“Hi,” I say calmly.
“Can I come in?”
I open the door wider, silently inviting him in. He steps inside and looks around. This is the first time he’s been in my house, and I’ve been living here for two years. To be honest, he’s never bothered to really get to know me. And I’m just seeing it now, looking back at all the years I’ve been running around my big brother, desperate for him to notice me.
“It’s nice here.”
I ignore the compliment and lean against the wall with my arms crossed over my chest.
“Look,” he puts his hands into his winter jacket, “I’m sorry. Alright?”
I raise a brow.That’s all you’ve got?
He chuckles and wipes his face with his hands. He does it when he’s nervous.
“I’m an asshole. I didn’t mean what I said. I don’t even remember what I said, honestly. Freya told me.” He swallows and looks to the side. “I didn’t mean it, Leila. I really didn’t.”
I sigh because I know that he has anger issues. Real, clinical issues where his brain can’t contain his emotions, but I also know that people tend to tell the truth when their reins break, and that’s why I’m on the fence. Not because he offended me, but because he really thinks all of that, and I don’t know how I feel about it just yet.
He lets out a loud sigh and squints at me, trying to make a funny face. “What can I do to make you forgive me?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Whatcanyou do?”
“Anything.” He places his open palm over his chest. “Absolutely anything.”
“Tell me about your last mission.”
His face pales. “I can’t, Leila.”
“You can. It’s been many years, Alex.”
“I can’t.” He shakes his head and starts backing away to the door. “I can’t.”
“I need to know the truth, so I can help Stephan.”
He tilts his head, confused. “Help him?”
“Don’t you see it?”
“See what?”
“He’s suicidal.” For the first time ever, I say the word out loud.
Alex thinks about it for the first time ever too, because he pales even more.
“What do you mean?”
“Can’t you see that he’s driven by guilt?”
“It’s survivor’s guilt; we both have it.”
“No.” I shake my head. “His is different. It’s deeper. I think he blames himself for something that happened there. I don’t see any other reason he would be like that.”
“He’s not suicidal,” he states firmly, trying to convince himself, I think.
“But he is.” I meet his eyes and hold them. “And deep down, you know it, but choose to ignore it because it hits too close to home, bringing your own guilt to the surface. That’s why I want you to tell me the story so I can help him.”
His jaw squeezes shut. The muscles in his cheeks moving under his skin from how hard he’s grinding his teeth together.
