Starlee's Home (The Wayward Sons 3)

“I don’t know. Sierra wants me to stay clear from everyone in case the twins need to come back.”

“My sister can’t control everything we do,

Starlee. I know she’s upset and feels like she failed them, but we all made decisions along the way. There’s no situation where we don’t choose you.”

He may be able to say that but I’m not sure the twins can, not now. “Do you think they’re okay?”

“I think they’ll get through this.” His voice isn’t entirely confident and it doesn’t help the unease in my stomach. “At least we can check in with them tomorrow.”

I nod and don’t resist when he soothes my nerves with another kiss and another and a few minutes later we’re both red-cheeked and breathing heavy. “I need to go. Sierra may start looking for me.” He cups my cheeks and kisses me one last time. It’s not enough. “Don’t forget your light bulbs.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Conspiring with Katie?”

“Everyone needs allies, Starlee, that’s how you get through life.”

We part, our fingertips lingering, and it hurts to see him go. He’s just next door but seems miles away. The distance between us is painful and raw. I open the shed door thinking about what he just said. Living such an isolated life, I never had support like that before—friends. Allies. Things are different here. I have a job. Go to school. I have Leelee, Katie, and Claire, which means that even though I don’t have my wayward sons right now, I’m not completely alone.

And that makes life seem a little more doable.

2

Charlie

I lie awake, staring at the ceiling for what seems like hours. The apartment is different from the one we lived in before. This one is nicer, but small. The complex is adjacent to the big ski resort where Dad works maintenance, and housing is included. The bad thing is that when he moved here he was living alone, so this place isn’t quite big enough for the three of us. George and I have to share a room and my brother’s peel-the-paint-off-the-ceiling snoring isn’t helping the situation. Nothing is helping this stupid, shitty situation.

I roll over and shift my eyes from the plain white walls to our not-unpacked bags we’ve been living out of. Dad got us a dresser to share and there’s a closet, but unpacking feels like giving in and neither of us are ready to do that. I keep my focus off George, who’s sleeping shirtless with his back facing me. The scars given to him by my father the last time we lived together…I don’t like the reminder of how badly things can go.

We’ve been here for five days—six, really—each more trying than the day before. Mrs. Delange says it’s normal for our transition to take time. That it will take a while for the three of us to get used to living together again, but that’s not it. Not exactly. George and I operate like a unit. Sure, he bugs the hell out of me and sometimes I want to punch him when he’s being so hyper, but I get it. He’s my twin. But Dad? I’m not sure that relationship can ever be repaired.

We’re caught in a weird cycle. When we were kids, George pissed him off so badly. His ADHD was off the chain. He spent half his time in the emergency room stitching up wounds, and the other hanging off bridges tagging anything bolted down. Dad hated his artwork the same way he hates my video games. Back then I didn’t get it, but now I do. We’ve changed, grown, but Dad? The man’s a freaking narcissist and he wants all the attention in the house focused on him. He may be sober and has a handle on his anger, but his attitude is the same and just being around him feels smothering.

The alarm on my phone buzzes, telling me it’s time to get up. I grab my pillow and toss it at George, slamming him in the face.

“Wha?” he mumbles, running his hands over his face. “What time is it?”

“Time to get up. School’s back today.”

He perks up instantly, no question why: Starlee.

We go through our morning routine, alternating between showers and getting dressed. We’re not used to sharing the same room, both of us twice the size since the last time we had to.

“Ready?” I ask him while tying my shoe.

He tugs on his flannel over a Wayward Sun T-shirt. “Yeah. I guess.”

I’m not asking him if he’s ready to go to school. Nah, I’m talking about just leaving the room and facing our dad for the day. I open the door and we both walk out, crossing the small living room furnished with just a couch and an arm chair. My gaming stuff is shoved under the TV and my fingers twitch when I see it.

I grab the cereal. George, the milk. We’ve both just sat down at the table when Dad walks out of his own room, dressed in his work uniform.

“School starts back today?” he asks, going to the coffeemaker.

“Yep,” I answer.

“You go straight there and back.”

“No problem,” George says.

“Some days we have after school stuff,” I say, holding a spoonful of Sugar Ohs.