Page 88 of Sin With Me

People aren’t inherently good and not everyone deserves your forgiveness. Some wounds, some mistakes, are just too big to absolve. Some sins will never wash away, and not all sinners deserve to be cleansed.

I roll my eyes, taking another swig. More and more, I’m beginning to sound like Roman. I still remember the way he’d question religion with his books, finding any way to back up his allegations.

And in this household, that's exactly what they were. Allegations, deserving of punishment.

The thought has me jumping up and making my way to his bookshelves on unsteady feet. My fingers trace the dusty wood as I skim the collection of books. There are gaps showing where he once pulled books out and decided he liked too much to put them back. From there, they found a new home in the stack by his bed. The books he cycled through again and again, finding comfort or contemplation in the old pages like they were his best friends.

I swallow thickly and let my eyes flutter closed. I wanted that role. So badly that at one point, I resorted to stealing his books in an attempt to figure out what exactly kept him so hidden away from life. Hoping, praying, that maybe I could be that for him, or at least understand it enough that I could make a place for myself in his world if he refused to join mine.

I tiptoe through our shared bathroom, keeping the lights off. Roman’s out with his friends, but since he refuses to keep in touch with Mama and Isaac, we never know when he’ll be home.

Without a sound, I sneak into his dimly lit room, letting his scent wash over me like a weighted blanket. It’s only been the last year or so that Ro’s started to wear cologne. Isaac hates the smell, but Mama said we should be grateful for it since teenage boys smell bad.

I disagree.

Roman smells amazing all the time.

I cringe.

“You’re such a creeper, Evie,” I murmur. Double checking that his main bedroom door is still closed, I dart to the ever-growing pile of books next to his bed, searching for the one I know he cherishes most. Maybe if I can understand what’s inside, I’ll understand him a little better.

The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky.

My fingers trail over the worn, well-loved book. It feels like electricity sparking through my body from that slight touch. Is that how he always feels?

The book is thick and heavy, the cover tattered, the pages bent and marked up. I trace the inked words Roman’s added throughout and a pang of longing hits me right in the chest, settling along something else that feels a lot like victory.

I smile to myself.

Finally, a window to his dark and brooding soul.

With my pilfered treasure tucked closely to my chest, I dive toward his desk and search for supplies. Once I’ve got what I’ll need, I double check that everything is exactly how I left it and go back to my room, eager to dive in.

Roman didn’t come home at all that weekend. Mama had been beside herself but Isaac brushed her off, reminding her that teenage boys who acted out were sometimes reckless. I’ll never forget the way Mama stared up at him, blinking wildly in confusion that morphed to hurt.

But life is a fickle, fickle thing, Isaac, she’d said. You, better than anyone, should know that.

The reminder had cut deep. How quickly Isaac and Roman had lost Cami, Ro’s mom. In the blink of an eye, their entire world had changed irrevocably. Isaac shut down, and Mama went to the sunroom to keep watch, but I know she was crying, probably thinking about Daddy and how our lives had changed just as quickly.

If it hadn’t been for Oli, I would have been right there next to Mama, keeping my eyes on the long gravel driveway looking for a familiar face. But Oli had let me know Ro was with Chase all weekend and that they were safe. So, I let myself fall into the philosophical dialogue of his favorite book, making notes and scribbling my own annotations to every passage and line I didn’t understand or had thoughts on.

It was a risk, and, at the time, I knew he’d likely get mad. But I didn’t care.

Legally, Roman was my stepbrother. But in reality, he was so much more and, somehow, nothing at all.

I wanted him to be everything.

“Where the fuck is it?” Roman shouts as something in his room tumbles to the ground with a heavy thud.

I startle, jumping so high I practically fall off the bed. His footsteps pound against the bathroom tiles, and I let out a squeak, scrambling to hide the book.

But it’s too late.

Tension bleeds from his too still body as he grips my bedroom door frame with white knuckles. I freeze, his stolen book clenched between my fingers just as hard. His chest rises and falls, his eyes both wild and narrowed all at once.

Unable to help myself, I scan his body, drinking him in as though it’s been months instead of days.

Roman isn’t massively stacked like some of the other players on the team. He’s as tall as Isaac, but he’s more muscular than his dad. His shoulders are broad, his arms thick and veiny, showing off how many hours he spends practicing. His tapered waist is narrow and from the very few times I’ve seen him shirtless, I know his deeply tanned stomach is chiseled.

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