“It makes sense that you’d feel both.” But I wondered why Michael had only been at the facility for six months. Why not a long-term placement somewhere that was equipped for his issues? “Why did he come back after six months?”
Shay sighed. “The issues my brother has, a conduct disorder with callous and unemotional traits, is complicated to treat. And even harder to measure rehabilitation. Michael has always been good at mimicking appropriate behavior, at biding his time before he gets his revenge. Every time my mom and dad went to visit him, he’d cry and beg to come home. That destroys a parent, Brody. Even as young as I was, I saw it eating them up inside.”
I couldn’t imagine the stress they had been under. But I also couldn’t understand putting the defenseless little girl they had at home at risk.
“You’re wondering why they let him come home,” Shay deduced.
“I’m trying to see all the angles. There’s no easy answer, that’s for sure.”
Water droplets fell into the bath as if Shay were wringing out her washcloth. “There wasn’t. For anyone. Not Michael, either.”
Shay blew me away. Her ability to hold onto empathy despite her terror and pain, amidst the betrayal she surely felt made me want to lean in to those relationships in my life that were imperfect but present. My parents sprang to mind most of all. They didn’t understand me. But they loved me. Maybe it was time I tried a little harder. Had them out to the island for a week this spring or summer.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“About how you make me want to be a better man.”
There was nothing for a long moment, then she spoke. “You’re already one of the best men I’ve ever known.”
I swallowed against the emotions crowding my throat. My hands itched to pull back the curtain. I wanted to see her face as Shay said the words. Needed a clue as to what she might be hiding below that calm and collected exterior. Was desire clawing at her insides as much as mine? Was she battling this thing like I was? I could only hope.
20
Shay
The sound of wood cracking and a series of creative curses had me stopping in my tracks in the kitchen. They were coming from the sunporch. Hunter and his crew had made amazing progress on the art studio, but Brody was still at least a month—maybe two—away from using the space.
I set the full basket of my latest greenhouse haul on the counter and started towards the room that ran along the side of the house. I stopped just outside, listening to Brody’s barely audible mutterings. I itched to cross the threshold, to try and soothe whatever ragged edges I could. It had become habit over the past couple of weeks. Brody and I both leaned on each other, maybe more than we should.
We ate breakfast and dinner together each day. Filled every evening with Yahtzee, cards, or a movie. We talked about everything and nothing. He’d shared that his relationship with his parents was awkward. And at times, painful. I’d watched as his mastery of two dishes in the kitchen had turned to four. I shared stories about my parents. Mostly the good memories that I hadn’t shared with anyone. Brody had grown partial to feeding the chickens and even kept me company when I had to spend a couple of hours tweaking our generator.
Without me thinking much about it, we’d become a unit. We knew each other’s moves before either of us made them. Evergreen had taken to calling us an old married couple. And I tried to ignore the warmth that took root in my chest each time she typed that tease.
I did my best to keep that one final boundary in place, though. The one that didn’t allow for our lips to meet the way I wanted them to, or for Brody’s body to curl around mine in sleep. But I’d let him inside in every other way. And I couldn’t find it in me to scold or chastise myself for it. He’d become too important.
I took another step forward and knocked on the open door. Brody whirled, his eyes a touch wild. I kept moving into his space. Nothing about Brody scared me or gave me a second’s pause. I eyed the broken canvas on the floor. “Testing out those new boots of yours?”