Page 151 of Bone Deep
“What are you people doing to me?” I ask, shaking my head the entire way toward the kitchen.
An hour and a bottle later, I've changed into sweats and Ryan'sI LOVE MY KITTYhoodie at the girls' insistence that I get more comfortable.
The three of us are sprawled on the floor in front of my sofa, the coffee table shoved forward and covered in empty takeout containers, wine glasses, and the remains of what used to be three orders of dumplings. I'm squished between Cricket and Harper, holding Cricket's phone while they walk me through the complete photographic history of Ryan Buterbaugh, from infancy to present day. My eyes have been wet with laughter the entire time.
Every picture comes with a story. Every story sweetly reveals another piece of Ryan. And I can't help the overwhelming sense of familiarity as I stare at his childhood. Maybe it's because I've let him in more than anyone else. Maybe it's because I know the man he became. Whatever the reason, I feel strangely connected to the little kid smiling from the screen, the little boy with the gap-toothed grin and grass-stained knees, the teenager who looks exactly like the man currently occupying entirely too much of my brain, the college athlete showing signs of the devastatingly gorgeous man he’s become.
I also feel a little like the Grinch. Every story makes my heart expand another size until it feels too big for my chest.
“And this,” Harper says with flourish, “is when he mooned the entire stadium during his last high school football game.”
I look down and immediately dissolve into laughter. The picture is spectacular. Ryan is standing on the sidelines lookingover his shoulder directly at the camera, his entire ass hanging out, and he's wearing an enormous grin, left dimple on full display. The stadium lights behind him don't stand a chance against that smile.
I shake my head, wiping tears from my eyes. “Oh my God.”
“Right?” Harper wheezes.
I zoom in. Then point at the photo. “Sorry, ladies, but your brother has the cutest ass.”
Both sisters groan. Cricket drops her head back on the sofa. “Don't remind me.”
I laugh harder. “I was two years ahead of him in high school,” she continues. “All the girls and gays were obsessed with his rear.”
Something hot and possessive sparks in my chest. Before I can stop myself, a tiny growl escapes.
Harper gasps. “Oh, we love a possessive king.”
I just shrug. It’s not a lie.
“Especially if it's about our brother.”
I bump her shoulder. No words necessary.
Cricket swipes to the next picture. At first glance, it's just another family photo—parents, siblings, aunts, uncles. Normal. My eyes drift across the faces. Then stop. My entire body freezes. The room goes silent. Or maybe that's just inside my head, because suddenly all I can hear is blood rushing through my ears.
No. No. No.
I stare harder. My lungs stop working. My pulse explodes. The woman smiles warmly from the photograph with soft brown hair, kind eyes, a teal brooch pinned to her jacket. My stomach drops out from under me.
I know her. I know her. I know her.
My throat closes as I point at the screen. “Who—” The word cracks. I swallow hard. “Who is that?”
Cricket looks over. Her brow furrows. “That's our Aunt Iris.”
I shake my head. My vision blurs. My chest caves inward. “No.” I point harder. My hand is trembling now. “No.” The room feels too small. The air too thick. “That's Tammy.”
Ryan’s sisters stare at me, confused.
I jab my finger at the screen. “That's Tammy from the Second Sunrise shelter.”
Understanding immediately flashes across Cricket's face. “Oh.” She nods. “Yes.” My pulse pounds harder. “She ran the shelter for years, right up until she died. Tammy was the name she used there.”
Everything inside me starts unraveling.
“When you shelter women from abusive men, you put yourself at risk,” she clarifies.
They had fake names, too.
