Page 28 of Little Pieces of Light

I suppressed a smile that was full of pride, conscious that Delilah was beside me, taking mental notes on everything like a reporter for TMZ.

“Oh my God, I can see why you guys are so into crew,” Sierra said. “How sexy is that ?”

We all shut up and watched as the guys came speeding through the water, the boat cutting the dark blue like a knife. They rowed in exact unison, arm muscles perfectly cut under the tight latex, shoulders and biceps flexing, their faces each wearing the same grimace of determination.

They’re so fast. They’ve never been this fast…until Xander. My fiancé.

A crazed laugh nearly burst out of me, but I caught it in time.

“I mean, look at the way they move,” Sierra said, then bit her lip.

“Right?” Elowen said, her gaze on Orion, no doubt. “All that back-and-forth…imagine that in bed.” She gave me a nudge. “You don’t have to imagine. You get Tucker whenever you want.”

I barely heard her, my eyes drinking in Xander, who was all sleek lines and lean muscle, rowing with speed and fluidity. As stroke seat, he set the pace, which meant everyone behind him had to keep up.

“Em?”

“Yep, sure,” I said absently, my gaze stubbornly refusing to let go of Xander. He was rowing like a man possessed, his teeth bared, pulling and then pushing… It was the easiest leap of the imagination—like mental Photoshop—to put myself underneath him, to be the recipient of that heated exertion…

As the boat drew closer, the coaches on the dock were grabbing at each other like excited kids on Christmas morning. The guys gave it their all, Dean shouting at them through his mic’d headset to pull, goddammit. His voice laden with commanding authority I’d never heard from him before.

Finally, the boat arrowed across some finish line only they could see. The guys immediately slumped in sheer exhaustion while their coaches jumped up and down.

“Six minutes, forty-eight seconds!” the coach shouted. “ Six-forty-eight, you magnificent bastards!”

“Holy shit,” Aria said. “For a two thousand meter, that’s insanely fast.”

I nodded, unable to keep my grin from breaking ear to ear as the guys cheered tiredly, landing heavy thumps on each other’s backs.

Dean leaned forward to grab Xander by the shoulders and shake him, laughing.

Then the guy behind Xander, Henry Moore, took a turn grabbing his shoulders and giving him an awkward from behind hug.

Orion, at the other end of the boat, pumped his fist, and even Tucker looked ecstatic.

Only Rhett at the bow wasn’t cheering. He looked downright murderous.

“Fucking Bender,” Aria said and stood up with a huff.

“That was hot,” Sierra said. “Dean Yearwood can tell me how hard to pull anytime he wants.”

The rest of us busted out laughing as we all went down to greet the guys at the dock.

Tucker enveloped me in a quick embrace, then went right back to celebrating with the guys and talking shit about New Haven Prep in the upcoming regatta.

Xander looked tired but satisfied, surrounded by the coaches and Dean, who were making a big deal about “stroke rates” and his “punishing pace” and thumping him on the back.

He was clearly their hero. He took it all in with a quiet dignity that was sexy as hell.

Sexier than all the chest puffing and loud bravado around him.

Until he saw me. Then his expression lifted into surprise and something like happiness.

I crooked my little finger at him and smiled. He smiled back…just as Tucker grabbed me and spun me around. The guilt hit me; this was his win too, and I was supposed to be happy for him, but I didn’t feel anything at all.

***

That night, Jack came down to dinner wearing all black.

Black jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt with a black armband around his right bicep.

Even the fingerless burn glove that he wore over his left hand was black.

His hand was nearly healed, but I knew under that glove, his skin was terribly scarred and would be for the rest of his life.

My brother took his seat across from me with more energy and enthusiasm than I’d seen in a long time, digging into his dinner with a strange, bright smile. My stomach clenched, as the air suddenly felt electric.

And not in a good way.

“Is this a preview of your Halloween costume for Saturday?” my father asked mildly.

“Nope.”

“Then what is it, Jack?” my mother put in before taking a sip of wine, as if she needed to fortify herself before hearing the answer.

