Page 1 of Unloved

PROLOGUE

LENNOX

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.

“Lennox, look at me,” Frankie pleads. “I’m sorry.”

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.

I haven’t needed to count myself down from a panic attack like this in years. It was an old habit, one I hadn’t used in so long, because I’d gotten too comfortable and content; two things I knew better than to let happen.

Because people lie and people leave.

Peoplealwaysleave.

People always leaveme.

Sitting on the edge of Frankie’s bed, I keep my head down and my gaze averted. I can feel my eyes filling with tears. Tears I refuse to cry. Tears Irefuseto let him see.

“I can’t stay here,” he says. “Arlo and I...”

His voice cracks at the mention of his boyfriend, and I feel a shameful amount of jealousy that Arlo has the power to make my brother leave and an overwhelming amount of sadness that I’m not enough to make him stay.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.

“I can’t watch him ruin his life,” Frankie says sadly. “I love him too much for that. And I need a fresh start, too, you know? I need to do something with my life.” He gestures to me. “And you’re going to be busy with college and football.”

He’s rambling at this stage, shifting between excuses and explanations he thinks I need to hear, but the truth is, none of them matter when the bottom line is still the same.

He’s leaving me.

Large hands sit atop my knees as Frankie crouches down in front of me, forcing me to raise my head and meet his gaze. Till this day, it catches me off guard how much we look alike, with our hazel eyes and chocolate-brown hair. I have no memory of our parents, so I don’t know which one of them we take after, but there’s no denying, the sadness on his face is an exact replica of my own.

“Len.” He’s the only one who calls me Len, everybody else always opting for my full name. “Please talk to me.”

“I used to think I made you up,” I say, the words catching me off guard. “Because there was no way I had a brother and didn’t live with him.”

“You know that was out of my control. I tried?—”

I wave him off. “I know that.”

And I do. Our years apart in different foster homes, living with different families, having completely different experiences, weren’t on him. Since we’d come into each other’s lives, he has been the best older brother, loving and caring for me in all the ways family should.

But, for some reason, it doesn’t seem to alleviate the consuming amount of hurt that has settled inside my chest since he told me he was leaving Los Angeles. He’s the closest thing to a parent I’ve ever had, and it feels like my parent is leaving me when I need him most.

All of this made me feel like a scared and insecure eight-year-old boy waiting around to be reunited with his brother, scared he wouldn’t love me, certain that, like every other person in my life, he would leave me too.

I hated being that boy.

Wanting this conversation over and done with, I place my hands over his and push him away before standing. Inhaling a lungful of air, I straighten my spine and clear my throat, saying what I know he needs to hear and hoping it absolves him of his guilt.

“I don’t want you to go,” I admit. “But I understand why you have to.”

He surprises me by stepping closer to me and grabbing my face, forcing our eyes to meet. “Why aren’t you angry with me?” he asks.

“What are you talking about?”

“Why aren’t you angry with me?” he repeats, his voice almost annoyed. “I spent years begging you to trust me, promising you I would never leave you. Why aren’t you angry with me?”

---