hasn’t called or contacted me. He’s just pretending I don’t exist. Like I’m nothing to him. Like Parker isn’t his blood. I look up, fighting back tears, and my gaze connects with Parker’s. He’s staring at me hard.
“What?” I ask worriedly. He keeps looking at me, but the corners of his mouth curl up. “What is it?”
“Do you mind…?”
“Do I mind what?” I ask after a long pause on his end, but he looks away as though he’s embarrassed. I’m suddenly intrigued. “Tell me,” I beg.
“I want to paint you,” he finally says, looking more animated than I’ve seen him in… well, years.
“Draw me like one of your French girls?” I joke around, but as soon as I see he’s serious, my smile falters. “Oh,” I murmur.
“Do you mind?” he repeats, and I can hear from his tone he’s eager for me to say no, I don’t mind at all, let’s do it right now. But for some reason, I’m hesitating. It’s such an intimate thing to do, and it’s wrong somehow. But why?
Because I’m betraying Kade.
Stop it, brain, I order silently, and I look up at my stepbrother, faking enthusiasm.
“Sure,” I say even though my heart is pounding in my chest, heavy with the weight of deceit. “Let’s do it. Come on.”
And I pretend it’s worth it even though not even Parker’s happiness can make up for the emptiness in my heart.
“How much longer?” I groan tiredly, and Parker shushes me in response. I sigh inwardly and cringe as I reposition my arm, the tingling in it becoming harder and harder to bear. When I agreed to let him paint me, I thought it would only be hard because I felt uncomfortable doing it. But it’s freaking annoying as well, and every part of me is starting to hurt as I sit on the couch in our attic. And that’s another thing—it’s so creepy in here. The light is coming in through the sun window, but it’s dusty and old, and everything’s falling apart. The weight of memories in this place is weighing heavily on me, too.
My stomach rumbles, and I steal a glance at the forgotten takeout on the floor. Parker didn’t let me have any before he finished. I’ve never seen him this concentrated. But there’s a certain slant of his eyes that makes him look… Like a stranger. Like I don’t know him at all.
I shake my head to get the thought out.
“Would you stop moving?” he grunts, his strokes fast and angry on the canvas.
I mouth an apology and sit there for another hour until he finally puts down his palette and paintbrush.
“You’re done?” I ask excitedly. I get up from the couch in a rush, my robe spilling open in front of me. Embarrassed, I pull it back together, but when I look up, Parker’s looking at me like I’m… prey. There’s that look again. Madness. I rush toward the easel, but he steps in front of it protectively.
“It needs to dry,” his stern voice explains.
“So?” I squirm, trying to look over his shoulder, but he won’t let me. “Let me see,” I beg.
“No.”
His answer is final, and I just look at him in confusion as he puts away his things, always blocking me from seeing the painting. This is so freaking weird. I look into his eyes, and that strange gaze he had when he painted me is gone. He’s just Parker again—my sweet, overprotective brother.
“Let’s eat!” he exclaims, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the stairs that lead down, his other hand holding the bags of our food. I guess it was just a slant of light, I tell myself to calm my worried nerves.
We proceed to get drunk.
I’m not an experienced drinker, and the wine hits my head quickly, so in about an hour, I’m rolling on the floor in the living room, laughing my head off. And Parker’s with me, and though he’s had much more to drink than me, he’s still okay, dying of laughter just like I am.
“And then he said, not on my watch, missy!” I manage to stay before erupting in a fit of giggles while Parker roars with laughter. I never thought we’d be able to do this again. Never thought we’d laugh together, share family stories like we’re doing right now. But as funny as it all is, I can’t help but look for the missing piece. The other twin. My stepbrother, my forbidden love…