I know the answer. It is five letters long, one syllable, and weighs more than anything else on earth.
Guilt.
Finn pulls back his fist, a sheath of rage falling over his features. Molly closes her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Stop.” The one word rings out in the air around us, but where did it come from? Because I am still frozen, my lips sealed tight in shock.
Finn’s gaze latches onto Ian as he walks from behind me to stand at my side. He is tall and lean and muscular. I never get to look at him while his attention is elsewhere, because normally when we are this close, his attention is on me. And when his attention is on me, it’s all I can do not to lose myself in the rolling storms of his gaze. This close, I can see a tiny mole, a beauty mark above his left eye.
“Drop her, Berkshire,” he says, his words laced with grit.
Finn glares at him. “Stay the fuck out of it!”
Ian smiles, and it reminds me of a cat toying with a mouse. He is sure he will be the victor if this comes to blows, but beyond that, there is amusement.
“You don’t do very well with rules, do you?” Ian stalks forward, his arm nearly touching mine, and something crackles in the air between us. “Let go of her. She’s had enough.”
Finn looks like someone has slapped him, his face reddening even more, but he relaxes his grip. Molly falls to the ground, gasping for air, her fingers at her throat.
“You will pay for this, QB,” Finn growls. “I don’t give a shit what Coach says. Next season, that spot is mine.”
Ian laughs, but he doesn’t look amused. “You’re off the team.”
Finn blanches. He looks like he’s going to throw up.
“For her?” He screams, waving wildly at Molly. “Or is it for this whore?”
Finn lunges for me, but Ian stops him with a single hand. “Don’t act broken up, Finn. You haven’t played since the opener. You’re a benchwarmer, and that’s all you’ll ever be. Now, go the fuck away before I make you even uglier than you already are.”
Finn stares at him, fire in his gaze. I hold my breath. I don’t know what I’ll do if it comes to punches, but he steps away, maneuvering around us and leaves, muttering curses under his breath.
I move to go to Molly, but Ian grabs my arm. It’s like when William borrowed the electric collar my grandparents used to train their dog and said, “Wanna play a game?” A jolt races through me as Ian’s steely gaze latches with mine.
He leans in, and I smell the cinnamon of the gum he likes to chew. Most people would prefer mint, but not him. It fits him, spicy and a little out of the ordinary. “You owe me, Stormy.” His gaze drifts to my lips. “I will cash in that favor soon.”
A whirlwind of questions swirls inside my head, but the first one to fall is, “What are you doing here?”
His thumb and forefinger play with my black lock of hair. Every time he twirls it around his index finger, he brushes my throat with his knuckles.
“You know why I’m here,” he says, and with that he turns on his heel and leaves.
My mind reels with questions for which I have no answers.
It takes a moment before I gather my senses and run to Molly.
17
Harlow
My past visits me in my dreams. It’s as if I am there, living it again, though I can’t control my actions and I can’t change a damn thing.
I’m asleep. I know I am, yet I watch it happen as though I am a moviegoer at my own personal theater.
I stare, helpless, as my feet disappear beneath the water, cool relief in the stifling heat of summer. William sits beside me, but he hasn’t taken off his shoes. He wears frayed blue jeans with holes in the knees and a black running shirt he normally reserves for winter with sleeves down to his wrists. He looks like he is in his own personal oven. He must be sweltering.
“You feel okay?” I ask, looking over at him as we sit on the end of the dock. I run my hand over a weathered board between us, my fingers tracing the cracks in the wood, baked silver by the sun.
William smiles at me, and it’s beautiful, all white teeth and bubbly effervescence. He is blonde and blue-eyed, and even has that same black streak of hair above his right temple, just like me. He is tan, born to play the part of a beach bum, but even his tan is fading away, just like the rest of him.
“I’m fine, Har,” he says, but the longer I stare at him, the more cracks I see in the plaster of the mask he wears. My heart aches to believe him—I need to believe him like my lungs need air—but a knocking in my gut refuses to be ignored.
“But,” I begin, searching for a question I don’t know how to ask, “you’re not yourself. You are distant.”
My best friend in the entire universe, my twin brother—forever connected by blood and a bond that began before our birth—looks over at me, his gaze haunted by the shadows that have found a home under his eyes.
“I’ll take you to Doc’s tomorrow night,” he says, promising me a trip to the ice cream parlor we have loved since we were children, where they make milkshakes right in front of you and serve them up in tall glasses with mountains of whip cream and brightly colored silly straws. “Sound good?”
I nod, my lips hinting at a smile.
Something doesn’t feel right though. The knocking in my gut dulls but still continues its steady beat. Darkness lurks beneath the surface of this perfect life.
Just as before, in my dream I ignore it. I want to sit here and let the
