“I think she wants her brother back.”
I straighten from the wall and walk over to join him at the counter so I can talk softer in case she wakes up and hears.
“Seems like she’s missed you,” I say in a low tone, looking at him intently. “She seems hurt that you let it go this long and haven’t been really responsive when she reached out before.”
“I just didn’t know where she stood,” Rhyson says. “Battle lines were drawn, and I thought she took my parents’ side. To survive, I had to distance myself from everything associated with them.”
Rhyson looks haunted for a moment, like he’s seen a ghost. I know the ghost is actually himself when he first left home, addicted to prescription drugs and barely able to function.
“Maybe you should just tell her that,” I say. “Maybe that’s the quickest way to a fresh start.”
“Maybe.” Rhyson rolls his shoulders and sighs. “So, what’s she look like?”
Beautiful.
“Um . . . good.” I say instead, clearing my throat and dropping my eyes to study the swirling pattern in the countertop. “She looks good.”
It’s so quiet that I finally look up to find Rhyson staring a burning hole through my forehead. We know each other too well.
“She’s my sister, Marlon.” A warning lights his eyes. “Don’t mess with her. None of that chocolate charm shit you put on these other unsuspecting girls.”
“I wouldn’t.” I steel my voice against the doubt I have even in myself. I should be able to leave Bristol alone, but after today, I’m not sure that I will. But I’m not admitting that to my best friend until I absolutely have to.
“Not that I have to worry about you since you’re”—he throws up air quotes—“’taken’. Aren’t you and Tessa still a thing?”
I just shrug, too tired to discuss the complication of disentangling myself from Tessa.
“Not for much longer,” I settle for saying and leave it at that.
When we go back into the living room, she’s in the same spot as when I left her. She’s pulled her knees under her and tucked her hands under the cheek laid against the couch. I draped a blanket over her, but it’s slipped some, leaving visible her face, the slim shoulders in her tank top, all the dark and burnished hair falling down her back, tendrils clinging to her neck.
Rhyson gapes like he’s never seen her before. If that picture was anything to go by, I guess she’s changed a lot in five years. He approaches her with slow steps and then squats down by the couch. He stretches his hand toward her hair but then hesitates, dropping it back down to his side. A muscle knots at his jawline, and his lips clamp tight. He blinks rapidly and swallows whatever emotions he doesn’t want her to see when she wakes up.
“Bristol,” he says softly, shaking her shoulder. “Wake up.”
Her eyes open slowly, lashes fluttering over her cheeks for a few seconds. She turns her head to see who woke her, and she doesn’t have the time Rhyson had to prepare. Emotion soaks her eyes, and a wide smile comes to life on her lips.
“Rhyson,” she whispers, none of the irritation and hurt I’ve seen her fight all day evident. “You’re here.”
“Yeah, I’m here.” I wonder if she notices how his laugh catches a little in his throat. “You’re here, too.”
The seconds stretch into a minute as they stare at each other, taking in the face so like their own, but so completely different.
“You look . . .” Rhyson tilts his head, studying his sister with sober eyes. “You’re beautiful, Bris.”
Tears flood her eyes, one sneaking over her cheek. She swipes it away quickly.
“Stop.” She smiles self-consciously. “I look the same.”
Rhyson shakes his head, brushing her tousled hair back with one hand.
“My little sister grew up.”
“Little sister?” She quirks one dark brow, some of the spark I saw today returning to her eyes. “We’re twins, doofus.”
“I was born first,” he counters, his crooked smile telling me he’s enjoying this.
“And that one minute more in the world gives you so much of an edge?” She fires back.
“Whether you want to admit it or not, you’re my little sister.” The look he gives her already apologizes before his words do. “I’m sorry we missed the last five years.”
“Me, too,” she says, the smile dying from her eyes.
“And for missing today. I wish I could say tomorrow would be much different. I have to be in the studio a lot, but you can come with me.”
“Okay. That sounds fun.” She stretches, yawns, and tosses the blanket off, standing to her feet. “We can talk about it in the morning. I’m off to bed.”
“Me, too.” Rhyson stands, talking through a yawn. “Marlon, it’s so late, you should just crash here tonight.”
Bristol’s eyes shift over his shoulder, widening like she just realized that I was still here. She offers me a smile more reserved than the ones we exchanged while we talked all night. When we made each other laugh.
“Thanks again, Grip, for keeping me company today.”
“No problem.” I take the spot and the blanket on the couch she just vacated, not looking up to meet her eyes. “Any time.”
I feel her eyes on me. After all we discussed today, all we shared, my tone probably seems impersonal. She may not know it now, but she’ll realize soon, that’s for her own good. She’s something rare—smart, classy, gorgeous, funny, opinionated, and under it all, where she tries to hide it, kind. And burrowed beneath all of that, vulnerable. She isn’t the kind of girl you mess over.
I repeat that warning to myself for the next hour as I stare into the darkness of Grady’s living room. No, she isn’t the kind of girl you mess over. A guy needs to be very sure he wants her, and just her, before he makes a move.
Yeah. A guy would have to be very sure.
Bristol
“HMMMMM.”
I moan as soon as the warm bite of syrup-soaked waffle hits my tongue. “Don’t tell me you’re a short-order cook, too, when you’re not deejaying or sweeping floors or writing songs.”
Grip laughs, not looking up from the waffle maker on the kitchen counter. Powder sprinkles his face, right above the corner of his mouth, sugary white against the caramel of his skin. I want to lick it away. That realization has me choking on my waffle.
“You okay?” Rhyson pounds my back like I’m a little girl.
“Yeah.” Eyes still watering, I sip my orange juice. “Just went down the wrong way.”
Grip brings another stack of waffles to the table.
“Send these down the right way,” he says.
Our eyes catch and hold across the table. Sunlight floods Grady’s well-appointed kitchen, and you’d never know Grip slept on the couch and hasn’t showered. Damn, the man looks good in this light. He’d probably look good in no light. A thin layer of stubble coats his chiseled jaw, and I wouldn’t mind rubbing up against it, feeling the scrape as he leaves a mark on me.
My vagina needs a serious pep talk.
“So what’s the plan for today?” Grip slices into his stack of waffles.
“Well, I’m in the studio pretty much all day again.” He glances at me while he chews. “Sorry about that. It’s bad timing but unavoidable.”
“It’s fine.” I pause with my orange juice halfway to my mouth. “You did say I could tag along, right?”
“Won’t you be bored?” Rhyson spears a waffle square. “I mean, if you want to come, you can.”
“And the alternative would be . . . what?” I ask. “Sitting here in Grady’s empty house all day?”
I could make the uncomfortable expression on his face go away, but I won’t. I want him to feel the discomfort. I’m spending my spring freaking break here so we can reconnect, and that’s what I want us to do.
“You have to be in the studio tonight?” Grip asks.
“Yeah. The singer’s coming in to lay some new vocals.” Rhyson scowls. “I hope we can knock everything out tonight. Maybe go to Santa Monica Pier tomorrow. But there may be another short session or two.”