Page 122 of Her Ex-Husband's Brother

“I was not bossy in the bathroom. I was brave and mysterious.”

“You looked like you were three seconds away from puking.”

“I didn’t say what the mystery was.”

This time his mouth really does curve. For one second, the whole terrible night loosens its grip.

“She’s got jokes at a time like this.”

“Always for you, baby.”

He shakes his head. “What should I talk about?” he asks.

“Anything.”

But the word sits there, too open. Too easy. My mind, inconvenient and half-poisoned, goes exactly where it shouldn’t. To all the questions I never got to ask because every time August and I found a pocket of peace, Jake reached into it and yanked us out.

“Actually,” I say carefully, “I’ve been curious. What was it like when you were kids?”

His fingers tense around mine.

I wince. “You don’t have to. That might be too much right now.”

“No.” His voice is quieter when he answers. “It’s okay. I want you to know everything about me. Even the hard stuff.”He glances over, and the look in his eyes makes my throat ache. “Especially the hard stuff, maybe. God knows you deserve the truth from somebody.”

The highway curves. He follows it smoothly, the muscles in his forearm shifting under tattooed skin. There’s something hypnotic about watching him drive.

He’s quiet for a while, like he’s gathering himself.

“I loved my childhood,” he says at last. “That’s what made later so hard, I think. When I was little, I thought life was perfect. I mean, my older brother didn’t want me hanging around most of the time, but sometimes he’d decide I was useful or funny or whatever, and those moments felt like winning the lottery.”

Jake as a boy. God, I hate that I can picture it. A smaller version of him discovering the pleasure of withholding affection and watching people scramble for it.

“And my dad…” August’s voice changes. Softens. “I thought my dad was a riot. When he got these bursts of energy—I know now he was manic or whatever—but we’d have the best time. We’d climb trees in the backyard until my mom yelled that we were going to break our necks. He had this old Nintendo he kept repairing with electrical tape, and we’d stay up too late playing like we werebothtwelve. Sometimes he’d start wrestling with me in the living room and knock over some ugly vase my mom loved, and I’d laugh so hard I couldn’t breathe.”

He smiles, but there’s such pain in it.

“He was just like this big kid. Messy and loud and alive. I loved him a lot.”

My insides feel scooped out.

I slide my hand from his fingers to his thigh, needing to touch more of him so he knows I’m here in a tangible way. His muscle tightens under my palm, like his whole body registers my touch.

“You must still miss him so much,” I say.

His Adam’s apple bobs. He nods once, hard, and for a second he covers my hand with his, pressing it against him like he can anchor himself there.

“Finding him after he swallowed that bottle of sleeping pills, it just—” His chin trembles. He puts his hand back on the wheel before the car can drift. “It fucked me up. Because how could he leave me alone with them? He knew. He saw how Mom favored Jake. He saw how she treated me like I was this defective copy she didn’t know what to do with. He was my shield.”

A terrible thought comes so fast I almost don’t recognize it as mine.

My fingers curl against his thigh. “August.”

He looks at me.

“Are you absolutely sure he did?”

The car seems to go quieter around us.