Page 14 of Don't Say You're Sorry

Turns out he was right. About all of it.

Axel and I grew up in London. When he was eleven, he found out our dad was cheating on our mum. The other woman’s son told him, and Axel confronted our dad while I hid around the corner, listening. Dad tried to convince him he was mistaken, and when that didn’t work, he panicked. Begged Axel not to say anything. Promised it would never happen again. That we’d all stay together, keep being a family, as long as he kept his mouth shut.

Axel muttered something I couldn’t hear. And then Dad backhanded him. Axel didn’t say another word. He just walked away. When he saw me eavesdropping, he grabbed my hand and stormed out the front door, ignoring our dad’s desperate calls after us.

We ran to the park a few streets away. I was only eight. And I was terrified. Angry. Confused. Mum found us on the swings when she got home from work an hour later, and I told her everything—despite Axel telling me not to.

She kicked Dad out the same day. Apparently, she already suspected he was cheating, but that’s not what set her off. She threw him out for daring to lay a hand on Axel.

I’ve never seen her like that before. The rage in her eyes… I’ll never forget it. I’m pretty sure she would’ve kicked his ass if I hadn’t been standing right behind her.

For a long time, I blamed myself. Told myself I was the reason her first marriage ended. If I’d just kept my mouth shut, maybe they’d still be together. Maybe Dad wouldn’t have turned into a raging lunatic, smashing her car windows and screaming through the letter box when she refused to let him in. Maybe I wouldn’t have had to watch her work two jobs just to support us. Wouldn’t have had to listen to her cry herself to sleep after losing the home she worked so hard for—the home Axel and I were born and raised in.

Having to pack up our entire lives and move halfway across the world to live with Mum’s sister in Hawthorne… It was all on me.

Which is why when Axel dropped out of college three and a half years ago and told me he was moving back to London, I went with him. Instead of going to college and moving in with Easton like we’d planned, I ran away. I left him. Because if I didn’t leave him back then, I’d haveneverbeen able to leave him, and Ihadto. I couldn’t stay with him. It didn’t matter how careful we thought we were being. Axel and Michael already knew about us, and it was only a matter of time before my mum found out. I couldn’t do that to her. I couldn’t risk tearing her marriage apart and ruining her life. Not again.

So I ruined his instead. Ours. I ruined us.

“I’m not going back without you,” Axel says, pulling me from my thoughts.

I nod shakily. “Okay. Mum’s house or a hotel?”

“Are you paying?”

I laugh.

“Speaking of payment…” Lifting his ass off the seat, he reaches into the back pocket of his ripped jeans and pulls out my credit card. “I borrowed this to pay for my flight. And snacks, of course.”

Of course. Asshole.

After tossing his bag on his bed in the hotel room, Axel goes out to the balcony and makes himself comfortable on one of the cushioned chairs, smoking another cigarette.

I go into the bathroom and change into a pair of joggers and a T-shirt. Barefoot, I walk out with my iPad and pen.

“I forgot how much I like it here,” Axel murmurs, eyes closed. “It’s quiet. Peaceful.”

“If you like it so much, why did you move back to London?”

“I like the place, Adam, not the people.”

Right.I’m not the only one who ran from something in Hawthorne. From someone. He never told me what happened before he dropped out of college, but I recognize the look he gets in his eyes sometimes when he thinks I’m not looking, because it’s the same look I see in the mirror when I think about Easton.Heartbreak.

Taking the seat next to him, I angle my body so he can’t see my screen and begin sketching my point of view of Easton in the shower tonight. It’s been a long time since I’ve had such a fresh image of him in my mind, and I don’t want to waste it.

“I’m sorry I left without telling you,” I say to Axel. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Then why did you?”

“I thought you’d try to stop me.”

Without opening his eyes, he asks. “How many times have you gotten into your car and almost come running back here over the last three and a half years?”

I gape.

“Four, that I know of,” he answers for me.

It’s actually more like forty-four, but I don’t tell him that.