“Sorry. No.”
I’m definitely disappointed as I lead James upstairs, wishing he could tell me what he knows about Brady. I want to find out if he has any details about how my brother died. How I survived it. But he’s nothing short of confused as he follows behind me. We pause at a door.
“This was my brother’s room,” I say quietly. Tears start to itch behind my eyes, but I blink them away.
James passes me and walks inside, looking over the room as if he’s hoping it’ll just hit him. But as the minutes tick by, it seems less and less likely. When his blue eyes finally meet mine, the apology is in them. I turn and walk out into the hallway.
It doesn’t seem real, how part of our lives can just be wiped out. How James and I can share a connection and yet not even know what it is. He knew Brady. How could he forget him? I’m starting down the hall, James behind me, when I hear him stop.
“Your bedroom?”
I turn and see him standing at my door. “Yep.”
“Can I see it?”
“Why?”
“Just curious.”
I should say no and lead him out before my parents get home, but it’s nice having him around. It’s nice knowing I’m not the only person feeling helpless. James walks into my room and wanders around, looking though the pile of junk on my dresser, testing the softness of my bed. When he sees me watching him, he smiles.
“I know I’m loathsome. You don’t have to say it.”
“I’ll try not to.”
He laughs then and gets up. “Can I see the picture again?” he asks. I’m leaning against the doorframe when I take the photo out of my jeans, and then James is right in front of me. Close.
He takes the picture from my hand, studying my face as he does. My breath catches and I don’t say anything. “He looks like you,” James murmurs, glancing again at the image.
“We were related.” But my heart isn’t into the sarcasm, and it just comes out sad. James seems to notice.
“I’m sorry he’s gone,” he whispers, examining me once again. “And I’m sorry I don’t remember.”
It breaks my heart to hear him say that. I don’t even know if he and Brady were that close, but the ache that I have tells me that they had to be.
Without thinking, I lean forward and hug James, making him stagger backward against the other side of the doorway. At first his hands are awkwardly at my hips as I rest my head on his chest. His arms wrap around me protectively, the shock of his touch almost jarring in its comfort.
“I’m sorry,” I say suddenly, and straighten up. I back away, not sure there is anything I can tell him to make the impromptu affection less awkward. But James grabs my wrists and pulls me to him again, this time hugging me tightly like he’s the one who needs it.
We stand like that, his heart pounding against mine. James rests his hand under my hair at the back of my neck. “I like this,” he says. “And it’s weird because we don’t really know each other, but . . .” He trails off and I don’t try to fill in the words for him because I know what he means.
Me and him, together like this. It’s the strangest feeling, full of things I don’t understand, both comfort and agony. But the one thing I am sure of is that I feel is safe.
“James,” I say.
“Sloane.”
“I think we’ve done this before.” I’m so certain, and yet, I’m not sure what to think about it. How can I feel so close to someone I don’t know?
A long silence passes and then James moves me back, his hand still on my neck. “I should go,” he says. “I’ll . . . I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” His face is a mask of uncertainty, and I wish I hadn’t said anything, hadn’t insinuated that we’d been more than friends. He looks completely freaked out.
“I’m sorry—” I start to say, but he shakes his head.
“You have absolutely nothing to be sorry about,” he answers, sounding kind. Polite. He turns then, walking out into the hall, and all I can do is follow him. My eyes are stinging with the start of tears. I don’t want him to leave.
When he gets to the back door, he pauses, holding it open, but not looking back. “I really am sorry about your brother, Sloane,” he says.
And I