Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
Rhys
“You need to go, Alexia,” Leon tells her, his face scrunched into a look of sheer irritation. “Rhys looks like he's about to burst a gasket.”
It's been over a week since Leon woke up and three days since they let him come home. I'm leaning in the doorway of what used to be my room and is currently Leon's and Alexia's room.
“He can go. I didn't say he had to wait for me,” she says, cutting a piece of bandage tape and making him hold it while she tightens the dressing around his torso. “And anyway, I'm busy checking you—”
Leon cuts her off. “My what? My blood pressure, which the nurse, who we're all paying, who gets here in twelve minutes, is literally trained to do?”
She snips her scissors at him. “I also offered to help with your dressing changes—”
“Have my little sister change my bandages like I'm in nappies? Hard pass.”
“It's your ribs, Leon, not a nappy.”
“My description's funnier.”
I shift my weight against the doorframe as I watch her.
Dark circles ring her eyes, no amount of makeup able to cover them.
She's barely sleeping. I wish she'd use the damn cot we set up for her, but she'd rather sit up in a hard chair watching him breathe all night than risk missing it if he stops.
“Bro.” Leon looks past her, straight at me. “Take her away. I'm begging you. Marry her if that's what it takes. I'll pay a dowry. Do people still do that? I'll throw in a goat or whatever. Or a bottle of that sake you like.”
The scissors come dangerously close to his face. “Stop trying to sell me off,” she hisses.
“Hey, I tried giving you away for free first. No takers,” he jokes.
I mutter something under my breath about her not having a shortage of prospects. Her eyes flick to me just as Marcus shoulders past into the room and drops onto the bed next to Leon, grabbing the remote and pointing it at the TV. “Out, both of you. I'm clocking in.”
Alexia starts rattling off a list, the nurse's number, his meds schedule, his last temperature, and I step in and grab her arm to get her moving. My hand closes tighter around her arm than it would have a month ago. That's not okay with me.
“Wait. One minute,” she says, digging her heels in. “We want to talk to you guys about something.”
“Not me.” Leon jerks his thumb. “Her.”
She grits her teeth then keeps talking. “We think maybe we should find somewhere else to stay for a bit. Just while Leon's getting better.”
“No,” I say.
She huffs. “We're taking up your room. Leon's here, I'm here, the nurse is here for at least another month, and if Mum does what she's threatening and comes too, she'll need somewhere to stay. It's too disruptive.”
“Says who?” Marcus doesn't sit up.
“Says anyone being reasonable. It's not permanent, our cousins might let us have their rental for a bit. They've got a tenant moving out this week.”
“Wait.” Marcus does sit up now. “Are you actually serious?”
Leon and Alexia look at each other, the kind of look that means they've already half-decided this without us. “It makes sense, I guess,” Leon says.
“Over my dead fucking body,” Marcus practically shouts.
“Hey,” Leon says, “it was almost over mine, so.”
Zachary appears in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. “Hey, what's going on?”
“Alexia and Leon are moving out,” Marcus says, “because Alexia apparently thinks that our best mate recovering in the house he fucking owns is too much trouble for us to handle.”
“That's not what I meant.” She's gone tight around the mouth. “I just think it's best. For you.”
“Really?” I say, sharper than I normally speak to her. “Best for us. Or best for you.”
“What does that mean?” Leon looks between us.
“Nothing,” she snaps.
“I think your sister's sick of living here with us,” I say.
“That's not what I'm saying at all.”
“Then what are you saying?” Marcus, arms crossed now, anger simmering in his normally placid eyes.
She turns on Zachary instead of answering. “What time did you get in last night?”
He blinks. “A bit after four. Had some end-of-month stuff to finish. Why?”
“Right. And it's quarter to eight, and you're up, because we're being too loud for you to sleep through.” She puts her hands on her hips.
He looks at her, confused. “So? I'll go back to sleep after. It's totally fine.” He points at Marcus. “He's going to make noise whether you're here or not.”
“Well, it's not good for you,” she argues weakly.
Zachary scoffs. “Oh, really? You really want to lecture me about sleep habits?”
“He's got you there, sis,” Leon says.
“And you.” She turns to Marcus. “You can't tell me having all of us here is good for your business. Your... private business.”
Marcus's eyebrows go up, slow, deliberate. “Are you asking if it's interfering with my sex life, Alexia?”
“That,” Leon says, from the bed, with a smirk, “I can answer with a resounding yes.”
“You have no idea,” Marcus mutters under his breath.
Alexia jumps on his statement, even though she knows the true meaning behind it. “Exactly. So you should want us gone more than anyone.”
Marcus's face changes, teasing dropping out of his tone entirely. “I was joking. You know that. I wouldn't kick any of you out of the house just so I could get laid. Give me a bit more bloody credit than that, Alexia.”
He's hurt. Genuinely, starkly hurt. I watch Alexia process it, watch her flinch at having caused it, then lock eyes with him — hers soft for the first time in weeks, a silent apology. He nods, accepting it, though his posture stays tight.
“And Rhys—”
I shake my head. “Leave me out of it. Nothing you can say is going to convince me to agree to this.”
She ignores me. “Come on, I know you want your room back. It's your safe space, your sanctuary. First you let me borrow it, now Leon as well? You must be dying to move back in.”
“Nope.”
“You must,” she exhales, tired.
I turn on her, voice low but loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Do you actually want me to tell you what I want? Right now. Here. What I would give everything up for? In front of everyone?”
She blinks and holds her breath. Nobody says anything.
“Right. So, discussion's over. I'm not going to talk about this again.” I look at Alexia. “Come on. We're going to be late.”
She doesn't say anything for the first ten minutes of the drive, just watches the houses go past.
I keep replaying it.
“Maybe we should find somewhere else.”
