Page 13 of Don't Say You're Sorry

Carter’s brows sink down low over his eyes.

Steeling myself, I walk out of the house and close the door behind me. I feel eyes on me through the windows as I make my way toward the rental car. My older brother leans against the passenger side, his legs crossed at the ankle, his arms folded over his chest. He’s wearing our dad’s old leather jacket. Fuck knows why he likes it so much. Our dad’s a prick. I think he just likes the way it looks on him.

Tipping his chin at the house behind me, he asks, “Did that go the way you wanted it to?”

Unlocking the car, I open the driver’s side door. “Shut up, Axel.”

I love my brother, I really do, but sometimes I want to throttle him.

Lazing back in the passenger seat, he’s got his boots kicked up on the dash, a lit cigarette between his lips, and he’s humming along to whatever rock song is playing on the radio. The guy will make himself comfortable anywhere. I swear there’s not a self-conscious bone in his body. He has no shame.

When another song starts to play, and he continues to say nothing, tapping his feet to the beat of the music, I lose the little patience I have for him.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“I already did,” he says casually, not looking at me. “You told me to shut up.”

I grit my teeth.

“You really flew all the way here from London just to, what, tell me what an idiot I am?”

“No,” he says, feigning defensiveness. “I have abandonment issues. I missed you and your dark cloud of misery moping around the flat.”

“Nice,” I say. “Seriously, what are you doing here?”

“Like I said.” He flicks the butt of his cigarette out the window. “Abandonment issues.”

“Axel.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. I was worried, okay? When I woke up this morning and realized you’d snuck off in the middle of the night, I booked the first flight.”

“You hate flying.”

“Yeah, well…” He shrugs as if it’s no big deal.

“You could have just called me.”

“Would you have answered?”

Honestly, I don’t know if I would have. As much of an asshole as that makes me, I wasn’t letting anything stop me from seeing Easton again tonight. Not even my brother.

“Did you make it to Mum’s party?” I ask.

“No. I took a taxi straight to Easton’s house.”

“How’d you know I’d be at his house?”

“Lucky guess. Why are you driving around in circles?” Unbothered, he gestures at the exit I’m passing for the second time in twenty minutes. “The airport’s that way.”

“I’m not going back to London. Not tonight. I’ll drop you off at the airport if you want.”

He finally looks at me then, a disapproving brow raised.

“I told him I’d be back, Axel.”

He huffs a short laugh, nodding.

He’s twenty-four—three years older than me and Easton—so he was living in the dorms at Hawthorne University by the time Easton and I started sneaking around in our senior year of high school. Axel came home for Christmas break that year, and heknew. I don’t know what tipped him off—if it was the way I looked at Easton, the way he looked at me, or a combination of both. All I know is that he didn’t approve. He knew one or both of us were going to get hurt. But he never said anything to Easton or our parents. I made him promise not to. I assured him I knew what I was doing. He assured me I didn’t.