Starlee's Home (The Wayward Sons 3)

Dexter’s holding a pastry box that smells as amazing as he does and I tell him to take it to Leelee. Jake shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the hook behind the door and after a moment of awkwardness, follows Dex.

Sierra and I face one another, she’s still on the porch as if she’s not sure this is what she wants to do.

“Thanks for coming,” I say. “It means a lot to my grandmother. I get the feeling you haven’t told her the new rules.”

“I love Mrs. Nye. She’s been so good to me and I never want to hurt her, so no, I haven’t mentioned it.”

“Well, this was her idea. We’re staying apart.” By force, I wanted to add. “I’m trying to do what’s right so you can get your license back.”

“Thank you, Starlee,” she says with a tight smile. “I know this is hard on everyone.”

“It sucks for us but it’s a lot harder on George and Ch—” A shadow moves down the path. Two shadows. My heart clenches.

Sierra turns and I see her shoulders sag in relief. “What are you doing here?”

“Mrs. Nye invited us and it turns out even our dad can’t say no to her.”

Sierra laughs and it may be the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her in weeks. She pulls them both into a tight hug and they both look at me over her shoulder, identical eyes burning into me.

“The boys are in the kitchen,” I say, fighting every urge I have to hug them myself. They do the same, George’s jaw ticking as he passes.

When we’re alone again, she says, “They look tired.”

“Yeah.”

“I really hope they’re okay.” She looks up at me with gray, sad eyes.

“Me too.”

I shut the door behind her and lean against the wooden surface as she follows the boys into the kitchen. I can’t have them all the time but Leelee gave me this—one night--and relief spreads over me that they’re all here at once, safe and secure.

9

George

Charlie and I made our own agreement after meeting with Claire, Starlee, and the guys. We’d figure out a way to make it work at home. Stop the sulking and bad attitude. If our dad fails, he fails, but they won’t be able to blame it on us.

After school, Charlie headed up to the resort and applied for the tech job in the office. It’s mostly scheduling and website maintenance—similar to what he did for Mrs. Nye at the lodge. The move made Dad happy, and when I asked if there were any openings for me, too, he brings home a list.

There’s something to cooperation, because when Mrs. Nye called and spoke to him about us coming up to Lee Vines for dinner, Dad agrees. Neither Charlie nor I believed it for a minute, but we’re seventeen, he said, and what he’d learned in his meetings was that you couldn’t control everyone all the time.

So yeah, we could go and he’d hit the basement of the Methodist church for his meeting. It was weird. Calm. It made my skin itch but so did Starlee in a whole different way, and if getting along meant I could see her—even just for one night, under strict supervision—I’d take it.

But it’s harder than I thought to just sit in the same room with her, thinking about her, smelling her shampoo and hearing her voice. Part of me feels like a pervert—like an out-of-control teenager with raging, ridiculous hormones, but then I remember, I am an out-of-control teenager with raging, ridiculous hormones. I remember something else. So is she.

The episode plays on the wide-screen TV—a fan favorite picked by Sierra--and we all take our seats, with none of the funny business that often goes down while watching Supernatural. No fighting over who sits next to Starlee or discreetly pressing our thighs against hers. She sits in a chair by herself, her body shifted to the side, like she’s willing herself apart. If there is any truth to the concept that men want what they can’t have, it’s playing out in this room.

Sitting still has never been my strong suit. Between that, the fact the show is a repeat, and distraction of the girl in the chair makes it all that much harder. Midway through, I gather the empty plates and stack them in a pile, excusing myself. Sierra gives me a sympathetic smile. She knows it’s hard for me to calm down sometimes.

“George Evans, don’t break any of my plates,” Mrs. Nye calls. It’s a valid statement. It’s happened before.

“I won’t! Promise!”

I carry the plates to the sink, setting them down gently. A fork falls off balance and slips, clattering on the floor.

“It’s okay!” I shout, wincing at the loud sound. I’m not surprised a few minutes later to hear the pad of footsteps on the hardwoods, although I certainly didn’t expect it to be Starlee.

“Everything okay?” she asks in an overloud voice.