Page 38 of Liam (Preston Brothers #4)

Liam

I was around eight or nine the last time I spoke out in anger. Linc and I were in the backyard, and I can’t even remember what we were fighting about, but I’m sure it was stupid. And I can’t recall who started yelling first, but I know that I ended it with three simple words.

“I hate you.”

Even now, Linc’s physical reaction to those words plays vividly in my mind.

So do the emotions that came with it. I’m pretty sure it was the only time in our nineteen years that I made my twin brother cry.

He didn’t run off bawling, but I saw the buildup of tears he tried to blink away—right before Dad swooped in and told me to get my ass in the house.

My dad let us kids get away with a lot—I assume because there are so many of us he couldn’t always keep track—but the word hate, used at one of us, was always off the table.

I think I knew that, even then, but I let my emotions overpower my words, and my words overpower my anger.

Dad sat me down at the kitchen table and took the seat beside me, turning my chair to face him. And I’ll never forget what he told me. “There are no greater regrets in life than the words you spill in anger.”

Since that day, I’ve never shown my anger with words.

I’ve shown it with silence.