I nod, unable to find words to respond to her sincerity. I’ve never had an adult choose to take care of me before. Not like this. My grandmother wasn’t an overly affectionate woman, and the only emotions she expressed were to tell someone off or impassion her daughters or me with lectures on how to stand up for ourselves and not be taken advantage of, especially by men. She wasn’t a bad person. Just damaged. She wanted us to be strong and thought the only way to do that was to be the hardest rock. And with pressure, we would harden as well. That’s how diamonds are formed, after all. Or at least that’s what my aunt Helen would say.
Since Grandma’s death, I’ve created walls and edges to protect myself, becoming more and more like her. And as much as I loved her, she lived a lonely life. Her daughters moved out as soon as they were of age. The only reason my mother stayed was because she needed someone else to raise me. And even then, she lived upstairs in the tiny attic apartment to escape my grandmother’s anti-patriarchal rants.
The only time my grandmother ever took off her armor was when she read to me. And when we celebrated my birthdays. She’d go out of her way to make the day about me, like she was trying to make up for the rest of the year—and my mother’s absence for the majority of my life. She taught me a lot, and I am grateful for her candor. I know she tried and did her best. And I miss her so much. But I never learned anything about love. Not from her.
Love was what my mother shed tears in the name of. Love was an adoring smile turned cold over time. Love was words meant to flatter but then became silent when affections weren’t returned. Love manipulated and coerced. Love demanded and took without permission. Love destroyed lives.
But being in this house for the past couple of hours has shown me a world that I believed was only fictional. This family loves each other unconditionally. And apparently, no matter how many times the boys screw up, their parents keep loving them. I’m also pretty sure they hope their sons learn the necessary lesson and don’t do it again—but they still love them, no matter what.
The tenderness in Olivia’s eyes and the concern in her voice allowed me to be a part of that affection for just a few minutes. And I honestly have no idea what to do with it. It’s like I’m fumbling through the maze at Blackwood, trying to find my way. Just like the foreign, sometimes scary and almost always overwhelming feelings I have for Grant.
I’ve been resistant and freaked out by what’s been happening between us since I met him. We’ve become close so quickly; it’s left me uncertain of my footing, like the world is spinning too fast. And I don’t know what to do with the trust he’s instilled in me or how to keep his heart safe—especially when I’m not sure how to trust or love anyone right now. And I don’t want to screw us up.
I pick up the phone on the nightstand, and without reading a single text, I send a message to both Ashton and Grant. My mom’s ill. I’ll be back soon. Can’t talk. When I’m ready, I’ll explain. I need time.
And then I message Dr. Kendall, asking that she remove them from my Contacts.
I know pushing them both away is not what Niall and Olivia would want me to do. They’d be disappointed with me for the lesson I did not learn. But it’s what I need to do. And I can only hope they’ll understand when I am ready. Besides, I tend to learn everything the hard way … just like my stupid brother.
When you needed me most, I wasn’t there for you. Instead, I betrayed you.
When I find my way downstairs, having taken a few wrong turns in their huge Victorian home, the house appears to be empty. I poke my head into room after room but don’t find anyone in them. I set my things on a chair at a round kitchen table. The table is nestled into a nook lined with windows with views of their patio, inground pool and fenced-in, vibrant green yard.
I’m still staring out the window, watching a hummingbird flutter around a shiny ball in the garden, when I hear Niall’s voice in the distance. It’s coming from somewhere down the hall behind a closed door. Maybe his office?
Joey’s voice turns me around. “You’re not driving Lily’s car back, so don’t even think about it.” He and Lance enter through a door off the kitchen. Joey holds out his hand while Lance dangles a key above his head. “You’re lucky Dad didn’t take away any of your campus privileges when he found out you drove it all the way here.”
“Hey, thought you were sleeping,” Lance says. Joey snatches the key from him while he’s distracted. “Dude! I’m an excellent driver!”
“Without a license,” Joey reminds him.
Lance huffs and mutters, “Doesn’t mean anything.”
Having been a passenger once during some of his illegal driving, I’m grateful Joey has the key.
“When are you leaving for Blackwood?” I ask as Lance digs around in the fridge.
“We were just loading the car. I’m moving into Printz-Lee this weekend for soccer conditioning,” Joey tells me. “I still have a few more things left to pack.”
“When do you think you’ll be done?”
“Not too much longer.” He eyes me curiously. “I thought we were leaving after you visited your mother?”
“Uh, no, I’m not going back to the hospital. I’ll ask your mom to bring the bag to her. So I’m ready to get out of here whenever you are.”
“Are you …” Joey stops himself, knowing I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. “Okay. Give me fifteen minutes?”
“I call shotgun!” Lance announces loudly.
“Don’t be a dick,” Joey says, elbowing him.
Rubbing his ribs, Lance retorts, “What? It’s just Lana.” He looks to me apologetically. “I mean, you’re basically family.”
I smile. “It’s all good. I’ll probably sleep the entire way anyway.”
“You know what that means, right?” he taunts Joey. “We get to listen to my music.”
“Great,” Joey grumbles, walking through the kitchen. “Lana, help yourself to anything. I’ll let you know when we’re set to go.”
I explore the living room and another room with really expensive—and old—furniture, taking in frame after frame of pictures. They’re of the family, mostly the boys, at different ages. And they’re placed everywhere—on the walls, the fireplace mantels, the side tables and bookcases. I think my house has one of me, my yearly school photo. But that hasn’t changed since seventh grade, the year my grandmother died.
I smile at a photo of the three brothers laughing while grappling and holding one another in headlocks. Parker looks in his early teens. There are pictures of naked babies in bathtubs filled with bubbles. Camping in tents. Hiking in the woods. I spot Isaac in many, easily distinguishable in his glasses. He and Parker appear to have been close when they were young, before Isaac’s teen years. There’s an adorable image of Isaac sitting behind a toddler Parker on a slide at the park. And …
I pick up the silver-framed photo of a chubby, dark-haired toddler digging in the sand with a pale, white-haired girl—both wearing bathing suits. They’re crouched while holding shovels stuck in the beach sand, looking up at the camera with cheesy smiles.