Nathan lifts his bottle for another swallow. “Slumming, Morgan? You can get lost. I don’t need a sitter.”
“Seems like you do.”
A muscle flexes in his jaw and then the bottle comes flying at me; it slams into the wall, spraying me in whiskey and glass shards. “I need Liv. I need not to have killed her. I need a do-over. But I’m not getting any of that, so why don’t you piss off, rich girl?”
Jesus. I’ve never seen Nathan so drunk or mean. If anyone had told me he had this side, I wouldn’t have believed it. I flick the glass off the couch and go find the broom. Silently I clean up the mess, though I’m a little dizzy now. I haven’t eaten much today, just enough that I could take my pain meds without the pills chewing through my stomach lining. He watches me with a brooding stare, and then he’s gone before I realize it.
Once I’ve scrubbed up the streaks on the walls and put the broken glass in the bin, I find Nathan sprawled on the back steps, leaning against the porch post. The sun’s just starting to set, layering the sky in gold and amber with threads of pink. It won’t be full dark for hours yet, as fall hasn’t curtailed the sunshine yet. The air is muggy and still, and I have no idea what to say.
“You still here?” he mumbles.
“Clay asked me to take care of you.”
“And you’re so obedient, huh, Morgan? But you’ve never killed someone you love.”
It feels like my heart is bleeding. If I ever wondered exactly how Nathan felt, here’s the answer. Impulsively I touch the back of his hand.
“Stop. Liv wouldn’t blame you.”
It’s true, I don’t. The truck driver was lost, it was a dark country road, and I didn’t have my seat belt on. None of that is Nathan’s fault.
His fingers curl around mine with desperate need, and his eyes are like a green fire, ablaze in the scruffy pallor of his haunted face. “You shouldn’t be so nice to me right now. It’s not your style, and I’m … not safe to be around.”
The Nathan I know is gentle, considerate, and thoughtful. “What’re you talking about? You wouldn’t—”
“I want other people to hurt,” he cuts in. “I might feel better if I can make someone else bleed. Do you understand?”
“Not really.”
In a sudden move, he yanks on our joined hands and I tumble against him. He smells like he’s been drinking since he got home from school. Nathan grabs my shoulders as if he expects me to fight. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s what he’s looking for; if I shove him back, then he becomes the villain, and he can keep beating himself up, adding to his list of imaginary crimes.
So instead I put my arms around him and give him the hug he refused earlier at school.
At first he goes rigid, his eyes narrowing. Then a shaky breath trickles out of him and he drops his head onto my shoulder, tucking his face against my neck. I imagine how Clay would feel if he walked in on this, but I can’t stand seeing Nathan in pain. Gently I rub his back in slow circles. This much could be explained away, right?
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “You’re not alone.”
I can feel him relaxing against me, and it’s heady, knowing I can affect him this way, even though he thinks I’m Morgan. But I have months of learning how to touch him behind me. As my mind skips through those lovely memories, my hands skim up his back. I work his shoulders like I used to after swim practice. He leans into me, recognizing the pressure on some level. Taking his response as an invitation, I rub the base of his skull. Nathan tips his head back like a cat; he always loved this.
“Don’t stop.” That husky tone is unmistakable.
And I don’t know how I feel about that. Because these are Morgan’s hands, and he’s drunk, hurting. What I’m doing is probably wrong, definitely confusing.
“Better?” If I talk, it’s not as intimate. I’m comforting him, that’s all.
In answer he kisses me. It’s not gentle, either; this is openmouthed and hungry. His tongue tangles with mine, and I stop thinking. This reminds me of all the nights we spent, inching closer to sex. He pulls me onto his lap and I’m straddling him. We kiss until I can’t breathe; he’s moaning into my mouth. I nibble and tug on his lower lip. I don’t consider that’s my thing, something I used to do when I really wanted to drive him crazy.
“Liv,” he groans.
And it’s so right … but also completely wrong. Sick to my stomach, I shove him back. His face a study in shock and horror, Nathan falls off the porch. Shaking, I run back into the house to the sound of him throwing up. I’m in the bathroom, quietly banging my head on the wall, when Clay comes home. I can hear him talking to his brother while he puts away the groceries. Shame wraps me up to the point that I don’t know how I can face the two of them.
I did not mean for that to happen. I didn’t.
By the time I come out, Clay has coffee made and noodles boiling in a pot. Nathan’s sprawled in a kitchen chair, eyes shadowed, but the look he gives me is pure poison. God, he hates me now, and I don’t blame him. I mean, Nathan was never Morgan’s biggest fan; in private he always talked about how spoiled she was. He must be wondering if he’s gone nuts.
“You all right?” Clay asks.
Tell him, Nathan dares silently. Make me the bad guy.
But I can’t be the girl who comes between brothers, and I kissed him back. So I say nothing and let it become a secret between Nathan and me. That can’t happen again. At least not until I find a way to fix things. Each day that hope seems fainter. Logic asserts that there’s just no way to come back as Liv, no matter how much people are hurting. No matter how much I want my old life back.
The brothers eat a silent meal of buttered pasta and mushrooms. It smells delicious, actually, and as Liv, I’d totally sprinkle some Parmesan cheese on and dig in. But Morgan can’t have gluten, and I’m pretty sure it’s not by choice. So I sip my water and wait for Clay to finish.
“Your girl took good care of me,” Nathan says.
Clay’s head comes up; he looks wary. “Yeah?”
“Definitely. Even after I chucked my bottle at her head.”
I relax a little. That’s not what I expected him to say, and Nathan knows it. His green eyes are equal measures mischievous and mean. Clay flattens a hand on the table as if he’s restraining himself.
“I catch you drinking again, I’m reporting you.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll shape up, sir.”
“I’m not kidding. You’re better than this, and I’m not letting you screw your future.”
“Over one dead girlfriend?” Nathan shoves away from the table and stalks into the bedroom they share.
For a long moment Clay stares at his plate. “Times like this, I wish my dad was here.”
“I’m sorry.” It’s pitiful, not nearly enough.
“He misses our mom more than he lets on.”
Huh? The way he’s talking, this shouldn’t be news to Morgan. But Nathan seldom mentions his mother, except in vague terms of contempt and in jokes about writing a “how not to raise children” manual. I know she isn’t around a lot but that’s all.
“Have you heard from her?” I ask.
Clay shakes his head. “Complete radio silence. It’ll be two years in October.”
That means … holy shit. Does that mean their mom’s taken off for good? Why didn’t Nathan tell me? I assumed, along with everyone else, that she was out drinking and/or shacking up, but that she came back periodically. Clay quit school early in his junior year, and now, now I think I know the real reason why.
I have to reevaluate everything about him.
“I probably never said so, but I admire you for stepping up like you did.”
He lifts one shoulder, getting up to clear the table. “Someone had to, and Nathan’s way more likely to make something of himself.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” I’m surprised to find I mean it.
Clay’s smile is blinding.