Underneath the Sycamore Tree(52)

The bathroom mirror shows me a new kind of flush to my cheeks. Not one caused by disease or cold air, but by Kaiden. Maybe I could have pretended it was early winter’s caress when I came in to peel off my scarf and coat, but my swollen lips said something else.

That’s why Kaiden is on the couch, with the pillow and blanket Mama gave him. At first, my face burned when she chanced us both a look before passing him things to use for tonight, but then I smiled.

Because Mama noticed.

Mama saw me.

Flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and all.

Now I’m curled in my room, touching my lips that are nothing extraordinary since hours have passed. I kept squirming on the couch when I agreed to watch TV with everyone, because Kaiden kept finding ways to nudge me with his knee or brush my arm with his hand, so I opted to change and go to bed. Mama and Grandma followed suit, telling me goodnight before we closed ourselves in our rooms.

My phone’s reading app is up, but I’ve been rereading the same page for the past five minutes. I’m distracted, my brain replaying what happened outside over and over until my heart is racing like it did before.

Not even my favorite romance books can get me to stop thinking about what happened.

My first kiss.

With Kaiden.

I’m sure by typical standards, I should have been kissed by anybody else—a band geek, a drama nerd, an outcast. Not my stepbrother. Not the person who’s isolated me since moving, going hot and cold in an instant like the broken faucet in the kitchen downstairs.

I try focusing back on the book.

Two sentences in, my bedroom door quietly opens.

I hold my breath.

“I shouldn’t be surprised you’re reading,” he muses, creeping in the room after shutting the door with a soft click.

I sit up in bed. “You shouldn’t be in here. There’s a reason you were given stuff for the couch.”

He grins, not stopping until he’s leaning over me. “Maybe I’m just making sure you’re all tucked in for the night. Hmm? That would simply make me a concerned family member.”

I blanch. “Don’t refer to yourself as my family member. Not after…” Waving my hand around, I shake my head and avoid his gaze.

He sits on the edge of my bed, picking up my phone and glancing at the screen, making a disappointed face. “I’m surprised you’re not reading something smutty. I hear people love reading all about different sexual positions and calling it research.” He tosses the phone back onto the mattress. “Is that why you read, Mouse?”

I roll my eyes. “I read because I love books. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Can’t. It’s a permanent residence.”

I flatten the comforter around me. “Well, as you can see, I am already all tucked in. Your job here is done.”

His head tilts. Without a word, he turns himself around and practically forces me to skootch over. By the time he’s settled in, he’s taking up most of my bed, one arm bent behind his head in support, and another opened as if he’s inviting me to use him as a pillow.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, having deja vu from last night. My eyes go to the door, worried someone will notice he isn’t on the couch. Usually Mama is the one who will get up in the middle of the night, especially if she doesn’t take her sleeping pills.

Instead of waiting for me to move over, he pulls me into his body. I’m practically laying over half of him by the time he wiggles his way into the mattress and drapes an arm around me.

“Seriously?”

He looks over. “Don’t act like you hate this. Can you honestly say you were restless last night? Do I make you uncomfortable? Or did you sleep better than you have in a while because you were too comfortable?”

I don’t answer.

He turns his head so it’s facing the ceiling. His breathing is even, calm. “I hear you tossing and turning at night at home. You don’t sleep throughout it very often, do you?”

How does he know that?

I don’t have to ask, because I realize he’s always sneaking in and out of the house. He’d have to pass my room, and Mama always told me I was noisy when I got restless. I guess it’s only gotten worse.

Quietly, I admit, “I get nightmares.”

To my surprise, he doesn’t reply right away. His hold on me tightens a little, almost like a comforting squeeze. It’s his version of a hug—telling me he’s here.

“And last night?”

I lick my lips. “I didn’t have one.”

“Do they happen every night?”

Pausing, I debate on lying. If he knows I get them almost every night, he’ll ask what they’re about. Anyone would be curious over what haunts a person’s thoughts so often.

“Not every night,” I settle on.

He knows enough to slowly nod. “I’ll stay for a while. Should probably slip out before your grandma or mom finds me in here.”

I hum out my agreement.

We’re silent for a long while, just listening to each other’s breathing, heartbeats, and other old house noises. I can hear the freezer running as it produces ice, and if I focused hard enough I’d hear the slightest drip coming from the bathroom sink.

Deciding to break the silence first, I rest my cheek on his chest and let out a tiny sigh. “I don’t know why you’re being so nice to me, or as nice as you can get, but thank you.”