Suddenly, an enraged shout goes up, and people go crashing into tables around us. Colt releases me the same moment someone grabs me from behind, dragging me off Preston. King smashes a fist into Preston’s face, and he crashes to the floor beside his chair. Duke tackles Colt, and Baron’s arms wrap around me, holding me hard against his chest.
“These cunts are going to pay,” he says, his voice flat and harsh in my ear. “No one fucks with our sister.”
I press my face into his shirt, trying to blink the milk and mascara from my eyes. Is this why Devlin wanted makeup on me? To humiliate me further in front of the whole school?
Suddenly Preston shoots out from under my brothers, his face purple with rage, his arm clutched to his middle. “You broke my fucking arm,” he screams, his eyes blind with rage. I cower back against Baron, and every single other person in the audience shrinks back from the insanity written in his eyes, across his face, in his voice and every ragged breath he draws through the pain.
King’s on his feet in seconds, his fists up, ready to take another swing. He’s the only person in the room who looks unaffected by Preston’s raw pain. King speaks, his words like a decree in the silence around us. “You touch my sister again, it’ll be your neck.”
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Preston growls, his breathing labored as he holds his right arm in his left. But for once, his words don’t carry the weight of royalty. His threat sounds empty, weak next to King’s. Because at last, we’ve won a battle. At last, we’ve broken a Darling.
seventeen
Crystal
I miss home, my old home. I miss the numb pain of guilt. I miss thinking that my words, my lack of actions, made a girl hate her life so bad she wanted to throw it away. I miss being the disgraced queen, the girl who sat in bed and ate ice cream and shopped like the pathetic human she was. I’d give anything to be in her place again. That life seems like a fairytale now. And I’m too old to believe in fairytales.
I can’t sleep. I lie in bed staring at the darkness, a darkness deeper and thicker than anything Manhattan had to offer. A darkness so thick it threatens to drown me, to swallow me like it swallowed my brother, leaving nothing but the shape of me sinking into my mattress.
I throw off my blankets and sit up, breathing hard. Where is my twin? Shouldn’t I be able to tell, to feel him through some psychic twin bond? I press my fists to my eyes and try to think. Preston claims to know what every student at Willow Heights drives, but he described the truck that took Royal as “a shitty pickup.” Not a model or even a make. And what was he doing on Devlin’s porch, just hanging out alone, when this truck supposedly came? Would a guy like that really walk away from a fight just because he wants to get back on the team?
One flash of Preston’s glassy, insane eyes in my memory answers that question. Football might be the only thing on earth he cares about as much as his family. And now he might never play again. I shouldn’t be shocked. This moved beyond pranks and games the moment my brothers totaled Devlin’s Bel Air.
Oh god. My heart clenches like a shock. If they have Royal somewhere… Oh my god. What will Preston do to my brother to punish him for what King did to him?
The thought sends me spiraling, and I race to the bathroom and get sick. I sink down against the wall, shaking so hard I can’t stand. I know I’m not pregnant because I started my period last night, and I’d had the signs it was coming for a few days. But amid my blur of anxiety, I close my eyes and make a bargain with god. I’d rather get pregnant by a Darling than lose Royal. If he’s somehow still alive, I’ll be so careful from now on. And if I’m not careful, I’ll pay for it. I won’t even pray for mercy. If somehow he’s still alive…
I rest my head back against the wall, only to hear the sound of girlish giggling in the room next to mine. Ew. When we got home from school today, my three uncles had arrived to help with the search, along with all the male cousins in the family, but none of them brought women. Sick as it is, I know my parents’ sex noises, and those aren’t them. If there’s one thing worse than listening to my parents go at it, it’s listening to my grandparents.
I drag myself up from the floor and slide back into bed. But there’s no rest for the wicked.
Outside, I hear the familiar smack of Devlin’s football. I sigh and pull the pillow over my head, but I can still hear it. It goes on and on, that sound that won’t let me sleep, that reminds me he’s out there again, that he’s on the team again. He’s on the team because my brother is gone.
I flop onto my back, too frustrated to sleep. Too pissed at him for acting like everything is fine right now. Too irritated by the incessant reminder that he’s right fucking there, just across the lawn. Too mad to admit the truth of what he said today, that Daddy must have told the cops Royal had run away or the FBI would be involved. Too scared to think about what’s keeping me awake, about what Royal is going through if he’s alive. I won’t think about the alternative.
Four days have passed.
At last, I can’t take it any longer. I throw off the blankets and climb out of bed, pull on a pair of yoga pants and a hoodie, grab a pair of Uggs, and climb out my window. I tiptoe along the balcony, my heart thudding in my ears, past Duke’s room. When I reach King’s window, I see a soft glow behind his curtains.
Fuck.
He’s awake in there. I wonder what he’s doing in there, what penance he believes he owes. I know my brother. I may be Royal’s twin, but King is our protector. Yes, I ache for Royal, the boy who grounds me and calms me, the boy whose silent looks understand my soul. But King… King blames himself. And that’s so much worse. King hates himself for not being there, for getting suspended, for letting me go to Homecoming with Colt. He blames himself for me sleeping with Devlin, for the shit I’m going through at school, for Royal disappearing.
He blames himself, even though he isn’t to blame for any of it, and that makes pain bloom deep inside my chest, an ache for him that hurts every bit as much as the ache of my own heart missing Royal. My soul hurts for my oldest brother, for the way he’s changing. For the hardness in his eyes now, for his ability to break Preston’s arm without remorse. King will fight to protect any one of us, but he’s not violent by nature. This place is changing all of us.
That thought turns my irritation and frustration into anger, and I hurry past King’s windows, tiptoe down the stairs, and pause. I slide my feet into my boots and start across the lawn. Dew splatters the toes of my boots, and when I look back, I’ve left a trail that’s plain to see for anyone who might look out a window of our house.
Good.
If I disappear, they’ll know who’s to blame.
As I step past the row of lilac bushes, I realize I’ve never set foot on the Darling’s property before. Not intentionally. I pause in the shadow of one of the huge bushes. Across an expanse of damp lawn, Devlin’s masculine figure is illuminated by a single light bulb hanging from a big shade tree. He’s wearing a white undershirt and a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips. As he rears back to throw the football, the light glimmers against the outlines of his body, illuminating the muscles in his inked arms, his shoulders, his butt. I have to swallow against the pulse that flutters in my throat. Why does he have to look so fucking good?
I shake my head and start across the lawn. It doesn’t matter what he looks like, if the silhouette he cuts against the night makes my chest ache, if the arch of his back and the V below his hips makes heat pulse somewhere lower than my throat.
He releases the football, and it sails through the air in a long arc, at last finding its target. It drops through a tire hanging from a sprawling oak tree, hitting the trunk with a familiarthwack.
Devlin jogs up to retrieve the ball, which has rolled a few feet back toward him. I swallow hard as I look at his setup. It’s so plain, so unpretentious, even a little redneck. I’m sure he could afford something fancy, something to spit the ball out at him like batting cages do a baseball. He could afford a target that’s not an old tire swing. Something about the simple swing, the light bulb hung in the tree above it, brings a sad smile to my face.