hard enough for him to hear. “Can you get away this weekend?”
He laughed, and the bass of it made my lips tremble. “Can I get away? Can you get away?” The humor in his voice irritated me.
I hit him on the shoulder. “Stop messing around. Yes or no?”
He kissed the side of my lip and then pulled away, situating his face on his hand again. “Yes, Scarlett Rose, I can get away.”
“My father has cabins.” I looked away from him, down, my concentration on a shiny silver button on his (my) jacket. “We could go there. It’s not too far and it’s private. My father used to hunt the land, but he stopped after Elliott died. Now it’s overrun with deer and it has a lake…”
He kissed the side of my lip again, and I accepted this as agreement. He fiddled with the button that I had been staring at.
“I won’t fuck this up, Scarlett. I’d rather die first.”
The admission made the breath rush from my lungs, out of my mouth, though no sound came. The conviction behind those four words, I’d rather die first, took me by storm. The beginning stages of love felt like a battlefield, drawing lines, crossing them, figuring out how we would work as one instead of two.
If I had charged him earlier, he had just come back with reinforcements. The truth of his words rang in my veins, a reverberation of his truth clashing against my belief.
What could be said to challenge that declaration? To even ask for more than his blood? My word is as good as my blood.
My stomach, evidently, had something to say on the matter. It chose that moment to growl so loudly that it could be heard over the music, and the nausea returned.
Brando sat up. “When was the last time you had something to eat?” He put my wrist to his mouth, my frantic pulse beating against the warmth of his lips.
The last time I had something to eat? I squinted in concentration. “Before I left for the party. I had a r-roll.”
His nose skimmed my arm, breathing in, his warm breath flowing over my skin as he breathed out. “Time to eat.”
“What about why? What about—”
“Later.”
The all-night diner was a welcome change from the train-tracks party. The decor was a throwback to the ’50s, including black and white tiled floors, a turquoise counter, chrome finishes, and a neon jukebox in the corner playing oldies but goodies. The smell of maple, pancakes, and hamburgers seemed to come together harmoniously, perfuming the place.
Our table was boisterous but fun. I didn’t know half the people who had tagged along, only that most of them were friends with Elliott. All throughout our late-night dinner, or breakfast (depending on the order), they regaled me with stories of the times they had spent with him.
At first I didn’t know if I was going to be able to handle Elliott not being there with me. To relive all of his beautiful times without his smiling face making me smile too. Surprisingly, the stories seemed to bring him to life in a way that made some of the ache fade into the background.
“Remember the time he…”
“Ohhh! Remember when he…”
“Damn, he could make me laugh.”
Brando leaned over, putting his mouth close to my ear. “This okay? That they keep talking about Elliott?”
I nodded, setting down my Coke. The bubbles felt good as they burned down my throat. God, if my mother could see me now. At an all-night diner, with a Coke! “I feel like he’s off on vacation, not truly gone, when they talk about him like this.”
He became silent, still, and he seemed to think for a moment. “I think you remind them of him—not in looks, but just the fact that you’re his sister. Brings back memories for them too.” He waved a hand at the table. “They do this a lot. None of them want to forget him. It helps me fill the hole sometimes. Sometimes I want to be alone with the absence.”
Our eyes met, and for the first time, I saw my pain reflected in someone else’s gaze.
“Do you think…would you mind if we did more things like this? Things that you and Elliott did?”
“Yeah.” He studied me for another moment, the intensity almost making me turn from him, before he nodded to my plate. “Finish eating. I’m going to play some music.”
I watched him walk toward the jukebox, pulling a sucker out of his back pocket. He leaned against