Pushing the Limits (Secrets Kept 2)

“Holy shit. I can’t believe Mom didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t let either of them know. Are you kidding me? Your mom would have worried herself to death.”

It was weird to me, how he still called her my mom. She was his too. She loved him, and I knew Isaac loved her as well. “Everything is fine, though?” The thought of someone hurting him, of anything happening to him, filled me with unimaginable pain.

“Yes, it was five years ago.”

His eyes fluttered, and I could tell he was getting sleepy, but still he stayed and I worked.

A little while later, he lay down, head resting on the pillows, and I asked him, “Do you still have them? The nightmares.”

“Rarely,” Isaac answered quietly. “You helped me fight those demons.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Not anything more than love him and be there for him.

“That’s what you think.”

It wasn’t long before his breathing evened out and he fell asleep. I cleaned up my painting supplies, and he didn’t waken. So I got a sketchbook and pencil, sat on the bed beside him, watching him, drawing him, trying to capture who Isaac was, though I’d never been able to do that in a way I was satisfied with. It was never good enough, never right, never him. It felt like trying to hold on to the sun.

When I couldn’t keep my eyes open, I set the notebook aside, turned out the lights, and climbed into bed with him. We hadn’t slept together like this in years, and it felt like getting something else back, like taking another step toward him, when he seemed so far away.

CHAPTER TEN

Isaac

I didn’t bring anyone home over the next few weeks. What was the point in pushing myself to meet guys and bring them home, in trying to make myself forget about Lane, when I never would? Especially because now he was there, living with me, and all I wanted was to spend time with him.

We’d had dinner together nearly every night. Lane cooked most of the time, though we also got takeout. We’d sit at the table and talk about our days. I’d tell him about work, and he’d talk about painting. One of his friends from Manhattan knew a woman in Atlanta, Kylie, who ran a local gallery, and the two of them had hung out a few times. Lane still hadn’t said anything about how long he was staying. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford his own place, but he continued on at my condo, and I continued to let him.

At night, though, after dinner, when our shields were down, it was almost like it used to be. We’d watch movies, which weren’t really his thing. We talked and hung out, but often we ended up in his makeshift studio room, where he would paint and I’d sit with him. Sometimes we just enjoyed each other’s company. Others I brought my laptop in with me and took care of my own responsibilities as well.

The studio evenings always ended the same, though—the two of us falling asleep together. It was then that I let myself believe Lane felt the same way about me as I did about him. Why else would he do this over and over again? It was likely wishful thinking. I wanted him to wake up, to see how good we could be together, but even if he did, there was still a minefield in our way.

Lane was in the public eye. How would it affect his career if people thought he was in love with his brother? Regardless of blood, that was who we were to people.

I woke up early that Saturday morning to the smell of bacon, which happened to be my favorite—and probably was for most people because how could you not love bacon?

I brushed my teeth, then went out in a pair of shorts. Lane’s hair was tied back in a knot and as messy as always. He had paint on his cheek and was wearing underwear and a T-shirt. He looked up at me, eyes wide and an almost goofy grin on his face that wouldn’t be endearing on anyone else.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing. Coffee’s ready.”

“Thanks.” I fixed myself a cup, then reached for a slice of bacon. “Breakfast smells good—ouch. Shit.” He’d smacked my hand, making me jerk it back. “What was that for?”

“This is lunch.”

“Um…it’s bacon and it’s nine.”

“I don’t care. Have a bagel. That’s what you normally have for breakfast. I’m making BLTs, and we’re going on a picnic.”

I leaned against the counter with my arms crossed. “Oh, are we? You’ve decided this, have you?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I have.”

“What if I have plans?”

“Then I’ll be very disappointed…and I might beg you to cancel them. Don’t make me beg, Isaac. I don’t want to, but I will if you force me.”