I kick off my shoes and I get under the covers, sitting with my back against the headboard. I scoot near him and he rests his head on my belly, wound facing up. I comb my fingers through his damp hair, making sure not to hurt him.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him that mad,” he says suddenly. “Not even when he had to pick me up from the police station for vandalizing the water tower.”
“It sounds like he was worked up from his argument with Charlie this morning.”
“I don’t know why he refuses to let us be who we are. Why does it matter to him if I’m an artist or Charlie does whatever the hell he plans to do with that gaming shit? Charlie’s smart. I’m a good artist, right?”
“Really good,” I assure him.
“Why can’t he see that we have talent and a shot at building our own lives?”
His voice wavers and he blinks, making my heart ache for this sweet, amazing boy. “Your dad has a problem, George, with violence and drinking. I don’t think his issues are really with either of you.”
“I know that—like, in my head and heart—I know it, but when he’s coming at me…he just makes me feel so worthless.”
I stroke his hair and he wraps his warm, strong arms around my waist, holding me tight. “You’re not worthless and you’re not him. You’re not filled with whatever bitterness consumes him.”
“What if I am?” He looks up at me, with soulful, lost, brown eyes. “I almost went after him tonight. I was so close. It took everything in me to walk out of there.”
“But you did. And so did Charlie. You’re not going to let him hold you back.” I touch his chin and tilt his face upward, running my thumb over his bottom lip. “You’re going to do great things, George Evans. You’re going to use this pain in your art and come out stronger on the other side.”
He watches me closely. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
He releases me and sits up. “How do you know the right thing to say to each of us. How do you know how to make us feel right—better—to kiss us differently, to show us a different side of your heart?”
I look down but he touches my chin, forcing me to look at him. “I don’t know.”
“I’ve watched you do it. And…it’s amazing. Like that night under the mistletoe. Four kisses. Each completely different. You see us, Starlee, in a way that no one else ever has.”
His eyes dart to my mouth and there’s a short beat before his lips brush against mine, moving from slow to more intense. There’s no doubt about his need for reassurance and I give it to him, matching his pace, falling into his rhythm.
“You should be careful,” I say, touching his head. His chest rises and falls and his hand grips my hip.
“I’m tired of being careful,” he says in a low voice. “I’ve done my best to follow the rules. To play the game. I’ve kept the smile on my face through all of this, but I don’t think I can do it anymore.” He exhales. “Or at least, I don’t think I can do it tonight.”
His hand moves under my hair, cupping my neck, and he pulls me close, so we’re nose-to-nose, mouth-to-mouth, eye-to-eye, and a shiver runs down my spine. “I just want to feel right.”
Not good. Not happy. Not any other adjective.
Right.
George is correct. Somehow, some way, I know what these boys need and when. And tonight? I’m ready to give George what he needs.
32
George
It isn’t a demand or even a question. It’s a statement.
“I just want to feel right.”
My heart is heavy, bogged down from the altercation with my father, the slow decline of adrenaline. Starlee stayed behind to take care of me—she always takes care of us—and right now I need her more than ever.
I don’t want to admit how much my father’s vitriol hurts. Charlie knows. I see the darkness in his eyes. That changes when he looks at Starlee. Me too, the hardening of my heart softens and a sliver of light pushes in just by being near her. Now? She’s so close I can taste her. So near, my body reacts without provocation.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she says, and I blink, wondering if she means my heart or my head.