Page 96 of On the Line

“Do you?” I press, “They’ll most likely try you as an adult, do you realize that?—this is bad, this is so fucking bad,” I repeat the few last words more to myself as the light turns green.

I should have tried harder to protect him. I should havefuckingtried harder.

“I fucked up.”

I turn on Blume Boulevard, leading into our neighborhood.

“You fucked up?” I repeat, laughing dryly. “This isn’t just a slap on the wrist, Hux. This isreal fucking life. I don’t think you understand the severity of what you just fucking did.”

Huxley slams his fist into the dash. “I do, okay?” he says, his voice cracking. “I do.”

There’s something in the tone of his voice that gives me pause.

Still not home, I park by the curb anyway, needing to invest my full attention to finish this conversation. I turn around in my seat to face him, my left arm leaning against the wheel.

Huxley is still staring straight ahead, his chest heaving, jaw clenched.

“Hux …” I coax, a lot more gentle now. “Look at me, man.”

It takes me saying it a second time for him to finally do what I say. And when he does, the effect is the same as a knife slowly gutting me from the inside.

There’s a crack in his hard exterior, and behind it is just a scared child.

He may look like an adult, but deep down he’s still my teenage brother.

His eyes are large, full of repressed, watery emotions. His bottom lip trembles but he presses them together to make it stop. “I don’t want to end up like Mom.”

He says it so quietly that I almost miss it.

The crushing guilt returns, along with some of the most excruciating pain I’ve yet to ever experience.

How did I let this happen?

I pull him into me, circling my arms around his shoulders.

He doesn’t resist. Doesn’t even fight it.

His head falls into the crook of my shoulder as he chokes on a sob and I don’t know if I’m going to survive seeing my brother like this.

“It’s okay.” I pat his hair as if he was Charlie, desperate to soothe him. Desperate to have him understand that I’ll always be there for him. “We’ll figure it out together. It’s going to be okay. We’ll be okay.”

I don’t even know if my words hold any truth, but they’re the only thing keeping me together right now. I repeat them over and over like a prayer into Huxley’s hair, wishing I knew what his future holds.

38

JAMES

Istop in front of a window, a block away from Mignon, to reapply my nude lipstick and fuss over my hair. This place is a high-end restaurant that I can no longer afford—but my mother certainly can. Dodging her calls for over a month clearly hasn’t removed the effect she has on me. The need to look perfect for her is pathological.

I hate it, but I can’t stop myself from doing it.

For the occasion, I wore my black Saint Laurent cocktail dress that I haven’t had the heart to sell yet. I hope my mother won’t mention howdeclasséit is to still be wearing last season’s fashion, not to mention how I paired it with the pumps I bought on sale last week.

Dropping my lipstick in the baguette bag I borrowed from Michelle, I check my phone.

No text.

Even if I pretend not to care, disappointment swoops heavily in the pit of my stomach. Ozzy and I have barely talked since he left my place on Sunday. I’ve been busy enough with my first week of school that I’ve pushed thelack of communication to the side. But it’s now Saturday, and he’s only called me twice since, sounding distracted both times.

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