The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet 1)

Della was not.

She was so many things.

So many wonderful things.

But she was no longer mine.

We were no longer Ren and Della.

No longer fake brother and sister.

No longer the Wilds.

Backing away from her, I grunted around my fury and grief, “Go back to bed, Della. I need to fix this.”

I left her in the stables, crying and beautiful and perfectly screwed up from my lack of skills as a parent. I’d been the one to break her. I was the one to muddle her mind and make her think kissing me was appropriate.

And as I knocked on the Wilson’s door and prepared to face the symphony that I’d conducted, I didn’t think she’d ever disobey me.

I believed I would fight for her right to stay with the Wilsons.

I thought I would shoulder all the blame, be taken away in hand cuffs, and leave Della in the capable control of a family I’d grown to love as my own.

But just like I’d trusted Della never to overstep our friendship, I ought to have known what would happen.

I ought to have seen that as I entered the Wilson’s house and prepared to do battle, Della Mclary would pack my old backpack, dress in warm clothes, and sneak unseen through the starlight, leaving me, leaving us, leaving everything behind until the only thing that was left was her twisted kiss on my lips.

By the time I realised what she’d do, it was too late.

She was gone.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

REN

* * * * * *

2013

DELLA.

Every single part of my life, she was there.

Every single memory, she was in.

Every single achievement and ability, she was responsible for.

And now, she was the reason my heart was broken as I stood in an empty bedroom without her.

She’d gone.

She’d left.

Where, I didn’t know.

For how long, I couldn’t be sure.

Would she come back?

Should I stay or hunt for her?

What was the right thing to do?

My hands balled as a crippling wash of loneliness, despair, and confusion threatened to drown me.

How could she do this?

How could she rip apart our world and then run the moment I’d put it back together again?

How could she turn her back on me when I’d stood before the Wilsons and done my best to repair everything?

For the past few years, Della had spent her evenings teaching me spelling and multiplication and science. She’d traded the knowledge I’d bought her and gave me hours upon hours of her time.

She was selfless.

She didn’t care about hanging out with girls her own age. She ignored the cell phone John and Patricia insisted she had and preferred to check my answers on tests she’d already aced, rather than respond to teenage texts.

Every night, I’d been gruff with her. I’d been impatient to learn faster. I’d been frustrated at her mercy and taken her tutorage, not with utmost gratefulness, but with tense irritation that my inadequacy stole more of her childhood.

Even though I sat stiff and surly through most of the lessons, it didn’t stop my eyes from settling on her bent head or my fingers from itching to sweep away her hair so I could see her face.

I was in utter awe of her—in absolute wonder that my best friend was so smart, so capable, so perfect.

And that was the only reason I’d been able to hide most of my frustration and smile when she graded my division skills and laugh when she critiqued my sentence structures.

I’d never been more thankful for that gift as I’d stood before John, Patricia, and Cassie Wilson. I’d held my head high, able to use words I knew how to spell and give explanations I knew how to deliver, ripping apart their trust.

They’d welcomed us into their home under one condition. One measly condition, and I’d shattered it.

My lips still seared from hers. My dream still tainted my reality. Thanks to Della, I’d just had my world snatched away, all the while, she was the reason I was no longer an illiterate farmhand.

Pushing her out of my mind, I’d focused on ensuring this mess didn’t ruin her future.

I’d make sure she had a better future.

One with firmer boundaries.

One that I didn’t screw up.

John stood with his arms crossed, his maroon plaid pyjamas severe as a prison sentence. His wife stood with furious dots on her cheeks, and Cassie stared at me as if I was a stranger, hugging herself with white-knuckled fists.

No one spoke, but the air was heavy with condemnation. The phone rested in Patricia’s hand either used to call the police or still waiting. Either way, I’d run out of time, so I said the only thing that mattered.

“She isn’t my sister.”

Cassie’s mouth fell open, followed by her mother’s.

John cleared his throat as if he hadn’t been expecting such a confession. “Pardon me?”

I stood straighter, shoving aside the lies we’d told. “I did run away from a farm that bought children for labour. I did raise Della since she was a baby. Those weren’t lies. And I do love her, with all my heart, but our last name isn’t Wild and we’re not related.”