Page 35

His vision blurs from lack of sleep, the bright light of his phone screen reflecting a hundred different hair styles seared into his eyeballs.

But she purrs like a cat when his nails scrape her scalp, and he finds that reward enough.

On Monday, he spends more time than even I would meticulously slicking my hair back into two French braids.

Tuesday, he perches on the edge of my bed and guides me to sit between his spread legs so he can arrange my parting into a zig-zag design. Because he thinks, with a bun above either ear, it’ll look cool.

Wednesday, a ponytail has to do because he has to move a horse to a ranch somewhere up north, but he still takes the time to weave a single braid amongst the loose strands.

Yesterday, I searched high and low for the most complicated hairstyle I could find, half to fuck with him, half to test his limits, and I ended up going to work with literal hair bows made of my hair topping two pigtails.

Today, a couple of simple Dutch braids hold my bangs away from my face while the rest flows free.

A quick and easy style because he has shit to do.

We have shit to do. After the longest week of my life, the constricting leash of my siblings’ combined concern has loosened, and I have finally been assigned a task that doesn’t involve a frying pan.

The hypocrisy of condemning me to kitchen duty in the name of R&R only to have me spend an entire morning chasing Eliza around a farmer’s market does not escape me, but I don’t point it out.

I don’t mind. I think I would actually cry if denied the chance to accompany my little sister on her weekly venture because God, do I need to get out.

I haven’t left the ranch since Sunday. I spend my time moping in the A-frame or moping in the barn or moping in the main house’s kitchen, and that’s it.

I am expressly forbidden from any exertion.

I tried to sneak off for a ride—on Daphne, not Ruin, because contrary to popular belief, I don’t actually have a death wish.

Not that Ruin would kill me. But if Lux found out, she probably would—and I swear to God, my soon-to-be-sister-in-law dragged me back inside by my goddamn ear.

Smirking like a little shit, Luna asked me to lift my arms above my head without wincing. To turn my head without turning my whole body too. To walk more than ten steps without breaking out into a limp.

None of which I can do yet. All of which Luna knows I can’t do yet. Three things we both know damn well I need to be able to do before I’m allowed on horseback again.

The passenger seat of Finn’s truck isn’t quite that, but shit, I’ll take any ride I can get.

He drives Eliza to the farmer’s market every week, I learn—because she has three failed license attempts under her belt, I also learn.

Without complaint, he follows her from one stall to another, and there’s nothing remotely dutiful about it.

It genuinely feels like he wants to be here, like he likes this as much as she does.

He definitely likes Eliza, that much I know for sure.

Trailing in their wake, my mouth twitches at the pair bickering like not-quite siblings, but something close. Familial, for sure. Rustled hair and shoved shoulders and poked-out tongues.

It’s sweet. It makes me… warm. Thankful. Relieved because my little sister might have a disposition bright enough to cause the sun envy, but she’s soft. Sensitive. Susceptible to fuckery and not as willing to push back against it.

Although, she did punch a kid once.

God, I almost forgot about that. My sweet, little fourteen-at-the-time Eliza socking a classmate in the face because he called her an orphan.

An act that made her a hero in my eyes because it wasn’t just any classmate—it was a Weber.

The youngest one. The shitty little remake of a shitty older model.

Fucking Webers.

I redirect my mind elsewhere before the mere thought of those assholes pisses me off enough to ruin my rare sliver of freedom.

Well, semi-freedom.

As my chaperones pause a few stalls ahead, I linger beside a rainbow of yarn.

An assortment of blues catch my attention, my fingers closing around a pretty sapphire ball.

Holding it aloft, I scrutinize it carefully, admiring the way the color changes under the dappled sunlight streaming through the thin canopy shielding the stallholder and their wares from the brisk day.

Izzy would like this color, I think. And Alex would like the cerulean—he’s already claimed it as his favorite color twice since I’ve been home, despite the fact he can barely say the word.

There’s a pink that makes me think of almost every article of clothing in Grace’s wardrobe.

A ball labelled Fire Brick catches my eyes and makes me snicker, makes me remember my brother’s face the first time he saw my new radical hair color, quite the change from the box-dye blonde that preceded it, even more so from my natural brown.

