“Fine.”
He jumped down, and I fed him, then returned to the living room, where I flopped down on the couch and reached for the remote.
Instead, my fingers found the picture frame. Since I had nothing better to do, I picked it up and studied it. My parents had been happy. They’d built a life for me and Nash. A good one.
Until it had all crumbled because the foundation was unstable.
I ran a finger over my mom’s smiling face in the photo and wondered for just a moment what she’d think of Naomi and Waylay.
What she’d think of me.
After a long pull from the bottle, I shifted my attention to my father’s face. He wasn’t looking at the camera, at whoever had taken the picture. His attention was on my mom. She’d been the light and the glue. Everything that had made our family strong and happy. And when she’d gone, we’d collapsed in on ourselves.
I put the photo down, angling it away so I wouldn’t have to look into the past anymore.
The past and the future were two places I had no business being. The only thing that mattered was right now. And right now…well, I still felt like shit.
Ready to numb out for a night, I reached for the remote again when a loud knock sent Waylon galloping to the front door, ears flapping.
I followed at a more dignified pace.
Crisp, September evening air wafted in when I opened the door.
Nash stood on the doorstep, jaw clenched, hands fisted at his side.
“You’re lucky I gotta do this right-handed.”
“Do wha—”
I didn’t get a chance to finish the question before my brother’s fist connected with my face. Like any good sucker punch, it rang my bell and knocked me back a full step.
“Ow! Fuck! What the hell, Nash?”
He pushed past me and stomped inside. “What did I tell you?” he snarled over his shoulder. He opened my fridge and helped himself to a beer.
“Jesus. Tell me about what?” I asked, working my jaw back and forth.
“Naomi,” Lucian said.
“Christ, Lucy. Where did you come from?”
“I drove.” He clapped me on the shoulder and followed Nash into the kitchen. “Feel better?” he asked my brother.
Nash handed him a beer and shrugged. “Not really. He’s got a hard face to go with that thick head.”
“What are you two assholes doing here?” I demanded, swiping Lucian’s beer and holding it to my jaw.
Nash handed him a fresh one.
“Naomi, of course,” Lucian said, accepting the beer and squatting down to pet Waylon.
“For fuck’s sake. That shit is none of your business.”
“Maybe not. But you are,” Lucian said.
“I told you not to fuck it up,” Nash said.
“This is bullshit. You can’t just come into my house, punch me in the face, play with my dog, and drink my beer.”