Good for You: A Novel (47)

Most importantly, he’d finally left. His rage had only intensified as Aly and Luke had gotten older, and by the time she was in her teens, Aly sometimes worried that he’d accidentally, or even not so accidentally, kill her. He’d come terrifyingly close to striking her temple and had on occasion hit her so hard, he’d given her whiplash that took weeks to recover from.

Really, it was no wonder her brain malfunctioned these days.

“He was worse than bad. Luke told me how horrible he was to you two. My parents are pretty awful, but him . . .” Aly couldn’t read Wyatt’s expression. He looked furious, but . . . protective, too. Just like Luke had always been.

But as Aly regarded him, she recognized that Wyatt wasn’t trying to be her brother. And although he was angry, she wasn’t afraid of him—not even a little. She knew somehow that he would never hurt her, and not just because Luke must have trusted Wyatt immensely in order to leave him the house, too. Why had Luke chosen to do that? Was Mari right? Or had something been wrong with Luke at the end? Plenty of people quit their jobs with no plan in mind. But to also buy a home where none of his friends lived—and then go on a sailing trip that was so clearly destined for disaster? Maybe she wasn’t the only one whose brain wasn’t working quite right. Luke had always been Teflon tough, but Aly had to admit that trauma might have affected her brother more than she’d realized.

“Your father was a monster,” growled Wyatt. “Look at you, Aly. How could anyone hurt you?”

She frowned, remembering how she’d vowed to stop thinking she needed his care. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”

“Everyone needs someone to take care of them.”

“Oh yeah?” She eyed him. “Who do you have taking care of you?”

“No one. So ask me how I know,” he said bluntly. “And for the record, I told Luke I’d take care of you. Even if you don’t like it, I’m trying to do right by the person we both loved.”

He looked so raw, so vulnerable, that it broke something open in her.

“When did you agree to that, exactly?” she asked, but her voice had lost its sharp edge.

“A long time ago, Aly. Way before he . . . before his death,” said Wyatt, who seemed to have lost his train of thought. Then, with more certainty, he said, “He knew he was the only family you could count on. That if anything happened, you wouldn’t have a safety net.” Aly’s father’s family was scattered around the West Coast and had never tried to have a relationship with her and Luke. Her mother had been an only child, and her parents had died when she was in her early twenties.

“Fine,” she said. “But you realize that this means you are only being nice to me because you have to.”

“No, Aly.” He stepped closer to her, so close that she could feel heat radiating from him. “I’m being nice to you because I don’t know how not to.”

Aly willed herself not to look away from him. He was right—this would ruin everything, probably immediately.

And yet she wanted it. Badly.

“Then why are you just standing there?” she whispered.

“Because I am definitely not part of your plan. And this,” he said, gesturing between them, “is not what your brother had in mind.”

His pupils were enormous as he gazed down at her, and Aly thought her legs might buckle. So that whole weak-knees thing is literal, she thought. And yet she felt emboldened—impulsive, even, and for once she didn’t hate that label.

“You’re the one who wants to ditch the plans,” she said, inching even closer to him. “Don’t you want to be spontaneous, Wyatt? That’s what you like, right?”

“You want spontaneity, Aly?”

At once, his mouth was on hers—insistent, searching, starving.

This, she thought as Wyatt’s hands cupped her face like he wanted to protect her even as he devoured her. This is what it feels like to be alive. They were roommates; he’d already told her he could not, and would not, do this with her. And yet the rational part of her brain was shutting down fast, and she wanted him to carry her straight to her bed. Because she had not felt like this in—well, ever.

And now that she had, she had zero interest in returning to reality.

“How is this?” He pressed her against the living room wall and kissed her again. “For spontaneity?”

“Good,” she gasped between kisses. “But I think you can do better.”

“You have no idea,” he said, picking her up so that her legs wrapped around his waist, as he put his mouth to her neck. “You honestly have no idea how much better I want to do.”

Every inch of her hummed with desire as his mouth trailed from her throat to her collarbone. “Show me,” she said.

“This could mess everything up,” he warned, making no attempt to stop touching her everywhere his hands could reach.

“Wyatt, everything is already messed up,” she said, running her fingers along his jaw just as she’d thought about doing dozens of times over the past few days. They would regret this. That much was certain. But when was the last time she did something for the sheer pleasure of it? Heck, when was the last time she’d been capable of experiencing pleasure? She honestly couldn’t recall. She saw now how very perfunctory intimacy with Seth had been. And even before Luke’s death, she’d spent so much of her life jumping from one accomplishment to the next, never truly experiencing the happiness each was supposed to bring.