Page 54 of Never Say Yes To Your Brother's Best Friend

“If you have to, no one will mind. But I promise it’s not necessary. My parents aren’t going to—”

Just then, the front door opens, and Aspen’s mom and dad hurtle out. Her dad, as I suspected, has the same sandy hair. Same as Jace’s hair too. Her mom, on the other hand, is a strawberry blonde. And both their hair is shot through with more than a small amount of grey. Her dad is tall and athletically built like Jace, while her mom is on the smaller side. Shorter and more petite.

They rush at their daughter, but they stop themselves from being too rough and frantic. If I had lost a son and a stepson already, and this was my one remaining child, I’d be frantic too. Then I’d reach for the knife set and my torture implements. A rake or a pitchfork would be nice. I’d make it uncomfortable, throwing it back in historically awful ways.

Aspen’s mom caresses her hair while her dad sets a hand on her shoulder.

“Honey,” he says, his eyes misting over. “We’re so glad you’re home.”

Her mom can’t blink back her tears as she hugs Aspen hard. Aspen leans into it, not stiff in the least. “It’s okay, Mom. I’m back, and I’m fine. I also brought Rick with me.” She pats her mom’s back.

Her dad’s eyes track to mine, and I expect to find murderous fire in them. I expect him to be contemplating a garage full of tools and which one he’d like to use on me first. Grinder, skill saw, drill and bits, hammer, chainsaw, bolt cutters…

But his eyes are warm as he holds out a hand to me. “Patrick, it’s good to meet you.”

I’m sure it could be better. I’m sure he’s wired up some kind of taser to the inside of his hand, and somehow, it will only get me and not him. Maybe there’s a tripwire setup. If I take a step forward to shake that hand, I’ll be obliterated by a low-hung flying axe.

Regardless, I shake his hand anyway. It’s the right thing to do.

No tasers. No axes. No flaming arrows or hidden torches. There’s no pit full of spikes that I fall into. Just a warm, firm hand shaking mine.

“Why don’t we sit out in the back? It’s shady there this time of day, and we have new patio furniture. I also made lemonade. You can help me, Aspen. We’ll bring snacks,” her mom says.

Aspen looks both her parents over. “That’s code for my dad wants to grill you about your intentions while my mom takes forever putting together cheese and crackers or cutting up a watermelon.”

“Gentle grilling,” her dad corrects. He’s got a kind face. He doesn’t look at me like he hates me, and that’s more than I could manage if I were him. He doesn’t look at his daughter like she’s reckless, like she’s lost her mind, or like she’s not an adult who can make her own choices.

I can tell they’re relieved she’s back. That she’s safe. They were worried, which makes sense. They’re not jumping all over her, though. They’re not chastising her, embarrassing her, or being rude. Either they’re holding back, or they respect Aspen. She might be their child, but she’s her own person as well.

“Okay,” Aspen agrees reluctantly. She steps away from her parents and squeezes my hand in front of them. I gulp hard, but no one flies at me to throttle me. “But five minutes.” The look she gives her parents is stern. “I mean it.”

“You’re welcome here,” her dad says to me as he nods at Aspen. “If my son wanted you to be a part of our family, then you will be. That’s a promise.”

“It is,” her mom adds softly. She’s crying again—quiet, gentle tears. Her tears seem like an echo of her personality. I can see where Aspen got her gentle spirit from, as well as all the hidden steel inside her.

These people lost a child, and it was only a year ago, but grief didn’t destroy them. They’re still able to stand here and welcome me with genuine sentiment, not because they feel forced or guilted into doing it. I thought the house radiated kindness when I walked up the drive, but if it does, it’s because it’s been permeated over the years with the goodness of this family.

Aspen pats my hand and reluctantly releases it. Then, I do what I wanted to do earlier and jam it into my pocket. We eachhave a suitcase, and Aspen and her mom grab the handles and pull them into the house. I don’t get a chance to protest about them not lifting it because they do it easily. I’m used to packing light. I think my carry-on-sized bag probably weighs ten pounds, if that.

The door shuts quietly behind them, leaving me alone with Aspen’s dad.

Jace’s dad.

“We’ll go around back,” he says. He’s got the kind of soft-spoken voice that is still so commanding. I bet he’s just like Jace. Used to leading without ever giving orders or bossing people around. Jace was the kind of man people instantly liked, trusted, and followed. He was the kind of person who would have stepped in front of a bullet for a total stranger, what more the men he considered his brothers. He would have done so much more for any of us.

I swallow thickly as I follow Aspen’s dad through the gate he unlatches in the fence. Then, we walk past the crooked section to a deck that appears new. The boards look so newly stained that I can practically smell the chemicals.

“The fence has to go next.” So her dad has obviously noticed the lean. “It’s been a work in progress. I only get so many days off every summer, but I’m taking a week off next month, and I’ll get her done and done right. Not to knock the old girl. She’s been standing for a good thirty years, so I guess she doesn’t owe us anything. We’ll pile up the boards that are still salvageable and donate them to someone who might need them for a project. That way, she can have a second shot at being useful.”

We sit down on a brand-new outdoor sectional. The cushions are a bright cherry red.

“This is Margaret’s pride and joy, this sectional. We saved up for it. Five hundred dollars seems like a splurge, but we’ll takecare of it, and hopefully, it lasts. She takes the cushions in and out at least ten times a day.”

I think he’s serious. I sit carefully, not wanting to wreck anything, even if that’s illogical.

I think I might have ruined their daughter.

And I didn’t keep their son safe.

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