Playing (Inked Hearts 2)

Her blue eyes are glued to the screen. She leans back in her seat as she breaks a square from a fancy chocolate bar—this place actually sells good chocolate, though it's still at ridiculous movie theater prices.

She looks to me and offers me the square.

I take it. Nod thank you.

She tilts her head, assessing me, looking for cracks.

Finding them.

She leans in to whisper. "Your sister?"

"Yeah."

I press my palm into my quad. Fuck, it feels weird admitting that. I'm itchy all over. Desperate to get the fuck out of this chair and be somewhere, anywhere, else.

"You want to talk about it?" she whispers.

I shake my head.

"You want more chocolate?"

I laugh. "Yeah."

The guy behind us lets out a loud shush.

It's an obnoxious move. But he's right. Talking during Blade Runner is fucked up.

She breaks off another square and hands it to me.

I nod a thank you and lean back in my seat.

Iris follows suit.

I let my hand find hers. It feels good the way it did in middle school, when holding hands was a big fucking deal. When a kiss was everything. When I actually thought I might love a woman one day.

I try to focus on the futuristic Los Angeles flashing on the screen, but I can't.

This situation with Bree is fucked up.

Usually, I jump straight to denial. Even with the guys at the shop. Even though they all know Bree's an addict.

A long time ago, Brendon, Dean, and I used to party together. Sometimes with Bree. We all drank too much and occasionally dabbled in narcotics.

We grew out of it. Got bored.

She didn't.

It's my fault she's like this.

I should have stopped her then.

Even if she was—is—my older sister.

Even if she was into it first.

I don't want to carry the weight of this myself anymore.

I want to tell someone.