Page 32 of Rhett

“I’ll bring you a coffee,” I tell him, then can’t help wondering if that was the right thing to say.

I hope he doesn’t argue, kind of need him not to, and I’m granted that wish when Tripp says, “All right. Thanks for that.” Halfway to my truck, he stops me. “Oh, hey. What’s your favorite season?”

“Huh?”

“Your favorite season. What is it?”

I remember what he said about asking me questions, and I literally have to bite down on the inside of my cheeks not to smile. It’s so wild that he’s still doing this, that he really wants to know these things about me. “Late summer to early fall.”

“Why those months specifically?”

“It’s the best time to see monarch butterflies.”

I hope he doesn’t ask for an explanation, and in true Tripp fashion, he seems to read my mind. Instead, he pulls out his phone and smirks. I take that to mean he’s adding it to his list about me. I give him a quick nod in response, then continue to my truck.

I’m both jittery and achy on the drive home. Today wasincredible. No better word comes to mind. I grin, which might make me look a little wild to anyone who sees me. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to sleep tonight because I just want tomorrow to arrive so I can start over again.

But when I pull into my driveway, I notice Morgan’s vehicle in front of my house, and I know Dusty must have told him.

I kill the engine, then bang my head on the steering wheel a couple of times. I don’t think I have the energy to do this today, but it needs to be done. I don’t know how to talk to Morgan. He doesn’t know how to talk to me either. Most of the time, our words end in an argument, one or both of us walking away angry. I assume Morgan doesn’t have anything bad to say, but that doesn’t mean we won’t find a way to get there. The two of usare good at that, and East…shit, East has been in the middle of it most of his life, hasn’t he?

I get out of the truck because there’s no point stalling. Cold air bites at my skin. Morgan’s dressed in a jacket and beanie like me. He rounds the truck toward me, and I open my mouth to say something, but before I get the chance, his body slams into mine, arms around me, squeezing so damn tight, my breath is almost cut off.

Morgan is hugging me.

Have Morgan and I ever hugged? I figure we must have at some point in our lives, right? When we were young or something? But if we have, I don’t remember it, don’t know what it’s like to have my brother’s arms around me or how it feels to lift my own and wrap them around him too.

So I do it, grip Morgan just as tightly. Breathe him in, this familiar scent of home—of Mom and laughter, which I get shouldn’t have a smell, but somehow does.

I don’t know how long we stand there together, just fucking hugging each other. Snow starts to fall around us, clinging to us, but still, we don’t move, don’t go inside.

My fingers hurt with how hard they’re gripping him.

We were denied this for so fucking long.

This was stolen from us by the man who was supposed to love us.

Eventually, Morgan pulls away. “You made me barstools.”

I shrug, unable to find my words.

“Why didn’t you say they were from you?”

“Don’t know how,” I admit.

“Fuck. He’s messed us up so much.”

Yeah, he has, but… “It’s not just him. We made our own decisions.”

Morgan blanches. “Are you defending him? Jesus, Rhett, he—”

“I’m not defending him. Christ, I’m just fucking saying!”

We both grow quiet and look at each other.

“I don’t want to fight with you, Rhett. That seems to be our automatic response.”

He’s right. Even in a moment like this, it’s our default. “I don’t want to fight with you either. I didn’t mean to defend him. I see it now. Seehimnow. I’m just…I’m not innocent in it all. He’s not responsible for my choices.”

---