He blinks and swallows, blinks more, and gulps down air. “My father did it, but the bastard got away with murder. Squid was in the car. My brother heard the asshole scream that if he couldn’t have her then no one could. Squid was in the car when they cut our mother’s body from the wreck, but the road was slippery and the police didn’t want to charge a grieving widower without proof.”
For the first time since arriving back in Australia, Iwantto tell someone my story. But even I know that this isn’t my time. “Squid told you what happened?”
Dylan nods. “Why do you think Fucking Fleski hates me so much? I know the truth. Mum was going to leave him. I bought her the penthouse. It was going to be her safe place—no memories of being thrown against walls or going to sleep without knowing if she’d wake to a kiss or a punch.”
“Oh, Dyl.”
“I want Squid to live with me. I want to give him the future our mother wanted for him. But the asshole wants me to pay.”
“For Squid’s food and clothing?” I ask, “School and health care?”
“More like a rental agreement.” Dylan snorts. “The longer I have Squid, the more I pay Fucking Fleski to keep him. He doesn’t give a shit about Squid or me. All he sees are dollar signs.”
Dylan presses his face into my hand, and when my thumb rests next to his Adam’s apple, I feel his heart pounding faster than mine.Sage and Saxon are both survivors. Dylan and I have more in common. “When my reputation was on the dive, it looked like my next contract would be some bullshit token amount. He started throwing numbers at me that were six instead of seven figures.”
I wait, knowing instinctively Dylan hasn’t shared this with more than a handful of people outside of his agent and lawyer. “Then the bullshit aboutAustralia’s Favorite Bachelorcame out and father fucking dearest upped his price, again.”
He looks at me with pleading which has nothing to do with sex. “What do I do? I can pay it. But I don’t want him to profit from being an abusive prick. I get Squid for ten days each month, and it’s great. We hang out. We fight—because, fuck, we’re still brothers. But once he feels safe, I get my brother back. Should I just suck up my pride and pay whatever it takes?”
I reframe the question in my head.What would I pay to get my sister back—the obnoxious, smart ass, funny, enchanting, vibrant Sage? I gulp, prepared to share as much of my story as I can to give Dylan perspective for Saxon. One deep breath, and then I speak as quickly as I can before losing my nerve.
“A few months ago, a twelve-year-old girl was riding in the back of her parents’ SUV. They were on their way to dinner because she’d won a math competition, and the family celebrated every achievement like it was their last. She picked the restaurant just so she could brag to her sister who was overseas.”
It’s easier telling the story in the third person. It’s easier pretending it happened to another sister … another family. But I need Dylan to hear my story so he can decide for himself how to deal with his father.
“The sister had gone to sleep fully intending to act as if the influx of pictures she’d wake to wouldn’t matter. The sister pretended she wasn’t jealous as fuck of her family enjoying life without her. The sister pretended that all the work to get the US scholarship was worth it—because otherwise, she’d have to admit it had been a mistake. She wanted to be at home. She wanted to fight over who had the first and last pancake on Sunday brunch. She wanted to argue with her mother over the benefits of machine- or line-dried towels.”
In my haste to get out the words, Dylan’s thumb comes as a surprise. He’s taken my spare hand and draws calming circles in my palm. Tears are falling unashamed down his cheeks, and I need to say the rest before my flood starts.
“The car never made it home. On the way back from the restaurant, a stolen car ran a red light and took them out. The SUV rolled three times before coming to a rest. The mother died on impact. The father lived long enough to demand that paramedics get his daughter out first. He lived long enough to know she was safe but was unconscious before they could cut him free.”
“Oh, fuck, Em.” Dylan’s voice seems to be coming from another room … another lifetime.
“Sage doesn’t talk. She’s stuck in the car. She can’t talk about it. I don’t know what they ate for their last meal. I don’t know what gag pictures they intended to send me. I don’t know what she’s thinking or how she’s feeling.” There’s more, but do I have the courage to tell him? “That’s not right. Most nights, Sage wakes screaming. Her night terrors are why I can’t stay away all night. Her night terrors are why I had to leave our date—she washaving a meltdown because mum wasn’t here to write her good luck note before the swim meet.”
“And you can’t lose your job, because you’re supporting your sister.” Dylan understands. “You’ve lost your parents, but you’re being strong for your sister.”
I blink, nodding. I’ve met the first person who truly understands. “The therapists, the specialists, it’s a lot. The neighbors called the police on us the other night, and I was terrified they were going to take Sage away from me. I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time, but days like the swim meet, seeing her with Saxon who treats her like a friend …”
“Hate to break it to you, but my brother sees Sage as more than just a friend. We’re just lucky they are both twelve.”
“But that’s normal. She is building normal relationships with people.” I gulp down air, needing oxygen to fuel my brain and pull the right words together. “It’s expensive, and I don’t know what dollars are making a difference and what I’m pissing against the wall. The point is, I’ll pay anything to get my sister back. I don’t care about the money. I want my sister to yell at me for not allowing her to wear my clothes. I want her to bitch about sharing chores. I want her to argue with me about how much salt we have on fries. I want all of those normal things, because I don’t think I can grieve our parents until I know she’ll be okay.”
“Oh, fuck, Emma.”
It’s all Dylan says, but he holds me as our tears fall and merge together. It’s as if once the gates of grief open, nothing stops the flood of emotions from spilling out. We claw at each other, mouths fighting to suck at tears, bodies rocking together in an uncoordinated desperation to feel … something.
We’ve fucked. We’ve made love. But nothing in life prepared me for Dylan spreading my knees to crouch over me, raw pain on full display as he enters me. One thrust after another, it’s as if heis hunting for peace, or his happy place, while I’m begging him to take away my pain.
It’s more than I expected … with any partner.
It’s exactly what I needed.
And when I orgasm first, and he quickly follows, it’s all I can do to admit, “You asked who catches me when I fall? Do you know why you’re the first?”
“Why?”
“Because you didn’t ask what I needed, you just gave it to me.”