“Well,” Jack said conversationally. “I learned something very interesting in history class last week.” He cut into his steak and took a bite. “Did you know that Victorians had detailed rituals for mourning deceased family members?”

Mom stared at Jack with wide eyes while my dad set his fork down with deliberate slowness.

“Jack…”

“It’s quite fascinating,” Jack said in a jovial tone, talking around a mouthful of steak. “A widower, for example, would be expected to wear black for one year, but a widow wore black for two full two years. Fucking patriarchy, am I right?”

My mouth went dry as my mother covered her eyes with one hand, her other gripping the stem of her wine glass.

“ Jack ,” my father said. “That kind of language is unacceptable—”

“But the point was,” Jack continued, unbothered, “to demonstrate to the world that they were grieving. To wear their grief openly, out in public. So that everyone knew they lost someone.”

Mom made a strangled sound, like a whimper.

Dad tossed his napkin on the table, seething now. “Are you satisfied? You’ve upset your mother.”

Jack ignored him and forked a green bean. “So I got to thinking. As a kind of project for history class—extra credit, if you will—I’ll wear black for an entire year. Because even though it was seven years ago and I’m not a widower, it’s never too late to do the right thing. You know?”

My father stood up now, his eyes black, and leveled a finger at Jack. “You shut your mouth. You shut your goddamn mouth. I’m warning you…”

“Not to mention, Dia de los Muertos is just around the corner. Another tradition in which the living honor the dead, because it’s the right thing to do .”

I sat frozen, watching as my dad moved toward Jack’s chair. Jack jumped up and skirted behind Mom. My father and brother stared each other down, circling the table.

“I’m going to wear black for an entire year,” Jack said loudly, all traces of humor gone, his eyes shining now. “And people will ask me why.”

“ Jack, ” Dad bellowed, chasing my brother as he moved behind my chair.

I flinched, my heart clanging.

“And you know what I’ll say, Dad?” Jack cried. “I’ll say, ‘I’m in mourning for my brother, Grant.’ I’ll say his name! I’ll scream it from the fucking rooftops! His name was Grant Nathaniel Wallace, and he was here! He was fucking here! ”

I watched in a kind of detached horror as my brother knocked over my dad’s chair to create a roadblock and then raced upstairs. My dad stopped as the slam of Jack’s bedroom door reverberated so hard, the delicate plates in the china cabinet rattled.

Slowly, with measured breaths, Dad righted his chair and sat back down. He smoothed his napkin over his lap and resumed his meal. My mother, still covering her eyes, lifted her wine glass to her mouth with a shaky hand.

“Emery,” Dad said, jolting me from my shock. “I’m sending your application to Brown this week and putting in for a conditional acceptance. This means we should hear back much sooner.”

I struggled to find my voice, dizzy with the change of subject. “But I haven’t…I haven’t written the application letter.”

“I’ve taken the liberty of doing it for you. I know what they want to hear and what they’ll be expecting. I also don’t trust that you will show the proper enthusiasm.” He turned his gaze to me. “I understand you have a calculus midterm coming up?”

I nodded.

“And SATs are in a few weeks. Given the number of tutoring sessions you’ve had with that Xander person, I expect nothing less than stellar results on both. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” I said, barely a whisper.

“And how are things with Tucker?”

My head shot up. “Um, okay, I guess. Why?”

“Because the election is in a few days, and we need to keep a united front with the Hill family. No turbulence.”

“And what if…?”

“Don’t mumble, Emery,” Dad said. “What if what?”

“What if I don’t want to be with him anymore?” I managed. “What if I don’t have feelings for him…at all?”

What if I never did?

Before he could answer, my mother abruptly pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’m going to bed.”

When she was gone, my father stared straight ahead to my mother’s empty chair. “Jack’s upset her greatly,” he said. “Your brother is treading on thin ice. Very thin ice.”

“I think he’s just in pain, Dad,” I said quietly.

We all are.

“Is that so?” he mused and resumed eating his dinner. “He doesn’t know what pain is.”

I couldn’t tell if that was a statement or a threat. But I did know that it would take nothing at all for Dad to decide I was on thin ice as well. One crack, with Tucker or math or anything else, and I’d fall right in.