His nostrils flare.
Distaste ripples through his features as if he hates St. Mary’s even more. I get it. I do. Despite my love for it, I hate this place sometimes as well. Especially when it stands between us like this.
Finally he sighs sharply. “All right.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. For your sake.”
“What?”
He bends down a little as he says, “I want you to understand something: I don’t care about my reputation. Fuck my reputation. The only reason I came to talk to you that day about her was because she was going to. And as I said before, I don’t want anyone bothering you in this godforsaken place that you love so much, so I decided to step in. And that’s the only reason why I won’t come to pick you up.”
My breaths are all scattered right now. At the revelation.
About why he talked to me that day.
He hurt me by his questions. Even though I knew I shouldn’t have taken them personally. But I’m so relieved now.
So… glad and overwhelmed.
Because he did it to protect me.
Even when he was pretending that he didn’t remember me.
“Conrad, I…”
I’m not sure what I was going to say but his name on my lips makes his eyes flash as he continues, “At the gate.”
“What?”
He grinds his jaw. “I’ll be at the bend of the road. Just up ahead.”
“But —”
“I’m not letting you take the bus,” he says again, his eyes dark and determined.
And I’d argue more, but honestly I don’t want to.
I don’t want to argue with him.
When all I want to do is hug him again.
Kiss him.
Thank him.
But since I can’t do any of those things right now, I nod and give him what he wants. “Okay.”
“Good.”
With that, he steps back, ready to leave, when I notice something about him.
Something so very, very crucial.
I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. I mean, I was waiting for it, or rather hoping and willing it back.
Maybe it’s that his hoodie kept it hidden from me, but…
“Your hair,” I breathe out and he halts in his tracks. “It’s long. Like, longer than before.”
It is.
It’s not as long as it was that first night, but it’s longer than it was when he arrived here. In fact, now that I’m paying attention, I can see the strands curling at the end, grazing the neck of his hoodie. I can even see a few flicks over his forehead when he raises his hand and pushes them back.
I shake my head, my eyes wide. “Are you… Are you growing it out?”
He looks… embarrassed.
That’s the only way to describe it. That’s the only way to describe the way he averts his eyes for a second and breathes out, frowning. And the way he pushes his fingers through his hair again.
“You could say that,” he replies finally.
My heart expands in my chest. Expands and expands.
And expands.
“Why?” I ask.
His eyes come back to me, flashing. “Because I thought it’s time I felt the air. In my hair.”
I’m in his house.
I’m standing in the living room, taking everything in with what I know are wide, wide eyes.
But I can’t help it.
This is his house. His home.
He lives here.
My thorn lives here, and the very first thing I know right away — that I knew right as soon as I stepped through the door — is that this house, this place has character.
Not the kind that comes from crown molding or vintage light fixtures or a classic black and white tile backsplash, no. It’s the kind of character that comes from living here.
Living here for years and years, so that the house takes on your personality. That you can tell just by looking at it that a family, a loving family, calls this place their home.
Four brothers and their loving sister.
The fact that the sister is my best friend, Callie, I’m trying to ignore. Although it’s hard because her signature is everywhere: in the colorful throws on the couch, the blue rug under the coffee table, that knitting basket by the fireplace.
But I’m trying to focus on the other people who live here as much as I can.
From everything that Callie has told me about her brothers over the last year, I can figure out that the big bookcase by the far wall is mostly used by Stellan, who’s a big reader. There are a few framed vintage car posters scattered around this large space that I think are courtesy of Shepard, who loves cars. And under the huge TV — which I know that all the brothers chipped in to buy because sports! — sits a complicated gaming console which I think definitely belongs to Ledger but from what I hear is fought over by all the brothers alike.
Well, except one. I think.
Who for some reason is standing by the door, leaning against it, his arms folded.