The answer ricocheted inside me. I was thankful I’d already sat down. A year left with my uncle. A year with the only real family I’d ever known.
He grabbed my hand, and I found his eyes, trying to keep my own from watering. It wasn’t his fault; he shouldn’t have to see me hysterical.
“Miss me one place?” he said.
“Find you another…”
GRAY
* * *
“Did you pay for my uncle’s treatment?” Story’s husky, angry voice stopped me in my tracks.
I rubbed my eye. “I don’t see how that’s any of your fucking business.”
Story ran after me, running in front of me, cutting me off. “Did you even notice I was gone?”
Yes.
Every fucking night I went to bed with nothing save the sound of waves. I couldn’t sleep without her. My eyes ached from it. I wondered every moment how Woodsy was doing. I wanted to go check on him, as it had been days since I’d seen Story, but while she cared for her uncle, my family combusted, self-destructed, and I played an integral part.
Hours had passed since my sister Abigail’s birthday party. Another shitshow. Abigail had cut Gemma’s long, trademark hair and screamed something about her taking the damn dog, Theo.
More fucking family drama.
Albeit…a little funny.
I pushed her aside. “Not really.”
Hurt slashed her eyes, and her jaw quirked. I pushed past her, not quite sure where I was headed. I’d just left the library and was in the heart of the house. A few feet in one direction was my mother’s favorite room, the sunroom. I could also go left, or right, and be in either Gemma or Abigail’s wing.
“You have the biggest heart of anyone I know, so why do you keep acting like you don’t?” Story yelled.
“Because everyone I’ve ever known just wants to rip it out.” I spun, yelling so my voice echoed across the halls and towering ceilings. “Until you,” I added quietly.
Her eyes grew.
“Grayson?” my mother’s voice called out from the sunroom. “Is that you?”
Fuck.
Not a great spot to have this conversation.
I closed the distance, dragging Story by the wrist into Gemma’s wing. Last I heard, she was out getting her hair fixed.
“Gemma’s wing?” she whispered. “Won’t we get in trouble?”
Gemma had fewer security measures than me. Her hallways weren’t guarded, but her bedroom was watched like the fucking White House. She always whined and said it was because Grandfather didn’t care about who came in—he cared about if she got out.
I slammed my arm above Story’s head, caging her.
“I don’t have a heart. Stop looking at me like I do, stop expecting it. Do you want to know what I was doing while you were in the clinic with your sick uncle? I was meeting with the dog that broke Abby’s heart, getting bribed by the last of his money, so I could throw her birthday party.”
“But that’s nice—” she started before I interrupted.
“And I only did it so I could burn that twenty grand.”
She sucked in a sharp inhale.