Turning it over and over in my head, wondering whether I imagined it sounding like the first line of a much longer goodbye.
She hasn't said anything about Sydney, or about her plans after Leon's recovery, nothing about what she's going to do after there's no more reason for her to fill the house every morning with her sounds, her scent, her warmth.
But I can feel the shape of her leaving sitting in the car with us anyway, and it's got my hands too tight on the wheel.
Whatever I'm feeling, I know it's nothing compared to what's weighing on her right now.
I can only see what it looks like from the outside, snapping at everyone, freezing us out, picking fights about nappies and dowries and sleep schedules instead of just saying what's actually wrong.
It would be easy to call it bratty if you didn't know her, haven't seen what it costs her to put a normal face on for her brother every morning.
She's not being difficult. She's drowning.
And I'm drowning with her. I don't know how to reach her without pulling her under with me.
“Are you ever going to talk to any of us again?” I ask when we're parked at a red light five minutes from the university.
“I am talking to you.”
“About anything that's not Leon's care?”
She leans her temple against the window and closes her eyes, like holding up her head is too much for her right now. “That's the most important thing right now.”
“He's doing fine, Alexi. He's recovering. You can see that.”
“He can't even go to the bathroom by himself.”
I nod. “And a week and a half ago he was on a table bleeding out. Compared to that, he's doing remarkably well.” The cars start moving again. “You know who's not doing well?”
She doesn't answer.
“You need to eat. Sleep. Talk to me. Hell, talk to Zachary if you have to. Or Marc— okay, maybe not him. But at least me or Zachary.”
She cracks the tiniest of smiles. “I have been talking to you guys and I'm fin—”
“Let's not insult both of us by you finishing that sentence.”
She sighs. “What do you want from me?”
The question comes out sharp, but underneath it, I hear what she's not saying: I don't have anything left to give you right now.
“I want you to tell me what's going on in your head.”
“This isn't about you, Rhys.”
“No. That's exactly it. It's about you.” A horn sounds and I look up to see the car ahead of me long gone. “It's about your inability to let any of us in right now.”
“Oh, that's rich, coming from the human vault. I've known you my whole life and sometimes I feel like I don't know you at all. You don't ever tell anyone anything!”
That's harsh. And true. Dammit. But still...
“At least I'm not running myself into the ground to avoid feeling anything,” I say, as gently as I can.
“You're insufferable sometimes,” she hisses, with more life in her than I've seen in weeks.
“And you're a stubborn know-it-all.”
She purses her lips before saying, “Well, you're an emotionally constipated mule.”
“That doesn't even make sense, mules aren't emotionally constipated, they're just mules.”
“Well, you're one that's super powered with its inability to show emotions!”
I pretend to mull it over. “That actually sounds... kinda special. I'm rare and probably sought after.”
“Oh, shut up,” she snaps, glaring at me.
“You shut up.”
It's such a stupid exchange that for a second I almost laugh, and she must feel the same. But it never gets that far — we fall back into a seething, uncomfortable silence.
“It's not about me,” she says finally, quieter. “It's not about you. It's about Leon. A week ago I didn't know if I was going to lose my brother. And right before that — I was lying to him. Every single time I talked to him, every message, every call. Lies.”
I reach over, wanting to squeeze her hand, but I don't. “We can tell him—”
She twists sharply to look at me. “No! He is in no condition to handle it right now. We are not telling him. Please make sure the others don't either.”
I pull into the car park without answering. She's got her seatbelt off before the ignition is off, and I stop her, my hand on her arm, because if she gets out right now I don't know when I get her back.
“Alexia, tell me, do you regret us?”
Two lines form between her brows. “Who?”
“Us.” It comes out sharper than I mean it, panic dressed up as frustration. “You and me. You and them. Any of it. Do you wish it never happened?”
“Of course not! Why would you think that?”
“I'm not trying to pressure you. I just need to know why you're pushing us away.” I take a beat so I don't bombard her with questions and emotions. “Because from where I'm sitting it looks like you're already halfway out the door, and I need you to tell me I'm wrong.”
But she doesn't. She just sits there, letting the question hang between us, letting the doubt grow.
“Alexi. Please.” She sighs. “It's easier this way.”
She's out of the car before I can answer. I follow, catch her arm — whatever's happening right now, I'm not letting her walk away believing I'm okay with this, watching her disappear a little more every day until there's nothing left.
“Stop. Alexia. Just please, stop. Easier for who?”
Her shoulders slump, and her arm grows heavy in my hand. “Easier for you.”
I pull her so she's facing me, so she's forced to hear my words.
“No. Don't pretend this is about me. I never asked for easier.
This is about you. That you need it to be easier.
Just admit it. Because I'm not afraid of hard. I would walk into hell and back for you, Alexia. And I think you know that. I would do anything for you. I would do anything to be with you.”
I cup her cheek. Her eyes are already full, like a glass bowl in the early morning light.
“That's just it.” Her voice barely holds together. “Maybe I don't want you to have to do that for me. Maybe I want what's easier, what's best for you.”
“Why don't you let me decide what's best for me.” The words come out slow and definite. “Because I already know. What's best for me is you. It's always been you.”
Her face crumples and I pull her in. She presses into my shoulder and breathes, shaking slightly, and I hold on, saying nothing else, because nothing else needs saying.
“Don't stop coming to me. Don't ever stop talking to me. To any of us. And yes, that includes Marcus. Okay?”
She doesn't say yes, but she doesn't say no either. And for today, that's progress.
“Come on,” I say eventually, lips in her hair, before pulling away. “Let's go inside. We've got a picnic to organise. About effective communication, apparently. You think we could use this conversation as an example? I especially like the 'you're a stinky poohead, no you're a stinky poohead' line.”
She laughs, actually laughs, loud and surprised, and lets me lead her inside.