Forged(13)

“It’s possible,” Adam says. “Makes a heck of a lot more sense than him striking out of the blue. Especially when he’s already suspected the location for months.”

Aiden covers my fist with his palm. “Paper beats rock. Again. Are you even trying, Gray?”

I nod enthusiastically.

“We’re still hoping for the best,” Adam continues. “And Elijah should know more about the damage soon. Actually, he might have already reported back, but I haven’t reached out to Vik yet. Now about the key cards . . . Were you able to get them squared away?”

Aiden clunks my two exposed fingers with his fist. “Gray, you’re bad at this.”

“Maybe you’re a supergifted, mind-reading cheater,” I tease.

I try to make out what’s being said about the key cards, but Aiden won’t quit jabbering.

“That’s what Jackson always said: that I was reading his mind.” The boy tenses up at his mention of the Forgery. “I’m glad you’re here. And everyone else. Even Bree. She had that gun when I met her in Stonewall, but she’s just not as bad as I thought.”

“No, she’s not bad at all,” I agree. “She’s pretty awesome.”

Aiden squints at me. “She’s pretty? Or she’s awesome?”

“Both.”

“You like her,” he says, eyes wide like he’s accusing me of a heinous crime.

“Well, I wasn’t trying to keep it a secret.”

“Yuck. Girls are gross.”

I wrap my palm over his fist—I’ve finally won a round—and give it a playful shake.

“Just wait, kid. You might change your mind.”

“Never. And if I do, I’ve got at least”—he looks at me, counts our age difference on his hands—“ten years still.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Try more like four or five. Tops.” His nose scrunches up. “Don’t believe me? Ask Clipper about Riley.”

As if on cue, Clipper emerges from the bedroom, yawning and mumbling about being thirsty. Aiden scrambles off the couch and tails him into the kitchen.

“Clipper, how old are you? And who’s Riley?”

I head downstairs, grinning. It’s dark in the bookshop, but I can hear Blaine ranting to Sammy about something as I descend the stairs.

“I just don’t understand what happened,” Blaine says. “I know he’s been through a lot, but he’s acting like I’m a stranger. It’s like he can’t stand to look at me.”

“Well, he did shoot a Forged version of you,” Sammy responds. “That probably messed him up a little.”

“He what?”

“I thought you knew.”

“No!” Blaine practically shouts. “He didn’t say a thing. He didn’t even—”

They see me now, because I haven’t slowed or bothered to stay quiet. Blaine’s holding the bottle in one hand, and it’s obvious he’s had too much. His eyelids are heavy, his mouth hanging open.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demands.

“Because I knew you’d never let it go. That you’d ask every single day if I’m okay. And I am. I’m fine! Things are hard enough already without adding more guilt and grief to the situation.”

“So it’s better to act like it didn’t happen? To keep me in the dark? No wonder I can’t help you.”

I hate when Blaine sounds disappointed like this. He acts like all I’ve ever done is inconvenience him. To him, I’m a child. A small, helpless thing he has to take care of.

“If you were truly concerned you would have demanded answers, Blaine. But that would have been too hard, standing up to me, butting heads. So you drag Sammy into it and dance around the issue from a safe distance. Where you won’t hurt or upset anyone. Well, guess what, Blaine? I’m upset. It backfired and I’m so upset I’d throw a punch if I didn’t think you were too wasted to slug me back.”

I knock into his chest as I storm onto the street. If I were a better person I’d take a few deep breaths and shake it off, accept that Blaine is drunk and talk to him about it in the morning. But even then it won’t change the heart of the problem. I now have what I never wanted: Blaine’s pity. Blaine worrying about me more than he already does. Blaine acting like the damn parent when I’ve already had and lost two and what I really need is my brother. Someone who talks to me, instead of running off to chat about the things that haunt my nightmares with others.

I hear the door bang open.

“You’re acting like a child, Gray.” I walk faster, not sure where I’m going, but happy so long as it takes me away from Blaine. “Gray! Don’t you dare—”

I twist. “What? Speak my mind? One of us has to.”

“I was going to say don’t you dare leave,” he shouts back. “You’re running away from your problems because you’re too scared to face them like a man.”

That does it. I’m on him in a heartbeat, my left hand clutching the front of his jacket, my right curling into a fist. Sammy forces his way between us, shoves me backward.

“Go cool off!”

“Stay out of this, Sammy!”

He shoves me again, so hard I stumble. “Now, Gray!” With his other arm around Blaine, Sammy pulls him toward the bookshop. “Inside,” he orders. “Gray will be back when he’s ready.”