“Get out,” I whisper, my eyes fixed on the black and whites.
There’s a beat before my brother moves to the door. “Call me when you’re ready to talk.”
It takes me a moment to recover, but once I do, I race after him onto the porch. He’s halfway to his car. “Don’t hold your breath,” I shout.
Wes turns. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve had enough of you judging every move I make. You don’t know me.”
“I don’t know you?”
“You’ve never taken the time to ask what’s going on with me. You just assume I’m crazy,” I shout, my voice cracking, tears stinging my eyes.
“Fine, let’s talk. What was that about?” He motions back into the house, and I’m not sure if he means Wilder or the nudephotos.
“You can’t just start with that, Wes.”
“Seems like as good a place as any to start figuring you out.”
“Fine, maybe that was a mistake, but it was mine to make and this wasmymail.”
“Mistakes,” he repeats. “It’s nothing but mistakes with you.” He glances behind me. “And complete disregard for the damage you could be causing.”
I swallow, but I’m too hurt and angry to focus on his relationship with Wilder right now. “It’s an invasion of privacy, Wes. You crossed a line.”
He climbs back up one porch step, head tilted and eyes narrowing. “And you didn’t?” he asks, voice low.
When I don’t respond, he shoots a final glare into the house and steps down. “Your flight is next Saturday morning. Don’t miss it.”
My chest tightens at his harsh dismissal, but I can’t let it get to me right now.
Stepping back into the house, I shut the door lightly and turn. Wilder isn’t looking at me. I don’t even think he notices that I’m back inside. His fingers brush the pile of photos on the kitchen counter, spreading them like a deck of cards. His expression blank. Not hard or angry. I wish I could see his eyes.
“That’s not what it looks like,” I start softly.
He still doesn’t look up. “What’d you say these are called? Silhouettes?”
I bite my bottom lip. “You .?.?. remembered.”
“Yeah, I remember.” He nods, lifting his eyes to mine. “Who took ’em?”
I look back at him for a beat, my lips barely parting to answer.
“That guy you met at the gallery?” He waits for me to confirm. But not long enough. “The one that got you all rattled up when I asked about him?”
I blink a few times, trying to catch up. “Wilder, slow down.”
“Why? Give you time to think of another lie?”
I shake my head, stepping toward him. “I wasn’t lying. There was nothing to say.”
He perks a brow. “These don’t look like nothing, Rose.”
“It’s just art,” I say weakly.
He drops his gaze to them again. “Is the artist usually the subject too?”
“Wilder.”
