Powerless (Chestnut Springs, #3)(13)

I feel a gentle pulsing around my forearm and the press of Sloane’s body inching closer to mine. Her fingers must be squeezing at my arm in a slow, steady rhythm. It almost feels like my heartbeat, the one that has slowed to a dull thud as everything spins around me. Her squeezing is what’s keeping it beating at all.

‘‘I got the call last nisht that he’d missed his scheduled flight, which isn’t out of the ordinary with him. But then this mornins I got a second call where I was informed that something went wrons on their mission . . . and he went missing.”

“What do they mean by missing?” My words come out harsher than I intend, certainly harsher than Harvey deserves. It’s his son who’s missing.

Missing. That word is running through my head on repeat to where it’s lost all meaning.

Harvey blinks. “You know how that unit works. They don’t tell anyone anything. All they told me is that he was on a mission, something went wrong, and he didn’t get on the transport out. They’re investigating now.”

The air is too thin and my lungs too small. The world is too heavy. Suddenly I’m back there on that day. Hot pavement beneath me, listening to my dad shouting and my mom wailing.

Feeling completely helpless.

“I need water.”

Sloane jumps into motion, her dress swishing as she walks across the kitchen and pours another glass of liquor. And I just stand here, staring at the bourbon in Harvey’s hand. It reminds me of Beau’s eyes, of going out and drinking too much with him, listening to him crack rude jokes and laugh too loud.

“Here.” Sloane lifts my arm and curls my fingers around the glass as if I’m a vegetable or something. “Let’s go.” Her hands are back around my forearm, and she leads me toward the table.

I go, too stunned to know what else to do. She pulls out a chair and sits me down. And then she goes to Harvey.

He forces a smile as he looks up at her. “I’m sorry I missed your wedding, Sloaney.”

Her eyes glisten with unshed tears as she drops a small hand onto his shoulder. “You didn’t miss a wedding, Uncle Harvey. The wedding didn’t happen.”

His gaze swivels between us with a small shake of his head. “I guess . . . I guess that makes sense, since you’re here with Jasper and not your husband. The two of you just look so natural together. I . . . I’m sorry.” One broad palm covers his face. “I’m not thinking straight right now.”

A choked sob lurches from his chest. Followed by a matching one from Sloane.

And then she’s there, wrapping her arms around the man who is my dad. In every way that I needed a father, Harvey was that person to me. He’s known so much pain in his life. So much loss and hardship.

Just like me.

And it seems infuriatingly unfair that something like this should happen to us.

Sloane doesn’t offer him apologies. She doesn’t tell him everything will be okay. “I love you, Uncle Harvey,” is all she says as she wraps her arms around his neck and hugs him fiercely, letting him gasp into her shoulder as a stray tear falls down her cheek.

Again.

Sloane has shed too many tears today.

And yet, she’s here. Drunk. And sad. And lost. She’s got dirty feet and is wearing an expensive, ripped wedding dress for a marriage that didn’t happen. Her life is in shambles, and she’s still here comforting other people.

Sloane is selfless.

She might not look it, but she’s strong.

She’s a got a huge heart. A gentle soul.

And watching her comfort Harvey right now, I let myself admit that the way I love Sloane might not be how one friend loves another at all.





. . . A fist lands on my shoulder, but I just laugh. This shithead punches like a toddler. And he just left himself open for me.

My knuckles crack when they slam into Tristan’s face, and blood sprays from his nose, which seems to function as some sort of signal for all his shark friends to swarm me.

“You’re fucking dead, Gervais! I’m gonna go to the back field and burn that filthy car you live in. Put you on the street where you belong.”

His words hurt a hell of a lot more than his punches. I glance around, feeling the press of new people around me.

Everyone assumes that hockey players are popular, I’m proof that isn’t always true. I’ve been reduced to town trash in the wake of everything that’s happened, and these are the kids at school who’ve been getting a kick out of reminding me where I belong on their totem pole.

Today I boiled over.

When I glance hack at Tristan, it’s the boy standing behind him who catches my attention. Beau Eaton. School Quarterback, honor roll, basically the town prince who everyone loves. Never took him for the type to join in on something like thi—

“Tristan, fuck off.” He gives him a shove and steps up, blocking me from the gathering crowd. “Everyone fuck off! Show’s over!” he announces, crossing his arms and glaring back while our fellow students disperse.

Shame hits me. Not only am I the weird homeless kid whose parents left him behind . . . I’m now the most popular kid’s charity case.

Before I can even think about what I’m doing, I turn and run straight for the stand of trees that divide the schoolyard from the scrubby back field. Straight for the old broken-down Honda I’ve been calling home.