Survivor (First to Fight #2)(13)

I go around the side of her car, noticing her rear tire is flat. Relief floods my chest and I release the breath I was holding. I pull out my phone again.

Jack: Saw your flat. Hope you made it home okay. Did you call your mom to come and get you?

Her front door is unlocked, which makes me frown, but I pop the trunk and get the spare and jack. I’m just finishing up the last lug nut when my phone beeps.

Sofie: Yeah got a ride home. Not feeling good. See u tmrw.

I cock my head at the phone and frown. Tapping a message out will take too long, so I call her, but it goes straight to voicemail.

Three subsequent tries yield the same results.





Present



MY TIME IS up. On a number of levels.

I have less than an hour to give a response to Jack about my brothers’ fate, the lease on my townhouse is due for renewal at the end of the week, and I’ve used up every last one of my vacation days from work trying to figure out what the hell to do.

I know the right thing to do, what Jack would do in this situation.

But I’m not Jack and my heart is certainly not made of gold.

Going back to Nassau would mean more than just taking care of a couple of teenage boys—though that in itself is a problem I don’t have the answer to. Going back would rip open wounds I’ve been running from since the day I left. Wounds I rubbed raw when I spent time with Jack a year ago, leaving me bloody and exposed.

I close my eyes and lean my head against the couch as I sip a glass of wine. Jack and I have always managed to put up a pretty good—if completely see-through—front when it comes to interacting in front of his sister. When a group of people is as close as we are it’s either get along or go our separate ways. Since Livvie is my one and only true friend, I couldn’t conceive of losing her, too, even though I only see her every so often.

My phone buzzes against my thigh and I know without opening my eyes that the person on the other line is Jack. I bring the phone to my ear with my free hand. “Hello?”

“Need an answer, Sof,” Jack says, his voice coming through the line clear and throaty.

I fortify myself with a generous swallow of wine. “I know you do.”

The line crackles with his sigh. “This isn’t a game. This is their life.”

I chuckle darkly. “Trust me, I know it’s not a game.”

“Then stop acting like a kid and quit playing around.”

Tears burn and I finish off my glass, hating and loving the pleasant warmth and resulting numbness. “Yes,” I answer finally.

“You’ll do it?” he asks.

“Yes, I’ll do it.”

He sighs again, but this time I can hear the relief, even over the connection. “Good. That’s good.”

“You’ll have to give me a couple days to get everything tied up over here. Give notice at work and to my landlord, but I should be able to come back this weekend.” Having made the decision, the rest comes more easily. In for a penny.

“Yeah, that’s fine. The boys are out of school for the next few weeks so they aren’t going to miss anything and I’ve spoken to their teachers so they understand they’ll be going through some transitions at home.”

My chest burns and I choke out, “God, you would have made such a good dad.”

He pauses and clears his throat as he changes the subject, which is probably for the best. “You’re going to do fine,” he says.

I get up and cross the room to refill my glass of wine. Next to the half-empty bottle are the charred remains of the papers I’d retrieved from Mom’s house. “I guess we’re going to find out, aren’t we?”

“You’ll do fine,” he repeats.

I change the subject. His comfort is a little too sweet. A little too much to handle. “What about the house? It looked like some of it was starting to fall apart.”

“Parts of it are in pretty bad shape, but I can help you with that.” Before I can speak around the lump in my throat, he says, “Most of your mom’s life insurance will go to paying off her doctor’s bills, the funeral expenses, but the amount leftover should be enough for repairs.”

“I appreciate the offer, but you’ve already done more than enough.” Besides, him hulking around the house with his shirt off is entirely out of the question.

“Look,” he says plainly, “I’m glad you’re stepping up, but I’m not going to go away just because you’re coming back. They deserve some stability. I’m going to stick around, at least for a little while, to make sure you don’t run out on them the first chance you get.”

Well, that hurt. I gulp more wine. “Fine, knock yourself out.”

“I can manage them this week, but then they’re all yours. I’ll come out to the house to finish cleaning up and assess what needs to be done from there.”

“Fine,” I say, peering into my cabinets for more wine. If I’m going to need to be an adult, I might as well finish off the booze I have now before I become responsibility’s bitch.

“I’ll get in touch with the social worker and I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”

“Wonderful.” I pop open another bottle, eyeing it appreciatively.

The sound of a door opening and a feminine voice filter over the line. “I’ve gotta go, but call me when you’re on your way back, okay?”