Page 94 of Revelation

I look up at the ceiling. What the hell have I gotten myself into with this man? Is he even capable of giving his heart to me—at least at some point? If I break down and make the depths of my feelings known to him, would he be thrilled or scared to death?

I lean back on the couch and squeeze my cheeks, pondering the situation.

Oh damn. I can’t feel my face.

My gut tells me he’d be scared to fucking death. Maybe thrilled, too—but his fight or flight instinct would surely kick in. It’s just too soon. A guy like him needs more time. Heck, a girl like me needs more time. Usually. I truly don’t know what the fuck is happening to me. Where the hell is shallow, hedonistic, meaningless-sex-seeker Classic Kat when I need her?

As I glance around the room, lost in my thoughts, a small, framed photo on a table catches my eye. I can’t make out the image from this distance, so I get up to take a closer look.

When I pick the photo up, I can see it’s a faded shot of a stunningly beautiful blonde woman sitting in a wicker love seat with two tousled little boys—all three of them tanned and windswept and bursting with what appears to be authentic joy. The smiles on their glowing faces aren’t canned “say cheese” grins—these people are bursting with genuine down-to-their-bones happiness. I can almost hear their ghostly peals of laughter rising up from the image.

God, it pains me to think what happened to this poor woman shortly after this photo was taken. Oh, and her poor little boys. I scrutinize the boys’ faces in the photo, tears welling up in my eyes. I know Josh and Jonas are fraternal twins, but they look virtually identical in this shot. It’d be impossible to tell them apart if it weren’t for Josh’s slightly darker hair.

Tears blur my vision.

It kills me to think about how devastated those boys must have been when their mommy was so unexpectedly and savagely ripped from their young lives.

I wipe my eyes, but it’s no use. I can’t seem to stop my emotionsfrom overflowing out of me. I take a deep breath and try to stuff my emotions down. It’s suddenly hitting me full-force that the cute little boy in this picture—the one with the slightly darker hair—is standing in the next room, mixing me a drink, trying his earnest best on a daily basis to “overcome” everything he’s had to endure.

Ice cubes rattle on the far side of the room and I snap my head up toward the sound.

Josh is standing at the entrance of the living room, his facial expression the same as when I opened my door to him in Las Vegas after reading his application.

His eyes dart to the photo in my hand and then back to my face.

The music swirls around us for a long moment. Finally, I hold up the photo and try to grin. “Your mom was stunning.”

Josh doesn’t reply.

I walk across the room with the photo and sit on the couch. “Tell me about her.” I pat the couch next to me.

He looks torn.

James Bay is serenading us, singing about scars.

“Come on, Josh,” I say. I pat the couch again.

He crosses the room and nestles himself onto the couch next to me, his lips pressed tightly together.

“She was beautiful,” I say.

“You’re her spitting image,” he says softly.

I look down at the photo in my hand. Well, I can certainly see that I bear a resemblance to his mother, maybe even a striking one, but calling me her ‘spitting image’ is pretty far-fetched. For one thing, from what I can see from this photo, Josh’s mother radiated pure kindness—a quality I’m certain I don’t possess, unfortunately. Plus, her features are literally perfect. It’s like she was concocted by mad scientists in some sort of government-sponsored lab. No one would ever say that about me, I don’t think.

Josh takes the photo from my hand and looks down at it wistfully.

“Poor Jonas,” he says.

“Poor Josh,” I add.

Josh sighs like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders. “No, I got off easy. I was at a football game with my dad when she died. Poor Jonas saw the whole fucking thing.” He shakes his headmournfully. “Poor little dude was so traumatized, he didn’t say a word for a year afterwards.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. Literally. Not a word.”

“For a wholeyear?”

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