It was a cheap frame. Small metal slivers held the back on. It only took a moment to bend them up and take off the back.
The photos that looked like a collage out of the front of the frame were covering a newspaper clipping, one big enough to fill the frame.
Where his heart had been beating with joy moments ago, now dread cinched his chest tight.
He carefully set the photos aside and turned over the newsprint.
HOMETOWN BOY BLINDED
The headline was a fist to his solar plexus. He didn't have to scan the article to know what it said. It was about Noah and the accident, and no doubt detailed Cord's part in it.
This was what Mackie had framed and wrapped for him. He knew it in his bones.
Except, Mackie wasn't the kind of person to hide pain behind photos. It didn’t make sense.
He stared at the words on the page. Shame rose up to choke him.
Molly was humming in the kitchen. Minutes ago, he'd wanted to join her, find the camaraderie they'd had last night.
He'd opened this stupid frame to prove to himself Mackie couldn't hurt him anymore.
But there was still a scared thirteen-year-old hiding inside him. One who still believed what she'd said.
That he didn't deserve good things.
He would never amount to anything.
He was a failure.
But was she right?
Or wrong?
He fingered the edge of the oldest photo, the one with Mom. Oh, he missed her. There was still a lingering ache that had never faded.
He'd lost the memory of her scent soon after he and West had come to live with Mackie. Then the sound of her voice had faded.
He'd give anything for one whisper.
You can do anything you set your mind to.
She'd told him that once. He'd been about ten, stinging from a bad grade on a math test at school. He'd really been too big for snuggles, but she'd let him curl against her on the couch anyway, had rifled his hair, then let her hand rest on the back of his neck.
She'd told him that one mess-up wasn't the end of the world. That he could try again. That she'd help him with the work that he struggled with.
And she had.
He'd forgotten all of that until now.
Mackie had never believed in him. But Mom had.
The memories with West were just as poignant. They'd been tighter than tight throughout their childhoods.
He'd messed that up. But did things have to stay the same? Could his relationship with his brother be repaired?
He crumpled the newspaper clipping in his fist.
He was done living with Mackie's voice in his head. He was done with the No Name. He was getting out as soon as he could.
Could he start something with Molly?
He fingered the wrapping paper he'd discarded on the sofa.
How had the photos gotten into the frame? Mackie wouldn't have covered over her vindictive article.
It had to be Molly.
He picked up the wrapping paper and brought it up to look more closely at it. The corners where the frame had been were worn. There were two places where the paper was faded, where the tape had been ripped away.
Two places, as if the paper had been opened more than once.
Because Molly.
Molly had wanted to spare him pain.
Molly had wanted him to remember the good parts.
His chest expanded, emotion too much for him to contain spilling up and—
He couldn't contain it anymore.
She'd gotten close, gotten inside of him when he hadn't been looking.
She passed in front of the kitchen door and then out of sight again. He only caught a glimpse of her before he was on his feet, moving toward her.
She looked up from where she stood at the counter, pounding a fist into a ball of dough. "What—?"
He strode toward her. She turned to him, and he slipped his arm around her waist. His other hand cupped her jaw, the tips of his fingers just brushing the smoothness of the hair behind her ear.
He should have waited, should have given her some chance to acquiesce.
It was too late now.
He lowered his head and took her mouth the way he'd been dreaming of for days.
She tasted faintly of honey and something tart.
He drew back a millimeter, remembering too late that he didn't want to frighten her. His nose brushed her cheek, and her breath was a tiny catch against his lips.
He couldn't help himself.
He kissed her again.
She rested her hands at his waist.
He tensed. If she pushed him away, he'd back off immediately.
But her fingers curled into his T-shirt.
He let his hand slide into the fall of hair behind her head.
He nipped her upper lip, and when she opened to him, he plundered her mouth, tasting her sweetness, the very essence of Molly.
She moved closer, or maybe he did, and he wrapped her even tighter in his arms.
He couldn't get her close enough.
And it sure seemed like she felt the same, because one of her hands snaked behind his lower back, her fingers pressing into his muscles as she clutched him close.
She hummed into his mouth, tilting her head to give him deeper access.
He took it greedily, feasting on her.
She was... everything.
He was falling in love with her.
The realization was like a physical blow, stealing his breath.
He broke the kiss, reeling, falling.
Her lashes fluttered, and she looked up at him with such adoration and trust that it was a second hit.
"Molly—"
"Don't look so scared," she said softly. She lifted one hand and brushed her thumb across his lips. Just that touch sent electric pulses through him and made him want to pull her close and forget everything else.
A flush climbed in her cheeks, already pink from the passion they'd shared.
And the last thing he wanted her to feel was embarrassed.
"I'm not scared." He was terrified of the emotions rising up in him.
Affection.
Protectiveness.
Love.
Molly watched the walls go up as Cord let her go. He lifted one hand and ran it through his hair, then gripped the back of his neck.
She experienced a visceral memory of his hand
