“No,” she says dryly. “Not really.”

I pull her into me and kiss her. Her hands come up to grip my arms, and when I pull back, it’s to lean my forehead against hers. “Are we ok?” I ask softly.

She nods and brushes my lips again. “Always, Jokes.”

Chapter 26 : After

Being with you is never

Easy.

It's long nights and

Cryptic answers, and Constant challenges.

(Rike’s poems to Peyton)

Being back at the house is like living someone else’s life. The first few days are awkward as I navigate around Scott and Rike. They’re both busy for the first two days after I arrive, building ramps and supervising the crew moving Scott and Lindsay’s bedroom downstairs. I drift between them, trying to find where I belong. The problem isn’t them. They both are quick to include me in all their conversations, ask me what I want to do and eat and if there’s a movie or a song I want to hear—they’re so quick and eager, it’s almost suffocating.

And when I do snap at them and slap them back into their place, they regard me with wide, hurt eyes. Like I just smacked their puppy instead of their feelings.

That happens four times before I retreat into my loft studio and hide there for most of a day. Rike comes twice to check on me, but it’s a cursory thing. He’s distracted. And I understand. We both get it. I’m here for Lindsay and the family the four of us created, more than I am for him.

Or. That’s what I keep telling myself.

The truth is, I’m here for both. Lindsay is allowing me to come back under a pretense that gives me some dignity instead of me calling and sobbing that I miss him. Because I did. I don’t think I realized how much I missed him until I’m back, and he’s everywhere and nowhere, a constant fucking presence that keeps me grounded and high.

It’s a little disconcerting. And I would never admit this to anyone—except perhaps Lindsay—but I love it.

“Babe?”

I blink as Rike appears at the top of my staircase. I’m sitting in front of an easel, working on a watercolor that hasn’t really taken shape for me yet. I’ve been sketching since I hugged Brody goodbye in Austin. This is the first time since I woke up in the hospital that I’ve touched paints. His eyes go wide as he takes that in, and I see the struggle to not comment. To treat me like I’m just the girl he’s been with forever, and not the mental case we both know I am.

I glance over him—he’s wearing faded jeans with a few rips in them, a tight-fitting t-shirt that bares his tattooed arms. His hair is pulled into a messy bun at the back of his neck, exposing his bright blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, and infectious smile.

“Are you going with us?”

I nod, and drop my brush into a vase full of water. Wipe my hands dry on my apron and tug it over my head. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Scott is almost vibrating with impatience next to the truck, and he gives me a sick look when we approach. Unexpectedly, for both of us, I give him a quick hug. “Let’s go get your girl.”

He clings to me for a long minute and when he pulls back, it’s with a shaky sigh. He nods and I give him a small smile. Slide into the backseat of the truck while the boys climb in.

“You good, bro?” Rike asks, his voice low.

Scott shrugs. “Let’s just go.”

Lindsay still isn’t committed to coming home. She wants to go to her parents, and call off the engagement. But Jillian told her flat out that coming home wasn’t an option. A month. She made Lindsay promise to stay with us for one month, to give her time to get the family home ready for a wheelchair and locate a physical therapist for her. Lindsay bitched and threw a fit, but Jillian was implacable.

When she left the hospital, her daughter screaming behind her, she looked at me and Scott standing outside her door. “You have a month. If anyone can get her back, it’s you. Don’t waste it.” Then she kissed my cheek, hugged Scott and got the hell outta dodge. Leaving us with the furious, sullen girl.

She’s sitting in her wheelchair when we arrive. It’s actually hers, not a shitty loaner the hospital is sparing for her. It’s motorized, and she has a tablet and phone strapped to the side table. It’s even bright pink.

“You’re late,” she says shortly, glaring at Rike. I bite my lip to keep from snapping at her.

Lindsay has always fought with the people she loves, to keep them distracted or to distract herself. Whoever is the safest for her to fight with becomes her target.

I pause in the doorway.

How the hell do I know that? It’s not something that was written down in my journals. I shake my head and focus on the Lindsay.

She’s watching me, and I see hope flare there, and then it’s gone. “You came back,” she says flatly. I nod and she laughs. “How long are you going to stay this time?”

“Linds,” Rike says, his voice sharp.

“It’s fine,” I say, glancing at him. Calling him down. This isn’t about him. I didn’t just run from Rike. I ran from all of them, and I ran when she needed me. If I were in that chair, I’d be just as angry.

“I’m here,” I say, meeting her angry gaze. “I’m not going anywhere. How about you?”

She glares at me, but she doesn’t argue anymore when Scott pick up her bags and we leave the hospital together.

The ride home is tense and silent. Rike talks about a client he’s been working on. I’ve figured out, through a little bit of trial and error, that Rike specializes in large pieces. He’ll do anything, but he prefers large tattoos that are heavy on the intricate detail work. He did the mandala on his side that covers an ugly scar that he refuses to talk about.

And I know he sketched the art that Scott has on his back.

The talk of tattoos doesn’t do anything to draw Lindsay out of her shell, and we get home in near silence.

The wraparound porch has been added to. A long, wide ramp curves around it, and the patio table has been cleared. Her eyes go wide and she darts a look at Scott before she blinks, going blank. I say, softly, “He’s been working hard to make this a place for you.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not what he should be working on. He should be on tour by now.”

I laugh, and push out of the truck. “He won’t go anywhere while you need him.”

***

After three days of the four of us in the house, we’re beginning to find a rhythm. Rike spends his mornings sketching, and his afternoons with me or Scott. Evenings are for the tattoo shop, before he comes home, tired but happy, and falls into bed to fuck me until we’re both exhausted.

Lindsay spends all morning in her bedroom, bitching when Scott drags her to physical therapy. When he retreats to practice with his band, her mood improves and she sits quietly reading or working from her computer while I sketch and write.

And I drift, absorbing everything silently. Every night, Rike watches me with those bright blue eyes, quietly, hopefully, and every day, I have to admit that nothing is changing.

“I think,” I say on the third night, while we’re lying on the chaise in my studio, catching our breath after sex, “that if I don’t remember what we were, it would be ok. That we would be ok. I don’t have to remember everything to know that I could be happy with you.”

His face softens, and he leans down, brushing a kiss over my lips before he rolls to curl against my back, holding me tight to him. “I want you to remember, sweetheart. I want you to know what we had. But if you don’t—you’re right. We will be happy. It doesn’t change the way I love you.”

“Do you think it’s easier for us because I wear my scars inside?” I ask.

He sighs and shrugs. Kisses my shoulder. “We can’t fight that one, Fish. They’ll stand or they won’t, and we can only do what we’ve always done—love them as much as we can, and be there for them.”