Page 21 of I'm Yours

“If you think you’re that strong, we’ll do a strength test right now,” he says. “You and me, arm wrestle on this table. Loser has to go jump in the lake.”

“Marshall,” my sister says, a warning in her voice. “Just sit down. The pizza will be here soon, and you guys can just agree that you’re all stronger than us women. No offense, ladies.”

Jenna laughs, and I impress myself by not glancing at her, even when she’s sitting right on my other side. “None taken.”

“No, I think we should do it.” Smirking, Colin gets to his feet and approaches the table with all the swagger of an eighteen-year-old, extending his hand to Marshall. “Loser jumps in the lake.”

Marshall, who’s got a couple inches on the kid and is most definitely more muscular, accepts the handshake. “Deal.”

I personally don’t see any harm in the challenge because I’m not the one who’s going to get wet, so I decide to stay quiet as they both lower to their knees. If Marshall’s doing this for the reason I think he is—to knock Colin’s attitude down a couple notches—I can respect that. I don’t want to see the teen bullied, but I can’t tolerate him being a bully either. If a simple arm wrestle can help with that, have at it. I’m not going to stop them.

Unless, of course, Marshall loses. I doubt that’ll happen, but I really don’t want to see Colin’s head get any bigger than it is. Which is probably unavoidable if he does win. But since I can’t do anything to change that, I just lean back against the wall, my own arm resting on my bent knee.

Just as the two opponents get into position, I see Alessia get up and walk out the front door. I already arranged to be the one to drive her home—I picked her up earlier—so she shouldn’t be leaving yet. She’s been quiet today, but that’s normal for her, so I didn’t sense anything out of the ordinary.

That said, even though I want to see how this arm wrestle goes, I don’t want Alessia to run off or something. I don’t think she would do that sort of thing, but I’m not about to take a chance. I silently get up, and I find Alessia sitting on one of the sawhorses Wynn brought for the project on the sidewalk in front of the house. She’s not crying, but that doesn’t mean she’s not upset about something. I stand on the porch for a couple minutes to see if she makes a move, and when she doesn’t, I hop down and lower onto the sawhorse beside her.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

Alessia just stares at her hands, fidgeting with a piece of paper she must’ve had in her pocket or picked up off the ground. I don’t understand why she’s wearing a sweatshirt when it was a balmy eighty degrees today, but she’s worn one to every meeting, and I’ve chosen to leave it alone. She folds the paper until it’s a tiny square, then unfolds it and starts all over.

I purse my lips as I try to think of a different approach. The warm evening breeze skitters over my skin, and I can feel the humidity growing. It’ll probably storm tonight, though it’s not forecasted. We have a big body of water right beside our town, which always attracts more rain than not. They’re usually not extended showers, and if we throw a tarp over the Dumpster so it won’t be full of water before we leave tonight, it’ll be fine. There’s nothing in there that’s extremely valuable. And if there is, I guess someone can dig through to find it. I’m not about to stop them.

“Did someone say something to upset you?” The question is a risk, but it’s one I’m willing to take.

Still quiet, she shakes her head.

I barely resist a sigh. There’s obviously something bothering her. As far as what that is, I have no idea. It could be anything. Sometimes I get bothered when people intrude on my personal life without my permission, and I can’t stand small talk. There is absolutely no point to it. If I want to know what the weather is like, I am perfectly capable of looking it up myself. There’s no reason for a conversation to start with“well, it’s sunny here today but I think I heard from so-and-so that it’s supposed to get cloudy later”only to find out they were really talking to you to say they hadn’t been able to get ahold of their son for a while and want you to try calling him.

Yes, that happened to me a couple years ago, and yes, I got ahold of the elusive son. Turns out the parents’ definition of “a while” is about four hours, and the kid’s phone had died while he was in class at UNL, so he couldn’t charge it until later that day. Was it overreactive on the parents’ part? Yes, but my point still stands that small talk is useless.

Instead, I try a more indirect question. “How are your siblings doing?”

This makes a small smile touch Alessia’s lips. “Good. Well, for the most part. My little sister has Down syndrome, you know.” Her voice softens, and she shakes her head as she keeps folding her paper. “I guess she’s happier than me sometimes, though.”

“They usually are,” I say gently, my own gaze on my clasped hands as I lean forward, my elbows on my knees. “What’s her name, again?”

I know the answer, but if she’ll talk about this, I’ll listen.

“Becca. And my brother, who’s in between us, is Dylan.” She lets out a little laugh. “He always wants to come with me, but I tell him he needs to stay home to protect Becca. I don’t think anyone loves anyone more than Dylan loves Becca.”

“How old are they?”

“Dylan’s twelve and Becca’s nine. I’m pretty sure her Down syndrome is because my mom was older when she had her, you know?”

I nod. “I do know. One of the guys I went to college with had a sister who was Down syndrome. Gemma was one of the happiest people I’ve ever known.”

Alessia looks at me, questions in her eyes. “Was?”

“She passed away six years ago,” I say quietly, pulling in a deep breath as I blink away unexpected moisture. It’s hard to believe it’s been six years since the funeral, since I last saw Mark and Sam’s little sister. I need to reach out to Mark one of these days and see how things are going up in Believe, where he and our other classmate, Braeden Langford, are the local law enforcement. Sam, Mark’s other sister, was a cop too until a fire two years ago left her with PTSD. Alessia wouldn’t know of any of this, though, so I decide to veer onto a more uplifting path. “What’s your favorite thing to do with Becca?”

“Draw,” she says automatically, a smile on her lips that can only come from the love of a sibling. I know because I smiled that exact smile the day my sister allowed me to walk her down the aisle last year. I may not have my parents and a relationship with my aunt is nonexistent, but I have Jess. And after last year, after the search for our father nearly fracturing our tight relationship, I’ll never take that for granted again. “We’ll get our markers and crayons and colored pencils, and we just draw random pictures. Sometimes for hours, because we don’t even realize how much time has passed. While we’re drawing, Becca always begs me and Dylan—wait, is it Dylan and I?”

“I might be a cop, but nobody’s ever called me the grammar police,” I tell her with a wink. “Trust me, Iain’tgonna throw you in Improper Grammar Jail.”

She laughs, a real, genuine laugh. “Becca would love you. She loves pretty much anyone. Like, she tells them that she does. But anyway, she always wants me and Dylan to tell her stories when we’re drawing. And then, once we’re finished, she gives each of us one picture she drew to hang in our rooms. Well, Bec and I share a room, but she insists I hang it onmyside. Pretty soon I’m not gonna have any room left. My wall is almost full.”

“Does she have a favorite thing to draw?”

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