But even as I have the thought, the truth of what he said slams into me.
It’s not a good time right now.
It’s not a good time because he doesn’t want to be a distraction.
He dese
rves to be a focus.
And in my current state, I can’t focus on anything, except for maybe saving my brother from insanity. Dare deserves more than that.
But my selfish side wants him anyway.
I slide to the floor and close my eyes, letting the water wash my tears away.
***
I don’t know how long I stayed in the shower, or how long I’ve been curled up in the window seat of my room since. All I know is that my father and Finn came home, and Finn disappeared into his room. I heard him rustling around in there.
I heard him clamoring down the stairs, yelling for me, yelling for Dad.
And now he’s coming back up, stomping angrily, bursting through my door.
“Where’s my journal?” he demands, his pale blue eyes like icicles, his thin hands clenched into fists at his sides.
For the first time in my life, I lie to my brother.
To his face.
“I don’t know,” I say simply, staring at him, not blinking. I don’t look away, because I don’t want to accidentally glance at the bottom drawer of my desk, where I have stashed his little book.
“You do, too,” he says angrily. “It was in my room, and now it’s not.”
“I don’t have it, Finn,” I tell him again. “Why are you so upset? It’ll turn up.”
After I have a chance to read it.
Finn’s face is taut and anxious and I do feel guilty for inflicting distress on him. I know what happens when he gets upset, but it’s a chance I have to take. I can’t help him unless I know what is truly bothering him. And this is the only way to find out.
“If you find it,” he says limply, turning to leave. “Don’t read it, Calla.”
I don’t answer, so he stops in his tracks, glancing back at me, his desperate gaze meeting mine. “You can’t read it, Cal.”
I can’t help but stare into his eyes, fascinated by the utter desolation I find there. The level of his despair over a simple book is staggering.
“Why do you feel so strongly about this, Finn?”
My question is simple.
But his answer is not. He turns back to me, and his face crumples and he cries.
“Because things have to happen in order, Calla. They have to. In. Order. Can’t you see? Can’t you?” His skinny shoulders shake and I pull him into my arms and my hands stroke his back as he breathes harshly against me, his chest rising and falling against my own.
“I see,” I tell him, which is another lie because I don’t.
It’s minutes and minutes before he steps away, before he’s gathered control of himself enough to step out of my bedroom. But the look on his face is haunting when he does, as he closes the door and the last thing I see is the despair.
God, this hurts.