I was achingly aware of her.
She was flinchingly aware of me.
Our connection had switched from steadfast to fragile.
I wanted to grab and hold her. I needed to talk to her away from prying ears.
We had no time to clear the air and standing at the entrance to a religious service to say goodbye wasn’t the time or place—not because Patricia was the one we ought to be honouring, but because the town insisted on giving us its own welcome.
Person after person smiled and said hello as they trailed into the church.
Exclamations of how big we’d grown, how pretty Della was, how tall I’d become. Along with questions of where we’d been, what we’d been doing, and if we were back for good.
Della’s old teacher hugged her, then looked at me with strange curiosity, acting as if she knew why Della kept flicking me nervous glances.
Other so-called friends narrowed their eyes as if they knew a secret, and some girls from Della’s grade seemed to find answers to their questions in Della’s obvious tension.
I didn’t like any of it.
I didn’t like being noticed, and I didn’t like being judged. And I definitely didn’t like being estranged from Della at the worst possible time when we both needed each other.
Once the larger part of the crowd had entered, I inched closer to her, brushing her hand with mine.
Our skin sparked; the electricity between us crackling.
But she stepped out of my reach as one of Cassie’s friends who’d offered to hop into my bed with no strings attached smiled at me and pressed a fake kiss to my cheek before heading inside.
Out here, away from our old room where so many memories clung to the curtains and the photo that immortalised two children who didn’t know any better no longer condemned, I was clear-headed and disgusted with the way I’d acted.
I needed Della to understand I hadn’t meant to pull away, and things were still exactly the same as before. Not letting me touch her made me almost suicidal with the need to drag her away from nosy townsfolk and demand she talk to me, to accept my apology.
But then the service started, and it no longer felt right to be hurting over a relationship I still had when the relationship I’d shared with Patricia was gone forever.
The Wilsons, Della, and I headed somberly into the church.
Halfway down the aisle, Della tripped on the carpet runner, stumbling in Cassie’s borrowed heels.
I caught her.
The touch was purely instinctual to protect her from falling—cupping her elbow, lashing my arm around her, pulling her close.
I steadied her, fighting the urge to kiss her, all while standing in the aisle surrounded by busybodies.
Had I just revealed I was more than just an overly attentive brother? Would people know we were more?
My worries were answered as knowing eyes brushed over us, making my heart fist and lungs burn.
Of course, people noticed.
We weren’t strangers here.
And our arrival back into their midst wasn’t unseen.
John was right that people wouldn’t understand, and Della was right to keep our relationship hidden.
Giving me a grimace, Della pulled away, and I coughed as if nothing had happened.
More eyes followed us as we continued to the front and the pew reserved for close family. My back prickled as people stared at us. It was nobody’s business, and I wanted to growl for them to stop, but I swallowed my temper, pushed the wariness from my mind, and focused on Patricia.
She deserved to be focused on.
Nothing else.
Sitting down, I kept my hands to myself and didn’t reach for Della’s as we listened to the priest give his spiel then, one by one, the Wilsons got up to speak.
Liam—no longer a silly boy who’d gotten naked with Della under the willow tree—delivered a speech of love and thanks that brought tears to everyone’s eyes. Adam—the oldest son we hadn’t met but was the reason for John’s charity toward us—painted a picture of a mother he adored. Cassie—dressed in black and shaking with sadness—did her best not to cry through her delivery, and John…
The big, gruff farmer who took us in and gave us shelter. The larger than life, generous man who’d become my only father figure, managed two sentences before breaking into a sob.
It fucking hurt to see a grown man who seemed utterly invincible shatter into pieces before the coffin of his dead wife.
I never wanted to live through that torture.
I never wanted to bury Della and live alone, just waiting for the day I could join her.
Tears danced over my own vision, not for Patricia’s loss but for John’s pain at being left behind. I was selfish to be almost grateful that, thanks to the ten-year-age difference between Della and me, I would logically be the one to go first.
I’d spent my entire life protecting Della from sadness and agony, only to admit in this matter, I couldn’t protect her.