Page 73 of Trigger Happy

He lets out a short bark of a laugh. “Something like that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” The words are out before I can stop them, and I immediately regret asking. We don’t do real.

Or do we?

He gives me a look that’s half-surprised, half-skeptical. “Do you really want to hear about it?”

We always tiptoe around this conversation, carefully avoiding our family baggage, so we don’t disturb this precarious situationship between us. As if not talking about our past will make us forget, but I’ll never forget what his brother did no matter how badly I want to.

“I’m the only one here, so I guess I’m your only option for talking,” I say.

“Don’t know about that. I heard some noises up in the crawl space earlier. Could be rats, or it could be a ghost up there who wants to listen to my tragic backstory.”

“I don’t know whether to be offended or relieved that you’d rather talk to ethereal beings instead of me.”

“Relieved,” he says. “You of all people don’t want to hear my sob story.”

“Are we about to play who’s more broken? Because you’d win. I had a relatively trauma-free childhood, unless you count the time I almost ate a severed hand I found in the fridge because it was next to the leftovers, or the time I got kidnapped.” I pause, quirk my head. “Actually, maybe there is some residual trauma there.”

Another light laugh. My chest loosens. His jaw works as he thinks, but then he sighs heavily. “Sometimes I have a hard time sleeping, ever since…” he trails off, slumping back against his pallet. “It’s the same dream over and over. I’m falling, or I’m trying to save someone who’s falling. My mom, Walker, Dad, or—”

He stops.

“Or?” I say.

Our eyes connect, cedar clashing with smoke. His throat moves on a swallow. “Or… uh, Katya.”

“Ah, the elusive ex,” I say airily, but the curiosity eats me alive. “Are we finally going to talk about her?”

He rakes a hand through his messy hair. It takes a few breaths, but then he says, “After Walker, I was… Well, let’s just say I wasn’t at my best, went through a lot of limoncello bottles. She didn’t want to deal with it, so she packed her bags one day and said she’s done. Just up and left.”

He doesn’t add anything else, but I’m shocked he told me at all, and I feel it again, that guilt wiggling free, so I bury the emotion and pack it away under rationalizations. It’s better this way.

“Want me to track down Katya and rough her up a little?” I say. “I could cut off her middle finger? No one needs it anyway, it only has one purpose.”

I’m hoping for a chuckle, but all I get is a lip twitch. I don’t like that frown on his mouth, except I also don’t know what to say. I’m probably the last person he wants I’m sorrys and it’ll be okays from, but my family’s responsible for his pain, so I feel like I owe him something.

I pull back the covers and lie down next to him. We lie side by side, shoulders barely brushing, staring at the ceiling as the fireplace embers crackle. It’s a while before either one of us says something.

“If you wanted to snuggle, Chastain, all you had to do was ask. You didn’t have to demolish Pillow Peak.”

A joke, that’s better. I smile into the night. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Sure.”

Silence.

“I mean it,” I add.

I swear I can hear him smirking, but then he curls himself around me to murmur in my ear. “Sabrina?”

Sabrina.

Goose bumps prickle on my arm that have nothing to do with the cold. It’s not his usual tone. There’s no teasing, just… my name.

“What?”

After a beat he whispers, “Thanks.”