Crazy (The Gibson Boys #4)(47)

He’s right. That’s why it hurts.

Pops always said the truth hurts. He told it to me the first time when he told me not to swing a hammer like I was or I’d hit myself in the forehead. Which I did. “Truth hurts,” he’d said as he took the hammer away from me.

I’ve never forgotten that.

“I like Dylan,” I say carefully, testing it out. “But she’s …”

“She’s what?”

“I don’t know. She’s … wild.” I laugh softly. “She doesn’t really want a family. She moved here on what seems like a spur of the moment. Her shit is stacked in my barn, and she doesn’t even know what she’s going to do with it.” I look at my brother as if that explains everything. “What would be the point?”

Vincent taps the side of the truck, a big smile on his face. “The point would be that you thought enough of yourself to give it a try. Now, I gotta go get eggs so Nana can make Sawyer noodles for lunch.”

“See you tomorrow,” I say.

He gives me a little salute and jogs into the store.

I put the truck into reverse but don’t take my foot off the brake. Instead, I look at that green paint again. The sun hits it, causing the golden speckles in the finish to shine.

Just like Dylan’s eyes.

I grin. She’d wanted me to lean in and kiss her, and fuck how I wanted to.

But then I recall her eyes after telling her about Molly. There had been real compassion and sadness, something no one else in Linton has every shown Molly. Maybe because they’ve never known the truth.

Yet Dylan had asked for the truth. Forced me to open up about a subject I’d simply shelved as part of life.

“You’re almost thirty now, and you’re holding yourself back in a lot of things because of a woman who’s perfectly capable of living without you.”

Pops is right—the truth hurts. But maybe learning to use a hammer the right way taught me something else too. Doing something properly takes more time to learn but gives better results.

I grip the steering wheel, my palms sweaty.

What would happen if I did things the right way?

With Dylan?

Is something like that possible?

I back out and take off for home.





Eighteen





Dylan



“I’m sorry I’m late.” Navie pushes through a rack of clothes and stops on a dime. “It’s been a hell of a day.”

There’s an iced coffee in one of her hands, complete with a pink straw, and a purse dangling over her other arm. Her hair is a mess in some half updo thing. She’s still so pretty that it makes me laugh.

“I can believe that.” I point at the side of her face. “Lipstick is a little outside the lines on that side.”

“Shit.”

She runs over to a mirror on the wall and rubs her face until the red is only where it’s supposed to be. Pop music plays on the overhead speakers as Navie fixes her hair.

I go back to the rack of clothes in front of me. An eggplant-colored shirt hangs on the end, and I hold it up to my body.

“Not your color,” Navie says, coming my way. “I like the cut, though.”

“Really? I kind of like the purple.”

“I mean, you’re the one that’s going to wear it, but …” She plucks a shirt off the rack and dangles it in front of me. “Try this one. Same cut but in blue.”

“Ooh. I like that.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here.”

She takes the shirt in my hand, puts it up, and then hands me the blue one.

“What’s been going on with you today?” I ask. I spy a cute little dandelion print top and pluck it off the hanger. “You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.”

“I know. I was watching this video online last night about how to cut up a shirt and make it all edgy and cool.”

“That’s a good use of your time.”

“I know. It was one of those two a.m. rabbit hole things. Anyway, I woke up this morning and wanted to try it out.”

“How’d it go?” I inspect a charcoal-gray suit that would look awesome with a crisp white shirt, but it’s overkill for the bank, so I put it back. “Not good, I’m guessing, since you look like you’ve been wrestling a whale this morning.”

She sighs. “Very funny. But you’re right. It wasn’t nearly as easy as the cute little chipper blonde made it look. Hers looked chic and retro. Mine looked like a five-year-old got a hold of her mommy’s scissors and hacked up her shirt.” She scrunches up her face. “Why are things always harder than they look online?”

“That’s not something you hear a lot,” I say with a snort.

“What?”

“That things are harder in real life than you see online.” I wink. “Bad joke. I apologize. But you’re right, and that’s why I don’t attempt that sort of thing.”

We walk through the store, holding up various garments for consideration. I’ve already looked at most of the things in the little shop—the only thing that resembles a department store in Merom. Linton had nothing. Not even a store where everything is a dollar.

Navie slurps the rest of her coffee. The straw sucks air, sending an obnoxious sound through the store that gets her a side-eye from the cashier.