Page 30 of Last Boy

And then there’s the worst part: I have to tell Jake—my sweet, sensitive brother—that his only brother is gone. Because if I don’t, who else will?

I decide I’ll tell the news to him in the morning after I’ve processed it and figured out my emotions.

And as much as I hate to, I need to call the prison so that someone can tell Ron too. He’s the last person I’m worried about knowing, but Van never gave up on him for whatever reason. In fact, they had weekly phone calls.

Probably to talk about the family drug business. Yes, very important matters.

I stand under the shower for God knows how long. I never thought I’d be here, in Walker’s shower, with a pile of his clothes on the bathroom counter for me to sleep in. Yet here I am.

Other than Jake, Walker is the only other familiar person I have.

Which sucks.

Squeezing the excess water out of my hair, I turn the water off and step out. Drying myself off, I comb my hair out the best I can with my fingers and pull on his Wolves sweatpants and T-shirt.

I swipe a circle in the mirror, wiping the fog away with my hand, and look at myself. My eyes are swollen and red, and my cheeks are blotchy. I look as bad as I feel. But I have a feeling I need to get used to it because I’ll probably feel this way for a while.

Crying for the first time in years really took its toll on me. I’m ready to go back to not feeling. Or trying to pretend like I don’t.

My hand grabs the doorknob and twists it open. If I were in my right mind, I’d probably be anxious right now, walking into a room with one bed and Walker James, likely shirtless. But right now, everything is numb. And the last thing I feel is nervous.

There he sits, on the edge of the bed. His shirt is very much on with a pair of basketball shorts. Even in such a dark time, my heart skips a beat as I take him in. He’s that guy who, when he walks past you, you do a double take.

When he sees me coming out of the bathroom, he stands. “You can say no, but I’d really like to sleep in here. With you.” He takes a few steps toward me. “But if you aren’t comfortable with that, I can sleep on the couch in the living room.”

His living room is tiny. Though the dorms for the hockey and football players are still a heck of a lot bigger than average dorms. But I saw the couch. I’m not sure he’d even fit, fully stretched out.

I shouldn’t care. But for some reason, I do.

Or maybe it’s just because I want him next to me, just like when we were kids.

“It’s fine.” I walk past him, sitting on the opposite side I saw him on.

I don’t know when it happens—I couldn’t say the exact second—but suddenly, the air between us is thick. And when his eyes find mine, I suck in a shaky breath, even knowing that it’s an inappropriate time to be looking at him the way that I am.

He runs his hand down the back of his neck uneasily. “Do you, uh…need anything from me tonight? Some water? Or a sweatshirt to sleep in?”

Swallowing thickly, I give him a small shake of my head and look down. “No, I don’t need water. Or a sweatshirt.” Raising my eyes to his again, I bite my bottom lip anxiously. “I need something else. Something…to numb the pain.”

He looks uneasy. “What’s that?” he rasps.

“You,” I whisper, more tears flowing down my cheeks. “Please, Walker. Make it stop hurting.”

Slowly, he walks toward me. Each step, it’s almost like he knows he shouldn’t be taking it. And when he reaches me, he crouches down to my level. “Poppy, I’d give you anything in the world. All you have to do is ask.” He stops, looking down and sighing before his eyes reach mine again. “But I want you to be sure. I didn’t bring you here tonight for anything other than to just be here for you.” This time, a tear falls from his eye, going down his cheek. “The way I should have been all along.”

Reaching for the hem of his shirt that I’m wearing, I pull it from my body and toss it on the bed next to me. He drags in a shaky breath before closing his eyes.

“Poppy…what are you—”

“Open your eyes, Walker,” my voice croaks, my throat raw from crying. And screaming. “Please. Look at me.”

Gradually, his eyes flutter open, but he stares at my face, not so much as looking down at my chest.

“Am I that awful to look at?” I whimper. “Am I so skinny that it repulses you?”

His hand cups my cheek. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my entire life,” he whispers. “But right now, you’re hurting.”

Now, I lean forward, and without permission, I pull his shirt over his head. And when he stands in front of me, I press my palm to his abdomen.

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