Page 37

Rhys

I ’ve never been in Tucker’s apartment. The building is pretty run-down, and I’m sure all of my brothers at one point or another have tried to give him money and he’s turned it away.

As far as I know, Tucker has actually done pretty well for himself.

Until recently, he was a joint partner in running a small private-security firm.

Around the time my grandfather died, he let his partners buy him out.

That definitely netted him a good chunk of cash, but here he is, living in a one-bedroom rental in a building that needs work.

It makes me wonder if he’s punishing himself for something.

I pound on his door. No answer.

If I hadn’t seen his truck parked outside, I’d probably give up. But I know he’s in here. And I know something’s eating at him.

I’ve been a shitty brother to let him keep it locked up so far.

I pound again.

“Tuck. I know you’re in there.”

Silence from within.

“I’m not leaving. You can open up and talk to me, or I’m going to camp out here until you have to come out to get food.”

More silence.

“I’m going to be pissed about it, though. And I’m going to start asking people you know what the fuck is going on. I’m going to call your buddies at the old firm.”

“They won’t talk to you.”

Tucker’s voice from right behind the door is rough, like he hasn’t spoken in days. It’s testament to how good my brother is at his job that he crept up to the door without making a sound.

“They might talk to me if I tell them I’m fucking worried about you.”

Long pause. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Then open the door and tell me that to my face.”

The moments tick by, and I can hear the sounds of the tenants of other apartments going about their business—banging pots and pans, fighting, groaning in pleasure or pain—it’s hard to tell.

The door slowly opens.

Tucker’s the biggest of all of us, the physical type they call a brick shithouse. He’s always had the look of a guy who works out—hard—on a daily basis.

But he never looked haunted until recently.

“You’re a dick,” he says, without heat in his voice.

“Can I come in?”

“If you have to.” But he steps back and lets me in.

The apartment’s no nicer inside than outside—banged-up walls, a kitchen that’s seen better decades. “What’s up with this shithole?”

“This shithole is where I live.”

“You could afford a lot nicer.”

“Yeah, well.”

“You going to tell me what’s going on?”

He shakes his head.

“We’re all worried about you, you know.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“I’m fine enough.”

This time, he meets my eye. Levels his gaze at me.

It’s fierce and stubborn, more like the brother I remember.

Tucker was the toughest of all of us, physically and mentally, the one who could run longer and play harder, the one who once hiked seven miles out of the woods with me on his back after I broke a leg on the mountain.

It surprised none of us when he chose private security for a career.

If he doesn’t want to tell me what’s going on, he won’t, and it’s not like I can beat it out of him. One of us would end up dead, and it isn’t him.

“At least tell me why you turned around and left.”

I figure there’s about zero chance of that, so I’m surprised when he heaves a sigh and gestures me toward the couch. “You want a beer?”

“Sure,” I say.

“Sit.”

I do.

He goes to the fridge and comes back with two Rush Creek Head Rushes—a hazy IPA brewed locally by some brewers who are friends with the Wilder brothers. He shoves one in my general direction. I crack it, take a slug, and wait.

“I wanted to come tonight.” He lifts a shoulder, a helpless shrug. “Hanna asked me, and you know how it is. I feel like—” That shrug again. “I owe her, right? We all do. You know?”

I do know. It’s how we all got ourselves into these messes, trying to make up to Hanna what we screwed up before. And I’d known Tucker felt it too, but it’s still good to hear him say it, that whatever’s making him lock himself down, he does still care.

I didn’t really ever doubt it. I’ve been pretty sure this whole time that it’s caring too much, not too little, that’s at the bottom of whatever haunts my brother.

“Yeah,” I say.

“And then, I don’t know, I showed up there, and—” He blows out a breath. “I could see everyone moving around, and I could tell even from the truck that you all were having a good time, and I just didn’t want to bring this”—he gestures at himself—“in there.”

“We can handle it.”

“It’s not that,” he says. “It’s—people want to talk. They want to know how I’m doing, if I’m all right. They don’t say, ‘Tell us what happened, we want to hear the story,’ but that’s what they’re saying, right? I couldn’t face it.”

“I get that.” I want to say, Tell me what happened . Not out of some sick need to know, but because you don’t have to be a therapist to figure it might make Tucker feel better to say some of it out loud. Some things don’t bottle up well.

But I don’t push, because for the first time, he’s told one of us that something did happen.

And that’s huge. Everything about his body language right now says he’s shut tighter than a crate packed with illegal cargo.

I’ve gotten all I’m getting from him tonight, but for Tucker, it’s a lot, and I decide to be glad he opened up that much.

All I say is, “Well. If you ever decide you need someone to talk to, attorney-client privilege has made me pretty good at keeping shit to myself.”

He gives me a look. I think it might be relief that I’m not going to try to drag anything else out of him.

I hold up my glass to cheers him, and we finish our beers in companionable silence.