Page 83 of No Hope of Rescue

His lips, warm and firm, allow a sigh to escape when I pull away. He stares into my eyes, and those soft caramel eyes look so intently into mine that at first, I want to look away and make a joke. But this is no joke. He searches my face, making a memory. The smile on my lips fades and I kiss him quickly again.

This time when I pull back, his expression has not changed. He brushes my nose with an index finger, just once. A sad smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. I lay my head on his chest and slide an arm on his stomach.

When he speaks again, his voice is low.

“I want to tell you what happened in Afghanistan,” he says. A simple sentence only in the words chosen. In reality, everything about it is complicated.

There’s silence for a moment.

“Are you sure?” I ask him. He is choosing not to be invisible. He is choosing to be seen—even this hidden part—by me, and I want to be certain he wants this.

“Yes.”

I will see you. I raise my head, take his face in my hands, and kiss him again, my heart breaking when my fingers find a single warm tear sliding down his left temple. I wipe it away.

“Do you really want to know?” he whispers.

“Yes.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Riley Delgado

It’s the first week of April and Spring Carnival at the Grange Hall. Normally, none of the Weston boys would be caught dead at a community dance, but Codie is special. Brock always went as her date to high school proms—so this is keeping with tradition. We’re over at Kelly’s and I’m helping. Well, trying to help. I’m usually useless when it comes to a glam plan.

Brock, however, looks amazingly at ease in a full suit. It’s chocolate brown, shiny, and sets off his eyes. He wears a teal and black tie, a crisp black shirt, and a city belt—that’s what I call them anyway—with smooth, sleek leather, not tooled. Good quality, solid buckle. And fancy black shoes. I had no idea he owned footwear without a Vibram sole.

Codie exits from the bathroom in a pretty navy-blue dress, falling mid-thigh with heavy, long leather boots that show off her calves, light wool tights that will keep her warm, and a high-waisted, gray wool jacket. Her hair is up and looks adorable. Her lips shine with pink gloss, and her eye makeup is flawless.

She definitely knows what to do with her eyebrows. I fuss with tweezers and second guess.

Brock grins and blows a long, low whistle.

“Oh, stop,” Codie says.

“What could I get for my sister who has everything?” he asks no one, and opens the fridge. He pulls out a small light pink and white corsage.

Codie laughs as he pins it to her dress. “Thanks.” Then she turns to me and scans my jeans and sweater. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Well . . .” I’m caught off guard. “Ah. One, I’m not dressed. Two, I thought this was a brother-sister date, and three? I don’t dance.”

“You’re going to have to learn,” she says and takes my hand, leading me to her bedroom. With a quick toss over her shoulder, she announces, “My brothers can tear up a dance floor.”

This makes me more nervous. I think Brock’s seen me in a dress once since . . . well, once in a very long time, and that was a shift with a turtleneck underneath. Not a good look.

Codie is sweet and picks out a quite daring “little black dress” of stretchy velvet with a delicate lace yoke along the top of the bodice and satiny spaghetti straps.

“Codie, I don’t know.”

“Get those jeans off,” she commands. “You’ll look great in it. I hope I look half as good as you at twenty-five! Nice bra,” she adds as clothing drops to the floor.

“Okay. Let’s get one thing straight. Twenty-five is not old.”

She laughs again. I’m so proud of her—for stepping up, going to therapy, being strong but letting people in when she needs support. It’s been three months since everything happened, and she’s doing well in college and has been attentive to herself.

“Here,” she says, taking out a curling iron as I slip on the dress. Pulling down the hem in the back, I shoot her a glance. “Well?”

“Perfect. Brock’s head will explode. Sit down on the bed.”