Mended (Connections, #3)(68)

“Feel any better?” my brother’s voice asks from behind me.

I slowly turn my head, not sure if any of my senses are functioning. It’s River, leaning against the bathroom doorframe. His eyes are red, bloodshot, even more so than when I left him two days ago.

“What are you doing here?”

He narrows his eyes at me. “I’m here for you.”

“You should be home with your wife.”

“Bell’s with her and I should be here with you. I want to talk to you. I’ve been calling you and when I called Mom for the hundredth time Jack finally got on the phone and filled me in.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. I just want to be left alone.”

He stares at me. “Not happening. We can talk . . . or not. Your choice, but I’m not leaving.”

My heart rate picks up speed as I try to stand up, and he extends his arm to help me. I take it. He feels like my brother. He’s the same guy he always was— except we no longer share the same father.

I get a close look at him. “You look like shit.”

“You don’t look so hot yourself.” Then with his voice full of sarcasm, he adds, “You want another drink?”

“Fuck off,” I tell him. “And I’m not talking about it. I’m going back to f*cking bed.”

“Suits me. I’m pretty exhausted myself.” He follows me into my bedroom.

I kick my boots off and peel out of my jeans before sliding into the sheets. He stares at me and throws himself on the bed.

“Are you f*cking kidding me? You’re not sleeping in the same bed as me.”

“The f*ck I’m not,” he says and toes his shoes off.

I roll over with my back to him and close my eyes. “Whatever.”

? ? ?

When I next open my eyes the sun is filtering through my bedroom window and I’m alone. For a moment I’m the person I always was, but then the recent revelations come back to me. I feel the pain as soon as I lift my head, but I don’t give a shit how my head feels. Kicking out of bed, I glance over at my phone. I turn it on to see missed calls and messages from late last night and most recently an hour ago. My mother, Jack, Bell, the guys, and Ivy have all called. I turn it back off—I can’t deal with any of them right now, not even Ivy. Instead I walk out of my room and through the living room into the kitchen. River’s sitting at the kitchen table that used to belong to my grandparents . . . the people I thought were my grandparents anyway. He’s sipping a cup of coffee and thumping his fingers on the wooden tabletop.

He watches me cross the room to the coffeepot. I pour a cup and move to head out the back door onto the balcony.

“Where are you going?” his voice asks calmly.

“Outside. Where does it look like I’m going?”

“Xander, let’s talk about this.”

I pause at the door but don’t turn around. “Everything in my life that I thought was real was a lie. Fuck, even this house that belongs to me is a lie. It was willed to me by the two people I admired more than anyone in this world and they weren’t really mine. So what’s there to talk about?”

“Stop being such a f*cking douchebag and sit down and talk to me.”

I open the door. “Fuck you.”

“You’re my brother and I’m concerned about you. Please talk to me.” His voice sounds just as shaky as mine.

Closing the door, I lean my head against the cool glass.

“You and me—we’re the same as we were two days ago. Nothing has changed. We’re always there for each other. We always have been. Come on, Xander, we’re the same two kids that grew up together, fought with each other, went to school together, took care of our drunk father, watched over our sister, looked out for our mother. We started our careers together. We know who we are. Whose DNA runs through your veins doesn’t change any of it.” His voice rising slightly, he adds, “None of it!”

I turn around and close the distance between us, taking a seat across from him.

I look at him for a long while before speaking. “You know, it’s weird, but I don’t feel any different. Both men are dead, so what’s it matter?”

“It doesn’t matter. That’s what I’m saying.”

I nod and try to put everything in perspective.

He looks me in the eye. “You know I love you, right?”

I roll my eyes. “I was just starting to think you had stopped being such a * and now you’re going to talk about feelings?”

River takes a serious tone. “No, Xander, I’m serious. I want to talk to you about Mom.”

One solid f*cking hour we spend talking about how I need to go talk to my mother. I tell him I’m not ready. I mean, I’m still digesting that I’m not who I thought I was. All he keeps saying is that I’m the same person I’ve always been—and f*ck, I know he’s right. I just need time. We slam our fists on the table, throw both our coffee cups across the room, and I almost walk out about a dozen times, but the storm passes and now we’re both lying on the huge L-shaped sofa in the living room reminiscing about our youth.

“You should take that ’Vette out of storage,” he says.

“I hate that f*cking car,” I tell him.