Crazy (The Gibson Boys 4)

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Vincent blows out a breath. “You’ve always been her blankie.”

I slouch in my seat and let my wrists hang off the steering wheel. The truth of his words sinks into my brain as I stare at the green suburban parked in front of me. It’s bright with a glossy finish and reminds me of Dylan’s eyes.

“You gotta stop living your life with consideration of Molly,” he says.

“I don’t do that.”

“You do. You always have. Hell, we both did for a while, but your time is done.”

I want to argue, which is my standard response, but Vincent was there. He knows. He saw. He held her too.

But he left. And I stayed.

He grabs my shoulder and shakes it. “Remember when you were a junior in high school, and you didn’t go to the big field trip to Kings Island because you’d be gone on a Friday night during the first of the month, and that’s the weekend Molly’s dad was more of a dick than usual?”

My heart sputters as the memories of that night come back. “Yeah.”

“You’ve always worked around her. And that’s great, Peck. You’re a great fucking guy. But you’re almost thirty now, and you’re holding yourself back in a lot of things because of a woman who’s perfectly capable of living without you.”

I don’t look at him. I just keep watching the sun glimmer off the paint in front of me.

“I know she appreciates you,” he says. “But you’ve done your job. Hell, it wasn’t even your job, and you’ve done it. You’ve protected her and been her friend. And you still can. But you don’t have to sacrifice your life for her. She sure as shit isn’t returning the sentiment.”

He’s right. That’s why it hurts.

Pops always said the truth hurts. He told it to me the first time when he told me not to swing a hammer like I was or I’d hit myself in the forehead. Which I did. “Truth hurts,” he’d said as he took the hammer away from me.

I’ve never forgotten that.

“I like Dylan,” I say carefully, testing it out. “But she’s …”

“She’s what?”

“I don’t know. She’s … wild.” I laugh softly. “She doesn’t really want a family. She moved here on what seems like a spur of the moment. Her shit is stacked in my barn, and she doesn’t even know what she’s going to do with it.” I look at my brother as if that explains everything. “What would be the point?”

Vincent taps the side of the truck, a big smile on his face. “The point would be that you thought enough of yourself to give it a try. Now, I gotta go get eggs so Nana can make Sawyer noodles for lunch.”

“See you tomorrow,” I say.

He gives me a little salute and jogs into the store.

I put the truck into reverse but don’t take my foot off the brake. Instead, I look at that green paint again. The sun hits it, causing the golden speckles in the finish to shine.

Just like Dylan’s eyes.

I grin. She’d wanted me to lean in and kiss her, and fuck how I wanted to.

But then I recall her eyes after telling her about Molly. There had been real compassion and sadness, something no one else in Linton has every shown Molly. Maybe because they’ve never known the truth.

Yet Dylan had asked for the truth. Forced me to open up about a subject I’d simply shelved as part of life.

“You’re almost thirty now, and you’re holding yourself back in a lot of things because of a woman who’s perfectly capable of living without you.”

Pops is right—the truth hurts. But maybe learning to use a hammer the right way taught me something else too. Doing something properly takes more time to learn but gives better results.

I grip the steering wheel, my palms sweaty.

What would happen if I did things the right way?

With Dylan?

Is something like that possible?

I back out and take off for home.

Eighteen

Dylan

“I’m sorry I’m late.” Navie pushes through a rack of clothes and stops on a dime. “It’s been a hell of a day.”

There’s an iced coffee in one of her hands, complete with a pink straw, and a purse dangling over her other arm. Her hair is a mess in some half updo thing. She’s still so pretty that it makes me laugh.

“I can believe that.” I point at the side of her face. “Lipstick is a little outside the lines on that side.”

“Shit.”

She runs over to a mirror on the wall and rubs her face until the red is only where it’s supposed to be. Pop music plays on the overhead speakers as Navie fixes her hair.

I go back to the rack of clothes in front of me. An eggplant-colored shirt hangs on the end, and I hold it up to my body.

“Not your color,” Navie says, coming my way. “I like the cut, though.”