Page 70 of Point of No Return

“I know he is,” I finally answer, shoving down the onslaught of thoughts.

Aleks isn’t just upset about Tyson.

This is deeper than that.

The problem has always been about my brother and I.

“What about you, Skar?” she says, but as I wipe at the cuts, she hisses, yanking her foot back.

The question catches me off guard. It prods deeper than the usual half-assed sympathies and well-wishes my family has been getting the past month.

I’m pissed, I want to tell her. I’m pissed that my brother refuses my help. I’m pissed that he’s only willing to drink his pain away… but when I look at Charlotte, it’s like she already knows those things. Maybe she’s known them from the beginning… but I find myself caring less and less.

“Wish I knew how to get to him,” I say instead, tossing the bloodied rag against the sink. “I’ll be back.”

There’s several kits stashed throughout the house, and I’m quick to grab one from the bathroom nearby. She’s still sitting on the counter when I get back, but she’s running her foot under the sink, water swirling with blood before it flows down the drain. She glances up when she sees me again, eyes seemingly calculating my next move. I spread the supplies out beside her, sorting through them to find the tweezers and gauze.

“I can do it myself,” she grumbles, reaching for it.

I smirk, sliding the supplies away from her. I’m bigger than her, taller, and we both know she won’t be able to reach it even if she tries. “I have no doubt.”

Defeated, she offers me her foot. Her eyes wander over me curiously, watching as I tweeze out the chunks of glass. Two chunks are fairly surface level, and a few others are deeper. But seeing her look up at me like this, ankle in my hand, legs spread, and hair splayed over her shoulders-

Fuck. It’s doing things to me.

I smirk again when I catch her still looking at me, brows drawn tight, green eyes glittering as if she’s thinking the same thing I am.

“He’s been like that since the funeral,” she says quickly, and for some reason, my grip on her tightens.

“Has he touched you?” Something flickers in her gaze, and I tack on, “He can be a mean drunk.”

“No meaner than Tyson was, I bet.” Her brows raise as if it’s a question rather than a statement. I tweeze the last shard from her foot, winding the glass safely in the leftover gauze.

Don’t do that, I want to say, but I know it’s only because it’s the truth.

Tyson was an angry drunk. But all of that was too long ago to particularly remember. Or care to. There’s just something about the way she says it. I remember the cut on her lip the day of our wedding. The scars on her back on our honeymoon…

“If he touched you-”

“No one’s touched me.”

Liar,I want to say. When she yanks her foot back and takes the wrapping from me, she almost looks angry. Closed-off. Shut down. I’ve hit a nerve.

“He’s been a wreck, Skar. And you… Well, you’re you.” She angrily ties a knot off in the wrapping, letting her foot fall flat against the counter before looking at me again. “You’re the same as always.”

“Are you asking if I’m upset my brother’s in pain-”

“I’m asking if you’re really okay, Skar,” she blurts. “Your father’sdead. Youbothlost someone.”

I’m taken aback both by the bluntness and the question itself. Is it wrong that I don’t mind that my father’s no longer around?Probably.Can I tell the world I’m better off now that he’s dead?No, but that’s the weight of carrying a burden no one can know about.

But do I tell her that?

“My father was the last thing holding that boy together. Am I sorry he’s no longer here to do that? Yes. Am I sorry the man is dead?” I know she can see the answer in my eyes, so I don’t bother finishing. I step away, wiping her blood off my hands. “Go to bed, Charlie.”

“I don’t understand you,” she quips.

Good god,if she only knew. Everyday, I feel like I understand her less and less. I’m going mad just thinking about it. “There’s nothing to understand.”

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