Playing (Inked Hearts 2)

“Of course.” I nod, but the steadiness in my voice is bullshit.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Walker

Sunset streaks the sky orange.

Waves crash half a dozen blocks to the east.

The beach breeze blows over my arms.

But that isn't why I'm cold.

It's the serious look in my sister's dark eyes. The one that usually precedes I'm sorry I slipped again. Please rescue me. Please justify my bad decisions.

"Hey." My sister pulls her arms over her chest. She plays with her black tank top. "I, uh, Dean mentioned the party. I wasn't sure if you'd want me here."

Fuck, that's a difficult question. "You okay?"

"Same old, same old." She stares at her dark nails. "Mom keeps dropping hints that I should go back to rehab."

Sounds like Mom. She's yet to set a date for Bree's not exactly an intervention. According to Mom, Bree hasn't slipped up again, so she's not in need of an intervention.

I don't know what to believe.

I never do.

"It's for the best," I say.

Bree shakes her head. She presses her red lips together. She always looks put together. Even when she's high. "I… I'm not here about that." She pulls a small envelope from her pocket. "Can we have one day of normal?"

"That's up to you."

She offers me the envelope. "No, Walker. It doesn't matter what I do. You look at me as a pathetic screwup. I don't blame you. I know I've made your life hard. I know you don't believe I care about getting better. But I do." Her eyes turn down. "Just take it, okay?"

I do. "Thanks."

"You can open it. Or do it later. It's up to you."

"You want me to open it now?"

Her nod is sad.

Am I this much of an asshole?

I can't deny any of her claims. Bree is a pathetic screwup. It's a dick thing to say, but it's the truth.

She grinds my heart to dust every chance she gets.

Maybe she isn't doing it on purpose.

But she certainly isn't doing anything to stop herself.

The envelope is royal blue. Like my room at home—our parents never really let our rooms grow with us. Hers is all princesses and ballerinas. Mine is baseball and surfboards.

"I do care, Walker. I love you. I want you to be proud of me." She twirls a dark strand around her finger. "I just…" Her voice cracks. It's heavy. Like she's about to burst into tears. "Open it, okay?"

It's like we're kids again. Like we're the only two people who have a fucking clue our parents aren't perfect. Like we're gearing up to watch a marathon of 80s movies—half sci-fi, half romance, all with enough candy to make us sick.