I want to. I probably should—but I don’t.
For all the things I’m confused about, this right here is the worst of it. Yet, there's always been something about Dev that I've understood. He's lonely. A douchebag, yes, but a lonely one.
I don’t know much about my grandparents, but I remember how strictly religious they were—even more so than my own parents. Mom used to call them zealots. I can't even imagine what it must have been like for him growing up.
We continue to sway awkwardly, two grown men trying not to make eye contact while everyone around us kisses and grinds against each other.
Devon just hums along to the music while his fingers twitch on my hips. “Relax,” he murmurs. “We're just dancing, not fucking.”
I snort despite myself, trying to ease the anxiety in my stomach. “Thank God.”
He shocks the hell out of me with a laugh. “Was it that bad?”
Our bodies move closer, a little more in sync as my chest brushes his. I realize how flush we are, but I don't pull back even as I shy away from the question. “It was… not what should have happened.”
“Why not? Because we're both guys?”
“Because I'm married,” I answer with a glare. “And I was feeling lost, and we're related—”
“Not by blood.”
“And I'm not into you like that,” I finish, my ears burning.
Devon slows down our dance as he studies my face. “That’s not what you said six months ago.”
“I'm not.”
“Okay,” he says simply.
That’s it. No argument. No retort. Just okay.
The silence that follows settles between us thickly, and my throat tightens. His palm burns on my waist, the scent of his cologne mixing with the sugary-sweet air around us. Suddenly, I’m very aware of the way his thigh brushes my crotch every few steps, our bodies too close, no room to hide.
Devon glances down before slowly lifting his gaze. “You can lie to me all you want, Logan. But don’t lie to yourself.”
I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off, but the words won’t come out. They stick in my throat, burning like acid, because I don’t even know what the truth is anymore.
Before I can figure it out, before I can even think, Devon leans forward quickly…
And plants his lips on mine.
For one moment, I forget how to breathe, strangled by the reminder of the last time this happened. Unlike then, though, this kiss isn't wild, or messy, or angry. It's just soft. Careful, like we’re both holding something fragile between our teeth.
There's no heat to it, but I still feel a fire ignite in my stomach all the same.
It takes me about five seconds to realize that the flames inside of me are actually blazing with fury.
Devon pulls back, whiskey eyes dark. His brows rise like he’s waiting for a reaction, but I'm stuck in place.
I should fucking punch him. I should be disgusted. But all I feel is that slow, rising panic that comes right before you sink below the surface, unable to draw a final breath.
“What the fuck was that?” I hiss, stepping as far away as I can with the crowd still moving around us.
His jaw tightens. “You tell me.”
“I didn’t ask for that, Devon.”
“No,” he says, voice low as he rakes his gaze down my body. “But your dick sure did.”
And there it is: the guilt. The shame—the reason I should have never agreed to dance with him in the first place.
I turn away, not even bothering to dignify that comment with a response, when my sight catches on a pair of familiar, outraged grey eyes. The world shifts on its axis as my heart jumps into my throat.
I see them all. Everyone. The entire group and their eyes on us.
Huckslee's mid-spin with Taylor, frozen like a statue. Christian has his arm half-lifted to toast Arya, mouth agape.
Then there's Salem, standing alone, cheeks puffed and red like she just got slapped. Like I was the one who slapped her.
The look on her face isn’t even the worst part, nor is the fact that everyone thinks they just saw me kiss my uncle.
No, it's that for one awful, fleeting moment, I'm glad they did.
Because I no longer have to hide.
I'm pretty sure I just broke my wife's heart, but all I feel is relief.
She's better off without me.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped believing I could be redeemed.
And I'm no longer willing to try.