“What I said is final.”
I blink. Okay then. His look is challenging, so I give it to him instead of backing down like he expects. “Chase hasn’t done anything inappropriate before and he won’t now, especially if I tell him no.”
“Leighton—”
“Don’t ‘Leighton’ me!” My irritation is growing with every second and I hate how he’s looking at me like I’m his responsibility. When did that look change? Gone is the playful brown eyes and goofy smile, and in its place is sharp features that make him look way too serious all the time. It’s not just tonight—it’s been building. Anger, irritation, all leading to small fights between us about the stupidest things. “You’re not actually my brother, Kyler,” I point out gingerly. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
Instantly regretting the words when I see his expression crack, I inhale a sharp breath. What kind of crap is that to tell someone who’s dropped everything for me? Guilt swarms me, and I shake my head. “I didn’t mean that.”
I go to apologize, to say those two words that I value more than anything when they’re meant with genuine emotion, when his gravelly voice rasps, “Trust me, I know that I’m not. I’ve been telling myself that for a long damn time now.”
We stand in the middle of the living room bathed in silence and thick tension. His face becomes unreadable, his eyes masked with something…dark and I wonder if I messed up. Well, I know I did. I’m not sure to what level I’ll have to bask. More expensive takeout? Renting his favorite movie even though I hate horror films? I’ll do it.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him quietly.
“I know,” he repeats, this time dryly.
But does he? “I—”
“You should go to bed,” he tells me, walking into the kitchen. I know he swipes his keys from where he throws them onto the counter because I hear them jangle against each other as he makes his way back into the room.
“Where are you going?” My voice is small, beaten down with defeat as he beelines for the front door.
“Out,” is all he says.
I want to ask why he gets to leave this late if I can’t be out past eleven, but I don’t. Not when this is his house that he pays the bills for—one that he doesn’t even want because it meant dropping everything in New York. For me. All because of me.
So, I watch him open the door with a death grip on his keys and not give me another look before calling out, “Don’t wait up,” and slamming the door behind him.
I wait up anyway.
He doesn’t come home after an hour. Two. Three. Four.
Stomach souring when I tap out after four thirty in the morning, I hug the comforter to me and think about everything he’s sacrificed. He tells me it’s not a big deal, but it is. I’ve said that from the start, and he’s pretended not to care.
When I realize how disrespectful I was to him, I feel the tears spill onto the pillowcase my head is buried in. He’s always looking out for me, and tonight is no different. So, knowing he’s probably at some girl’s house makes me feel like crap. What I really wanted was to tell him about how much I enjoyed the movie, how great the jalapeno burger I had was, and how silly it was to worry about not having enough to talk about. Now, I feel like bringing that up is a bad idea because he’s obviously not okay with me dating. At least not under his roof, and I don’t know how to take that since he gave Chase permission to ask me.
He told me it was a good idea.
Maybe I should get a loan out and see if UCLA has room available on campus still. That way he won’t need to go to girl’s homes or wherever he takes them, and I won’t have to worry about upsetting him if I decide to move things further with Chase. And that’s a big if, because right now confliction weighs on me.
I add the task to my mental to-do list and decide not to bring it up to Kyler. Not yet. Mostly because I don’t even know when he’ll get home, what condition he’ll be in, or if we’ll be okay.
I can feel it—the slightest change in our relationship.
And I don’t like it.
It’s long after the sun is up and caressing my face when my mattress dips and Kyler’s voice rouses me from sleep.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
My eyes crack open tiredly to see his head tipped down, staring at the floor. He’s in the same clothes he left in and he doesn’t smell like perfume or alcohol. I don’t know where he went, but he looks exhausted. Defeated.
“I know,” I murmur, blinking to adjust to the sunlight. Sitting up on an elbow, I add, “I am too, for what it’s worth.”
He finally looks at me, bags under his eyes. Head bobbing slowly, he reaches out and squeezes my hand. “I don’t want to fight. I’m just…I don’t know how to do this.”
My chest aches. “Neither do I.” Staring down at where our hands tangle together, I draw out a slow breath. “We’ll figure it out.”