Three

Nic

I ignore Cade when he starts knocking on the door, fists heavy as he pounds away. I only just manage not to let him annoy me. He hasn't changed one bit. Cocky and muscled with that ever-present himbo look on his stupid fucking face.

Okay. So clearly, I fail at not letting him get to me. But it can't be helped. He's always pressed all the wrong buttons, every single one I've got. And there's a lot of them. His very presence pisses me off pretty much the split second I see him, and that has not at all changed. There's just something too easy about him. The very air that surrounds Cadence Howard is light . Like he has no worries, nothing to stress over. Like he's not forced to carry the kind of weight I am.

And he isn't. He breathes easier than I do because he can. Because his air isn't something dense and suffocating. He'll never understand just how much he's lucked out. I lost a parent when he gained one.

He hasn't changed. At least not in appearances. His dark brown, wavy hair is a medium-length mess on his head, just like always. Same muddy green eyes with lashes much longer than necessary surrounding them. The only real noticeable difference is that the divot in his chin is more noticeable than it once was now that he's lost the bit of baby fat he had.

His good looks were one of the things that made me hate him when I moved into their house five years ago. He's nothing like me, and all of the differences were so glaring and better that I just had to resent him. He was a good son and I was a disappointment, and we certainly looked the part.

Even people at school flocked around him. Why wouldn't they? He was nothing but smiles––as long as he wasn't looking at me––and I was the opposite. Disturbed . My dad actually said that once. It made people––my dad and his new wife, namely––not want to be around me. Even if they were the ones who insisted I be there. Cade was easy for my dad to deal with, to love , and I just… made shit hard.

It got easier once I accepted things as they were. My mom was alone, and I was alone, and I just couldn't do anything about it. So I put up with it—learned to not feel.

When Tracey suggested this arrangement, my immediate reaction was something so filled with dread that I was thrown off. It had been jarring to have any one feeling be so tangible, something I felt with my whole body. So, I lied. I told myself that I don't hate Cade, that I could handle living with him if it meant getting my shit together and learning how to feel again. Seeing him in person proves how big of a lie that was, but I have the chance to move forward. Move out of the limbo I've been bound to for a big chunk of my life, and I want that. I've sacrificed a lot for my mom. I see that now, and I want… more.

Or I think I do. Otherwise, why would I start therapy? Reach out to my dad? Some part of me doesn't want things to stay the same.

There are other parts of me that are missing, a hollowness that makes it hard to feel. And while it is hard, sometimes unbearably so, it's also not impossible. I do feel some things— sad, ugly things usually. But if I could somehow get to a point where the things I feel aren't always sad or ugly… well, why wouldn't I want that?

So, I'm here. In Cade's room. Feeling annoyed because he just happens to be real fucking good at inducing that particular emotion. Being here is temporary. I just need to get a job and save up so I can get my own place. As long as I stay in school––actually finish this time around––my dad said he'd help out. It's why I came so early and didn't wait until after the holidays. I wanted to get a good footing before I actually start school. By the time I do, I want to be on my own.

Well, not entirely. I know I have to make an effort not to be so… lonely. I have my Dad—or I'm trying to. Sometimes, I slip in my head and still refer to him as Anton, but I'm trying. And he is, too. He seems happy to do it even. He insisted on helping me out. With him giving me cash, I'm fairly certain that I can pull this off—be on my own. I mean, living with my mom was basically the same thing anyway. This won't be all that different, but it will hopefully be healthier.

I move quickly as I get dressed, pulling a pair of sweats on and being careful to spread the hemline enough to keep it from dragging over the tops of my thighs.

It's been years since those wounds were fresh, but the scars left over have made the skin there both oversensitive and unfeeling at once. It's uncomfortable. There's a lot of nerve damage surrounding them, and when anything touches those areas, it makes it hard not to cringe. One of my doctors said that there wasn't much I could do to avoid it. Hurting myself has left a lot of nerve endings all jumbled up, jagged. She said that when they're stimulated, my body is just stuck trying to make sense of the mess. Sometimes it hurts, but most of the time, it just feels so fucking strange. It makes my whole body want to recoil.

Cade can be as pissed as he wants to be. No way was I going to let him stay in here and gawk at the mess I've made of myself. And he would have. He couldn't take his eyes off of me, off my chest.

I've had vitiligo in some form my whole life, but––my hair and the spot on my forehead not included––it hadn't been as noticeable when he'd last seen me as it is now. Stress and age have made it worse. When my doctor told me those were likely the cause of its progression, it kind of cemented the idea that I don't have control of my life. And it's hard to expel those beliefs with the proof being right there every time I look at myself. But I'm trying to change that.

The topical corticosteroid she prescribed didn't really do anything except make my skin thin and give me acne, so I stopped using it. Looking at my arms has me wondering if maybe I should just try again. There's a mirror hanging on the door, and one look at it has me reaching back in my suitcase and digging around for a sweatshirt.

It's only once it's on that I finally unlock the door.

He tries to barrel past me, but I'm not as small as I was the last time he saw me, and pushing him out of the way is pretty easy.

"What's your problem?" His face is flushed as he straightens back up. He hit his back on the edge of the doorway, which I'm sure hurt more than he's willing to show. "You literally just got here and already––"

"I don't have a problem, little brother." I fight a smile when he glares at me, his mouth clamped shut as he takes that in. He's always hated when I call him that.

