Page 9 of Until Forever Falls

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, my voice barely there, as if saying it will somehow make the moment less…awkward.

“Don’t be. Are you okay?” He lets his words fall gently, like he’s trying to reassure me without saying too much.

“Yeah…I’m fine.”

Brooks shifts, his hands slipping into his pockets before stepping toward the door. “Should we head back and see what Beckett is up to?”

There’s too much going on inside my head, and I’m unsure of how to act, so I simply nod, trying my best to keep it together.

The walk back to the beach passes in the blink of an eye. I wish I could have stayed, but my mind is still scrambling, desperately trying to regain the calm I’ve spent years building.

Thankfully, I spot Beckett sitting on the tailgate of a nearby pickup, legs swinging lazily as he watches the bonfire crackle in the distance. As we get closer, he hops down, his cheeks flushed, and I can’t help but feel a little guilty for disappearing earlier.

“What the hell, Dylan? Where did you go?”

I open my mouth, but I don’t have an answer. How do you explain to your twin the decision to step out of your comfort zone? To wander off with a stranger when you’ve never been one to care about making friends? It’s not a conscious choice, really. It’s more like a moment when the familiar starts to feel too small, like you’re suffocating in the safety you’ve built for yourself. So, you take a breath and try something new.

“I just needed some air.”

Beckett eyes me, then shifts to Brooks, skepticism written all over his face. “Air? On the beach, really?”

Brooks laughs softly, clearly not rattled by Beckett’s question. “We just went for a walk,” he says smoothly, his tone friendly despite my brother’s accusing glare. “Checked out an old church.”

“A church, huh? Sounds pretty sketchy.”

Brooks grins, shrugging slightly as he steps back. “You know, it’s better than sitting around and doing nothing, right?” He glances over at me. “I’m gonna go find Miles, make sure he’s good. You two okay?”

“Yeah,” I say quickly, though I’m not entirely sure if I mean it. Beckett’s still watching me closely. He takes a step back, crossing his arms over his chest, and I can feel the judgement radiating off of him.

“You’re going on walks with people? Did you have a stroke?

I stiffen, irritation creeping in. “I mean…we were just talking, Becks. It’s fine. Let’s just get home before you’re too wasted to drive.”

“I’m not wasted,” Beckett grumbles, brushing off my concern with a quick wave. “I’ve only had a few drinks. We’re talking about you right now.”

“No. We’re not,” I snap, gripping his arm and steering him toward the truck. “And I’m not taking any chances.”

Beckett lets out a breath, offering no resistance as I pull him away to leave. The drive home is somber, broken only by Beckett’s half-hearted attempts at small talk, his words fading in and out as he struggles to keep his focus. Truthfully, neither of us is eager to head back, but until we hit eighteen, there’s no avoiding it.

The house is a mere outline in the dark ahead of us, emerging lifelessly as we near the driveway. Beckett cuts the engine and leans back, his head resting against the glass as he stares out, lost. His shoulders sag, his posture wilting under the invisible burden of the past few days.

“Thanks for driving,” I mutter, more to break the silence than anything else.

Beckett glances at me, his usual teasing expression gone, replaced by something unreadable. “I hate this place, Dill. I know it’s only been a day…but we need to get out of here.”

“I know. We will, Becks. I promise.” My words are meant for him, but I’m secretly trying to convince myself, too. Growing up with Mom has been a blur of constant change—no permanence, no safe space. There’s never a moment to stop, to breathe, tostay. We’re both just waiting for the day we can escape.

Beckett doesn’t wait, already halfway to the door before I even have a chance to catch up. I trail behind, the world around us silent, save for the rhythm of our steps on the gravel. He stumbles as he reaches the steps, nearly tripping, and I grab his arm to keep him from toppling over, frustration simmering as he leans his full weight into me.

“Jesus, KitKat, how much did you drink?” I scold. “You shouldn’t have driven us home. Do you have a fucking death wish or something?”

“Shut up, Dylan,” he snaps, just as I reach for the doorknob. “I told you not to call me that. I’m fine, it was a long day. We’re fine. I told you, I’ve only had a few beers. I’m fine.”

“Yeah…how many is a few?” I urge him forward, keeping my grip firm as we slip inside, silently hoping our mother is too lost in whatever bottle she’s clinging to tonight to notice.

“I don’t know, a couple before we left,” he mumbles, swaying as he tries to steady himself.

“A couple? Right. Sounds like it’s more than that.”

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