Page 158 of Five Brothers

I hold my breath.Keep going.

“People I knew,” he continues, “muddy roads with memories, key lime pie, the couch I first made out with a girl on …”

“You still have the couch?”

“It’s in the garage.”

That’s awesome.I want to ask him if that’s where he lost his virginity, too. Or if it was in a bed, and if the bed is still in the house.

I can’t picture him in a bed, though. My mind wanders, and I see it in my head. In a shower. It was in a shower. He picks her up. She wraps her arms and legs around him, and he holds her close as they do it against the wall.

“What?” I hear him ask.

I blink, realizing the look that must be on my face. I drop my eyes.

“Um …” I pause, trying to find my voice. “Thank you for helping me.”

I hop off the counter and head out of his bedroom, but he catches me in the hallway, taking me by the elbow.

I turn.

“Liv’s room,” he instructs. “You need rest. Mars will make sure Paisleigh gets her bath, and I’ll send her up when it’s time for bed. Mars can sleep in Iron’s.”

He heads down the stairs, and I drift toward his sister’s bedroom door, barely noticing the ache settling in my body. He thought I was heading to Army’s room. I’m not sure where I was going, but yeah, I need sleep.

Closing myself away in Liv’s room, I pull off my jeans and take off my bra, then slip my arms back into my T-shirt, and uncover the bed. I hope Liv is sleeping at Clay’s tonight.

My phone rings. I drop the blankets and pick up my jeans, digging out my phone. Clay’s name flashes on the caller ID.

“Hey, I’m okay,” I assure her before she can ask.

“Good.” It’s quiet wherever she is, so she must be home now. “If it was Milo—”

“I can handle myself,” I tell her, but I’m smiling. She’s worried. At least one Saint still loves me. “You just worry about spending time with Ms. Jaeger.”

“Speaking of Jaegers,” she teases. “Army?”

Great.

I stroll to the window, looking out onto the derelict wing, a wild garden of flowers and weeds and ivy climbing and reclaiming.

“And who told you that, now?”

But she just replies, “Please.”

Just then, a figure moves into my line of sight. Macon walks into the dark, abandoned skeleton of the house that his ancestors built. He moves alone, stopping in the middle of the garden, and stands there, looking down. Looking at nothing.

I can see the leather bracelet from here, the hourglass glimmering as it catches the moonlight.

When he had his arms around me today … My hand was on his wrist. On the bracelet.

It felt the same as that night.

It takes a moment to work up the courage. “Could it have been Macon?” I ask her.

She’s quiet.

“That night on the couch,” I explain. “Can you see it being him?” She hesitates but then states, “You want it to be.”