Almost Just Friends (Wildstone #4)(34)

“Dad—”

“She had to raise her siblings on her own. Well, she had her grandparents around at first, but by the time Piper was eighteen, she was on her own with them. And Gavin and Winnie did as kids do and put her through the wringer.”

“Their parents were killed overseas.”

“Yes. She told you that?” his dad asked in surprise. “She never talks about it. She works hard and sacrifices to take care of everyone else, even on the job. It’s not great pay, and she deals with a lot of people’s BS. It’s hard work, mentally and physically, something I’m sure you can relate to, given your own vocation. But for Piper, it goes on both at home and at work, and wears her down because she’s the sort to take everything on her shoulders, no matter the weight.”

His dad was right; she hadn’t talked about any of this much, but he could read between the lines. She was resilient. Smart. Loving, though he had a feeling she’d deny that. And . . . well, amazing.

“You were so self-sufficient and insistent that you were okay on the East Coast with your mom. I let myself believe it, because I felt like I was drowning raising Rowan,” his dad said. “But in hindsight, it was easier than I thought, and in fact, I might’ve been too easy on him.” His good humor faded. “I miss that kid like crazy.” With a long exhale, he turned to Cam. “I read the police report and the news, but you and I haven’t talked about it. The car accident.”

Cam tried to swallow, but there was a sudden lump in his throat the size of a regulation football. So he shifted, turning so he could see down the hill, beyond the house, to the lake.

“Sometimes I close my eyes at night,” his dad said, “and it’s all I can think about. Was he in pain? Did he . . . suffer?”

Cam felt his heartbeat change, start a heavy thudding that he still woke up to in the middle of the night. Panic. Fear. Terror. He’d been trained by the military on how to deal with all of that, and he’d gotten good at shoving his feelings deep.

Real good.

But that one night . . . Hell, that one half hour with Rowan had ripped through his training like it was nothing, and he’d not been able to get back to that numb place since.

His dad was still facing him, but Cam didn’t move or stop taking in the sight of the water, one of the only places he felt at peace.

The car had T-boned them at sixty miles per hour. Rowan had taken the hit and he’d been bleeding . . . everywhere. Two major arteries severed. There hadn’t been time to do anything but crawl to where he lay and pull him close.

“No, he wasn’t in pain, he promised me he wasn’t,” Cam managed to say. He could still see himself sitting in the middle of the dark street, the car horn going off and utter destruction all around them while he held his brother as he bled out faster than anyone should be able to. They’d had less than two minutes. That was it. “He made me promise him to look after Winnie and the baby they’d just found out she was carrying.”

His dad remained quiet for a long moment. “And so you’re here, honoring that promise,” he finally said raggedly, and when Cam looked over at him, he saw tears on his cheeks.

Twisting the knife.

“Dad—”

That was all he got out before his dad yanked him into a bear hug. “Thanks for not dying too,” he whispered thickly.

Emmitt Hayes was thirty-three years older than Cam, but strong as hell. There was no escaping. So Cam wrapped his arms around his dad, and they both set their heads on each other’s shoulder.

After another long minute, his dad finally released him and stepped back, swiping his eyes with his arm. “So . . . want to help me clean out the fish guts?”





Chapter 11


“When I say whatever, I really mean screw you.”

After another sleepless night, Gavin found himself in the kitchen at the crack of dawn. In the old days, Piper had been the one to put together meals for their little Bad News Bears family of three. Simple stuff, like mac and cheese and hot dogs. Sometimes she’d chop up some broccoli and try to hide it in the cheese, but he and Winnie had always been good at sniffing out anything green, stomping all over Piper’s hope that they’d eat healthy.

Truth was, he and Winnie had been blissfully ignorant, not understanding their precarious position, which was that Piper, a kid herself, was doing the best she could to keep them together. He hadn’t appreciated it then.

Actually, he hadn’t appreciated it until he’d gotten out of rehab with a relatively clear head, if not a still-confused heart. Piper had single-handedly saved their lives and he hadn’t ever given her enough credit for it.

He’d been such a dick back then, to everyone. He liked to think he’d changed, that he’d grown up, though it’d taken him a lot longer than it should have. But hey, better late than never.

This time around, he wanted to be of value. Toward that goal, he made breakfast, the one thing he was good at. He whipped up southern eggs Benedict, with maple bacon on sourdough toast, only he completely forgot about their shit toaster being broken.

The thing was the devil incarnate. The last time he’d been here, Piper had threatened to throw it out, but he had fond memories of the thing from the early, early days when his grandparents had still been alive. Grandma had made him cinnamon-sugar toast every night until she died when he was fifteen, and he’d refused to let Piper ditch it. Instead, he’d promised a million times to fix it.