“Well, according to the giant pile of wood, looks like you’ve been thinking for a while.”
My first impulse is to bite his head off.
It always is when I’m dealing with my older brother.
If I were forced to psychoanalyze my resentment toward him, I’d probably blame it on him moving out when he was sixteen.
I was eight when he abandoned us. He left me and Sophia stuck in a house with an alcoholic father and a deadbeat mother; she was still around back then, pregnant with Charlie. Meanwhile, I did what I could to shield Sophia from most of the bullshit since she was only five years old.
Ozzy prides himself on having been there for us even when he moved out, claiming he was always around, makingsure we were being taken care of. What a fucking lie. It’s as if he selectively forgets those first few years when he just disappeared. He left us to struggle alone. And I always hated him for it. Admittedly, our relationship has gotten better since I got arrested, but I’ve never truly forgiven him for disappearing like that.
I take a deep swallow of cold winter air, wiping at my mouth with the back of my hand while still holding the axe. I look at Ozzy from the corner of my eye. He has this stupidly patient look on his face, and it’s already grating at my nerves.
Icouldbite his head off, but I’m also currently standing in his backyard, unannounced, and chopping wood. Dropping the axe, I unzip my coat and take it off, throwing it atop the pile of wood. I pick up another log.
“So?” Ozzy says, still standing there, his hands stuffed in his jean coat pockets.
“So, what?”
I’m being intentionally dense, but I can’t help it; he brings out the worst of me.
However, Ozzy’s used to my attitude by now, and to my dismay, nothing about me really fazes him anymore.
“So what’s on your mind, dummy?” he says in jest.
As the axe splits the log into smaller pieces, I let out a small grunt before shooting him a wary side look, but say nothing. I should have checked if he was home before I came over, he’s always looking to fucking bond anytime we’re alone together.
Shoot me.
“I didn’t say I wanted to talk about it.”
The words are a muttered hiss as I pick up the split pieces and place them with the—admittedly—ridiculously large pile of already cut wood.
I grab another log.
Ozzy watches me for a few minutes, the sound of the axe and my ragged breaths fillingin the silence.
“If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine, but you have to talk to someone, Hux,” Ozzy finally says.
I glance over at him, and the expression of concern on his face makes me want to hurl.
“Have you thought more about therapy?”
I pick up the split wood and scoff.
“Pass.”
Ozzy sighs, raking a hand through his curls, but doesn’t press the subject. I swallow the low throb of guilt at acting so difficult when all he’s doing is trying to help.
Too little, too late.
We fall back into silence until finally, after a few more minutes of him watching me, he moves from his spot. “There’s risotto in the fridge if you’re hungry,” he says before walking back inside.
11
CONNIE
It’s a sunny Tuesday afternoon, and the quaint coffee shop near my hotel is bustling with patrons. The tables are full of young professionals hunched over their laptops, some sporting expressions of deep concentration, while some are busy taking business calls while surrounded by total strangers.
