Page 46 of What You left in Me
At least Mom is already home when I pad past the landing again, earlier than I expected. I catch a glimpse of her through the cracked office door: blazer draped over a chair, hairpins on the desk like fallen soldiers, her bare feet tucked under her on the sofa as she stares at a single line on a legal pad. No pearls. No armor. Just a woman who married her favorite person and is now bargaining with the universe in bullet points.
I hover a beat, my knuckles almost knocking. Then I don’t. I let her have the illusion of privacy and keep walking.
The hallway is dim; the sconces throw soft circles that make the runner look deeper, older, like a river I swam a thousand times in another life. I reach the top and stop because the universe finally decides to be theatrical.
Finn steps out of the shadow like the house realized it had one last trick and wanted to use it on me personally. Black T-shirt, black jeans, no shoes, like he’s trying to be casual and accidentally auditioned for Brooding at Midnight. The shirt is thin enough that the planes of his chest show when he moves, defined in that unforgiving, lean way that says stress is a gymyou can’t cancel. The hem clings to the hinge of his hips, and when he lifts a hand to push hair off his forehead (which is not allowed, did the memo not go out?), the shirt pulls just enough to map out the topography of his stomach. Abs. Countable. Visible.Rude.
No, I tell my eyeballs. Like they’re toddlers about to lick a battery. Absolutely not.
He’s my brother. Well. Stepbrother.
Which is like “non-dairy cheese”: technically different, still a terrible idea on pizza.
He sees me seeing him, and for a second, we do that thing where everything else falls away and there’s just the wire stretched between us, electrified. His hair looks darker in the low light; there’s that streak of silver at his temple, an unfair flourish like the universe doodled on a statue. The tattoo on his inner forearm, marks I’ve never let myself look at too long, peeks above his wrist. He smells like cold and soap and the asshole decision to smoke once in a blue moon because it makes you look like a painting. (I can smell its faint scent. Don’t ask me why that makes my knees weird.)
My feet forget how floors work.
Then Julian appears behind me, cheerful timing like a sitcom cue.
“Hey, man,” he says, easy and oblivious, slinging an arm around my shoulders. My face burns. I don’t know why I feel so embarrassed by the obvious way Julian chooses to mark his territory. I don’t believe how casual he sounds when he asks, “Haven’t seen you around today. You good?”
Finn doesn’t even pretend to fall for it. He shifts his body like he heard a clock and remembered he has somewhere to be. For a heartbeat, his gaze drops to my mouth, fast, and thenhis face goes back to stone. He pivots, silent, and walks past us without a word, the smell of smoke and mint scissoring the air.
Julian watches him go, eyebrows up. “Weird guy, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Weird indeed.”
What I don’t say: weird like gravity, like fire, like the thing inside a storm that cows know to run from.
What I don’t say: Thank God he didn’t stop.
What I don’t say: I want him to stop so badly I might be a danger to architecture.
Guilt-ridden, I turn into Julian’s body, nuzzling my face into his chest. He smells so safe, so familiar to me.
“Let’s go to bed. Maybe you can make me feel good again, okay?”
Chapter 15 – Finn – The Fire He Can’t Put Out
Every time I close my eyes, I am treated to the torturous sight of a door left half-open and the worst fucking soundtrack of my life.
Her laugh, soft and surprised. His stupid, careful groan. A rhythm that makes me want to empty the contents of my stomach.
I put the pillow over my face. The sounds aren’t real anymore; they’re branded into me. My brain loops them, edits them, makes them worse. I picture her looking up at me instead, mouth open on my name, fingers in my hair, back arching under my hands. I can swap out the players as many times as I want. The original still exists. I saw it.
That’s the fun of reality: you don’t get to win the rerun.
Jesus Christ. When the fuck did I turn into some loser teenaged boy who obsesses endlessly over a girl? That wasn’t me when I was a fucking teenaged boy.
I throw the covers back and stand.
The mirror reflects to me the same face I’ve been stuck with for thirty-five years—though, right now, it looks meaner than it typically does.
I step out to breathe normally and feel something other than dread and regret. Eleanor came home late, brittle and hollow-eyed, clinging to control like it’s a flotation device. Julian showed up with Ariane earlier, Mr. Perfect at her elbow, the kind of “Are you okay?” that sounds good on tape.
When they came back, I stayed at the hospital until the walls started to buzz and the doctor’s voice felt like someonereading condolences off a teleprompter.Brain hemorrhage. Prepare.
Fuck that word.