He’s right there, pressed up against the security cart, green eyes staring emotionlessly forward as Jerry pats him down.
“Vandy!” Emory shakes my shoulder, eyes searching. “Hey, did I freak you out? I’m sorry, I just saw—I wasn’t thinking.”
“I’m fine.” I don’t even recognize the sound of my own voice.
Emory watches me for a moment, unbuckling his seatbelt. Whatever he’s looking for, he must find it, because he gets out of the truck. He leaves his door wide open, showering the cabin in a rapid-fire series of ding-ding-dings.
“Dude!” he says to Reynolds, face splitting into a wide smile when their eyes finally meet. “What the fuck? I can’t believe you’re back!”
“Yeah, you know what I was thinking?” Reynolds’ mouth curls into a bitter grin, fingers tapping the roof of the cart. “I was thinking it’s been a real long time since Fucking Jerry here has had my 'nads in his hand, so here I am.” His stare is still flat, even when the corners of his eyes crinkle, squinting against the afternoon sunlight. “Home sweet home.”
Emory clucks his tongue. “Come on, Jerry, this is just Reynolds.”
Jerry walks around the cart, pointing his big Maglite at Emory. “Get in my way, it’ll be you next.” To Reynolds, he says, “We ain't through, boy. I got ten hours a day, right here, just waiting for ya. Want you to remember that.”
“Sounds like a pretty shit life, but okay.” Reynolds gives him a lazy look over the roof of the cart. “Am I free to go, officer?”
“Don’t be giving me none of your damn lip, either, boy.” Jerry drops into the seat, cart shaking as he pushes his dark Aviators up his nose. “Got the Sheriff on speed dial, and he’s just dying to repay me a favor or three.” Jerry drives off before Reynolds even steps away from the cart, hands stuttering against the roof as it zooms away.
“God, that guy’s a prick,” Emory mutters. They both watch Jerry’s cart veer around the corner before Emory darts forward, slamming into Reynolds in a halfhearted tackle. “Dude! Holy shit! When did you get home?”
“Last night,” he says, wrapping his arms around Emory in a tight hug. Over my brother’s shoulder, he finally looks at me. From the way his eyes go shuttered, face paling, it’s the first time he’s even noticed me here. I can’t even imagine how I look—wide-eyed and struck so frozen that it’s hard to even pull in a breath.
Our gazes lock for a long, suspended moment. Even after Emory steps back, asking Reynolds something about school, we don’t look away.
It’d be silly to call what passes between us, in that moment, understanding. Really, I don’t understand anything. I don’t understand the way my chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself, and I don’t understand the way he stands rigid like that, like the barest twitch may shatter something. No, it’s not understanding. But it’s something.
Something only we share, that only we can know.
Reynolds looks away first, telling Emory, “I registered for school today. I’ll be there tomorrow.” His voice is flat and stilted.
“Fuck, man, this is going to be so—” Emory stops abruptly. Suddenly, it’s like my brother remembers where we are, who he’s talking to, and the fact I’m a few feet away. His eyes dart to mine and his face falls. “Hey, we’ll catch up later, okay?”
“I’ll be around.” Reynolds looks away, gaze dropping. “Gotta keep Fucking Jerry busy somehow.”
Emory gets back in the truck, slamming the heavy door. I’m still frozen in the passenger seat, reeling from what just happened. We don’t speak, the cabin of the truck thick with a heavy, tense silence. He swings the car into the driveway and pulls it into the garage.
Before he reopens the door, I ask, “Did you know?”
Emory sighs, gaze dropping to the keys in his hand. “Vandy, look—”
It’s enough. If he knew, odds are my parents knew, and if he’d been at the school, they knew, too.
Reynolds McAllister, the boy who broke me, is finally back.
And no one had the guts to tell me about it.
I storm as fast as my defective leg will take me into the house, carelessly tossing my backpack on the kitchen table. Conveniently, both of my parents are standing near the island. Dad is still in his blue scrubs from the hospital. My mother looks up and obliviously asks, “Hey honey, how was the first day of—"
“When were you going to tell me?” I hate the way it comes out. Not angry, despite the way I feel. It comes out small and wounded.
My mother blinks and glances at my father, her expression confused. “Tell you—"
“She saw Reyn,” Emory says from the garage door.
“Ah,” my mother starts, but touches her neck, like she’s trying to force more words to come. They don’t.
“We were going to tell you tonight at dinner,” Dad says carefully.