I should make him something with it. Fuck it, I could make everyone something. Christmas is a couple of months away. I can be Santa instead of Satan for once.

No . I can be delusional . I’m getting way ahead of myself.

I haven’t attempted a single stitch since I’ve been home, and it’s been years.

I won’t be any good anymore. Not that I was ever good, not really, I was just…

adequate. Capable of weaving basic patterns like blankets and scarves and the plethora of woollen headbands that I actually forgot about until right now, and I make a mental note to check if they’re still gathering dust in my old bedroom.

I could use them. As the calendar creeps towards November, the temperatures do too, dropping a little more each day. Even now, a cold breeze rustles my hair, and as I stuff a paper bag full of newly-bought yarn into my tote, I tuck the loose strands behind my ear.

An ear that fingers that aren’t mine touch, gently tugging the delicate chain that hangs from my helix piercing.

Ducking out of his reach, I shoot Finn a scowl. “Can I help you?”

I can, apparently. By standing still and letting him fiddle with my ear some more, thumbing the myriad of ridged rings and sparkling diamonds and plain, gold studs decorating my lobes, my cartilage, my tragus. “These are cool.”

I think so too. Hence why I picked them. Although, when I spent entirely too long curating the perfect aesthetic collection, I didn’t imagine Finn would be the one to appreciate them.

“I like ‘em.” He tugs on the tiny, silver sword hanging from my left lobe before his hand drops to try and slide the tote off my shoulder and onto the one of his that’s not already occupied. He tuts when I resist. “Oh, come on. Let me be a gentleman.”

“With your sticky fingers?” I scoff and hold my bag even tighter. “No way.”

“Hey, I gave you back your lighter.”

He did. After he smirked like a dickhead while using it to light the A-frame’s fire pit, and I threw an empty bag of marshmallows—because apparently, I am becoming someone who sits amongst a group of happy, chatty people and makes fucking s’mores—at him. “And my cigarettes?”

“Maybe they grew cancerous legs and walked away.”

“ Ha .” I plant a palm on his torso, right above the hem of the loose, long-sleeved shirt that shields him from the cooling temperatures yet still exposes the ‘v’ of muscles I’ve taken to thinking of as a penis ravine —thank you, Yasmin—and shove him away. “Go bother Eliza.”

“She banished me,” Finn claims, matching my pace as I sidle to the next stall. “Said there’s no way her cheesemonger will believe she’s flirting with him if I was with her.”

“Persecuted for your stunningly good looks. Poor baby.”

That full bottom lip pops out dramatically. “It’s really hard being so handsome.”

I snicker, and like every other time he’s pulled a begrudgingly humored noise out of me, a triumphant curve pulls at his mouth.

And like every other time, I’m distracted by it.

Confused by the pride he seems to take in the simple accomplishment of making me laugh.

Unsettled because why? Why does he care? Why does he try so hard?

I look away, pretending to be enthralled by a table laden with artisanal honey. “Why’s she flirting with a cheesemonger anyway?”

“Don’t ask her that question unless you want a multi-hour rant on the price of dairy these days.”

My mouth twitches, but I don’t laugh. I stifle it.

I can’t handle two of those smiles in as many minutes.

I fear I can’t handle any of this friendly shit, not the smiling or the joking or the consistent stream of random compliments about inconsequential things.

Like the color of my nail polish or whatever belt buckle I choose to wear or the way I talk to Ruin, literally anything, always something.

And the touching, fuck , I’ve never been touched so much in my life.

Casual grazes and little squeezes, and the most unsettling part is I don’t hate it.

Any of it. It makes me nervous and uncomfortable and unsure, which I do hate, but I don’t hate it .

He stands close enough that every breath is tainted with the scent of him, and I definitely don’t hate that.

Beeswax candles, a drop of sweat, spilled wine, and smoke.

That’s what the label on the empty bottle I found in my old room in the main house read.

Sure, he could’ve started wearing something else since he moved out of there, but I don’t think so.

It sounds right. Smells right. Smells nice, really nice, I like it a whole fucking lot, and I figure that makes sense, considering the last two fragrance notes.

“Hey.”