I've never said it with anything less than disgust in my voice and I get why he hates it. But it's my dad's fault that I say it at all. We were both thirteen when we met, but Cade's birthday being three weeks after mine prompted him to introduce Cade as my new little brother .

That in itself had felt like a slap in my mom's face, so I didn't really appreciate it either. She had just suffered a miscarriage that year, something that hit her hard––she lost a baby boy pretty late in the pregnancy. She'd rub her round belly and smile, telling me my little brother was in there. But he didn't make it.

At that age, I didn't fully understand the weight of a loss like that, but I'd seen the damage. It's how I mark the beginning of my mom's mental downfall, the avalanche that buried who she used to be. I thought it hit both of my parents hard, but Anton moved on pretty quickly.

But something about the way Cade had blushed when my dad had said little brother had fascinated me. And sometimes, if I said it just right, I could make my dad squirm too.

" Don't call me that."

This time, I can't keep the grin off my face. He's always been easy to rile up. It's another thing about him that hasn't changed.

When I don't offer the reaction he wants, he changes tactics. "Why are you even here, Nic? Your mom got sick of you and your shitty attitude? Can't say I blame her." He scoffs.

I guess some things have changed. Talking about my mom, bringing her up at all, was something he was too scared to do back then. The whole house had been, really.

" Careful ."

"I'm just saying. Pretty bad when not even your own mother wants to be around you. Now––"

I don't think about it as my hand closes around his throat, squeezing just hard enough to shut him up as I shove him against the door. "Watch yourself." It's only a second, maybe two before I push at his neck to get him away from me, but I get a satisfying view of his panic-stricken face all the same.

His head thuds against the wood as he chokes on a garbled noise. His widened eyes don't settle, like maybe he's shocked that I even did that in the first place. If I bothered to consider it, maybe I would be too. He was the one who had a problem with keeping his hands to himself back then. I was too small to really do anything about it, but we're evenly matched now.

And he pretty much asked for it. The topic of my mom being in this guy's mouth doesn't sit right with me. He's the reason I was taken away from her. I'd be doing her and myself a disservice by letting him run it now.

"I don't have a problem, and I don't want any, Cade." My voice is a lot calmer than I feel. Cade gives away too much with the way he reacts to things. I don't want to be the same, don't want to let him see things he just doesn't need to fucking see. "Leave me alone, and it'll stay that way."

He clears his throat, slowly straightening his spine once again, clearly feeling out of place in his own room. His hand moves, like maybe he wants to feel the skin my hand was just on, but it settles quickly at his side instead.

It's true. I'm not here for the drama, but if he wants my hand around his neck again, I guess I could find a way to be okay with that.

∞∞∞

"A lright, man. You're hired." Alex, the manager, smiles at me as he starts shuffling the papers he brought to the table.

"Just like that?" I had applied online as soon as Tracey told me about Cade's lack of a roommate, but I still expected more than just showing up and immediately getting the job.

He shrugs. "Sure. We called your references already, and everyone loves you. You've got experience, and we need the help."

"Well, shit." That was way easier than I thought it was going to be. "Oh, sorry," I say when he cocks a little admonishing brow at me, but the small smile on his lips tells me he's not actually mad. Still. This is an interview.

My fingers tap over my scars—a grounding technique that is mostly safe—doesn't hurt unless I make it. The thick fabric of my jeans doesn't let me feel the ragged ridges, but it's soothing, the slight pain muddied up by a phantom-like numbness. It can get to the point of overwhelming, too painful in certain spots at times, but right now it's good. Working at a diner, being on my feet all day, will make those sensations worse, but I have pain pills and lidocaine for that if it gets too bad.

"As long as you don't curse in front of the diners, you're good." He goes on to give me the rundown on the place, having me follow him to the office so he can get copies of my driver's license and social security card.

"Well, I have open availability until the spring semester starts. As soon as I have my class schedule, I can get that to you." I say it with as much aloofness as I can muster, but really, I'm hoping he isn't annoyed that I didn't tell him this before he told me I was hired.

I've put off school long enough. I only ever managed to do two semesters, so I'm way behind where I should be at twenty-one. I was stupid in thinking I could pull it off living with my mom.

I'd spent two years being forced away from her, rarely hearing from her and hardly ever seeing her. When I did talk to her, all of her updates involved her talking about getting help. Doing better. Even Paulina had said she was okay when I asked.

She lied. They both did. Turning eighteen meant freedom. It meant doing what I wanted, and she told me that she was okay. I visited, and the house was clean. She looked fed and happy. I had no reason not to believe her. So, I went to school. I left her–– again ––and when I came back, she was worse than when I'd been dragged away from her at sixteen.

My stomach pinches as I think about it. Those memories fucking suck. They aren't all like that. She really was a happy woman and a good mom for most of my childhood. But somehow, thinking about those memories is just as bad.

"Alright." He claps his hands together after handing me my things back. "So, you can start on Friday. I'll schedule you mornings for a while. That way, you can train with Cade."

"Cade?" The bitter laugh that leaves my lips can't be helped. What are the fucking chances?

"Yeah, he's one of our servers. He's the best."

The smile on this guy's face has my own fading. The best. "I'm sure he is."