“I’m worried about him,” I admit.

“Honestly, me too. I’ve messaged him a bunch of times since the accident, but he hasn’t had much to say other than the painkillers they’ve been giving him kick some serious ass. Last week he asked if I had his journal from high school, though, which was weird.”

“I didn’t even know he had a journal.”

“Me either. He doesn’t seem like the type to put his feelings on a page. I chalked it up to the painkillers and left it at that.” Aaron gives me a small smile.

“Maybe that’s all it was, some kind of dream thing?” But I’m not sure I buy that. Billy has always been different, but this is more than that. I don’t know how to broach this with my dad without him going on the defensive, but I don’t feel like I can ignore it anymore.

As a teenager I used to get so annoyed that we always had to be home to have dinner as a family. It didn’t matter if I was halfway across town with my friends, usually Tawny and Allie, sometimes Tucker—I’d jump on my bike and pedal my butt home. Sometimes the ride would be fast and reckless as I cut through the paths in the forest because I didn’t want to be late and end up on dishwashing duty. But lately I find myself looking forward to family dinners, even with Billy’s unpredictable moods.

“Where’s Billy?” I ask as I set knives and forks on top of the napkins. That’s one thing my mom always had: pretty napkins. Most of the time they were one season out of date because she always bought them on sale, so in the winter we’d have fall and Thanksgiving themes, and by spring it was snowmen and holly. Currently the napkins we’re using have an Easter theme.

“Still in his room, I think. I knocked on his door a few minutes ago. When you’re done setting the table, could you knock again, please?” She tastes the potato salad, her expression contemplative, before she turns back to the fridge, grabs a jar of pickles, and pours in extra dill juice for flavor.

“Sure thing.” Once the salt and pepper are on the table, I head down the hall to Billy’s room and knock, calling out, “Dinner’s ready.”

I listen for the sound of the bed creaking, or the computer chair rolling across the floor, but all I’m met with is silence. I knock again. “Hey, Billy, you in there?”

When I don’t get an answer, I open the door, thinking maybe he’s wearing headphones. But he’s not. He’s fast asleep, drooling on his pillow. His bedroom smells like stale farts and beer. A stack of empty bowls sits on his nightstand, and empty beer cans peek out from under his bed.

I cross the room, stepping on a discarded chip bag, which crinkles loudly, and poke him in the shoulder. When that doesn’t rouse him, I give him a solid shake. He groans and flings his arm out. I’m agile enough to get out of the way before he can accidentally smack me. But he hits the can sitting on his nightstand and it tips over, brown liquid splattering the tabletop, his pillow, and the side of his face before I can right it.

“What the hell?” He scrubs a hand down his face and blinks a few times.

“It’s dinnertime. I knocked a bunch of times and so did Mom, but you didn’t answer. Have you been up at all today?”

“I couldn’t sleep last night.” He throws off his covers and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He’s shirtless, exposing his torso. Billy has always been lean, wiry even, but he’s exceptionally thin right now. So much so that his collarbones are sharp points, poking at his skin, and I can practically count his ribs. “Can you pass me that shirt?” He motions to the one hanging over the back of his computer chair.

I toss it to him, and he gives it a cursory sniff before he pulls it over his head. “I can help you clean up in here after dinner.” I open the window to let in some fresh air.

“Don’t do that!” he snaps.

“It smells like a frat house. You need some fresh air, and probably a little sunshine, unless you’re trying out the whole vampire vibe.”

His eyes flare and he looks around the room, as if he expects one to appear. “That window needs to stay locked, otherwise people can get in.”

I can’t tell if he’s still half-asleep or if he’s making a joke.

“Based on the smell in here, I’m confident you’re not going to have any unwanted or wanted midnight visitors.” I pick up the stack of dishes and the mostly empty pop can, give the nightstand a quick wipe with a few tissues to soak up most of the mess, and follow him back to the kitchen. The charred crutch has been replaced, but the new one is old and looks like it needs to be adjusted. I’d ask where he got it from, but I worry that in his current mood, all it will do is start a fight.

Billy pushes his food around his plate while Dad talks about the Bowman garage and pool house and all the amazing things that will be coming out of their place that he thinks we can probably make use of. All Billy does is grunt occasionally, and he leaves his plate half-full, says no thanks to dessert, and locks himself back in his room once dinner is over. So much for me helping him tidy his mess. I’d been hoping for an opportunity to snoop, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to be all that easy. Not when the only time he surfaces these days is for meals and trips to the bathroom.

CHAPTER 19

SIBLING RIVALRY

Van

My phone buzzes from the nightstand. I don’t want to answer the call, seeing as Dillion is tucked into my side. She passed out right after the orgasms. We did expend a hell of a lot of energy, and she’s been working long hours, so I get it, but sometimes she gets chatty after sex, and I learn new things about her, like her favorite food is popcorn and she has every single seasoning flavor under the sun, but the maple bacon is the one she can’t get enough of.

Or she’ll tell me stories about growing up in Pearl Lake and how the high school is an hour-long bus ride away, and in the winter they stayed home almost once a week because of all the snow. They would spend those days tobogganing. I wonder if I’ll still be around by the time winter hits, or if I’ll have found a new job in Chicago. The idea of not being here, with Dillion, hits me for the first time. I can’t say I like it much.

I pick the phone up with the intention of sending the call to voice mail, since it’s already after ten, but it’s Frankie, so I hit the green button and bring the phone to my ear, answering with, “Hold on a sec.”

I throw off the covers and grab my boxers from the floor, pulling them up my legs as I make my way across the room. I close the bedroom door behind me and pad quietly down the hall to the living room.

“Hey, you there?” I ask, my voice still low and hoarse.

“Yeah, man, why are you whispering?”

I clear my throat. “I’m not.”

“Did I wake you up?” Frankie sounds surprised, which would make sense. When I lived in the city, I was never in bed before midnight. And even that was on the early side for me.

“Not really. Anyway, what’s up? Chip break it off with Monica?”

“We should be so lucky. Although I will say, she’s been around a lot less. He wasn’t impressed with her behavior when we came to visit you. Girl is more high maintenance than a Kardashian.” It’s good to hear Frankie take my side on this, and by association Dillion’s, even if he doesn’t actually know her.