So, I press my palms flat against his chest, applying enough pressure to make my intentions clear. He listens to the silent request, falling back a step, hands hovering, palms up, waiting for me to return to his embrace.

“Thank you for caring for me,” I say, turning to my truck.

“I don’t just care for you, Zoey.”

Coward that I am, I keep my eyes forward, wishing I could run. But then my ankle would give out, and Warner would come after me, and I might do something horrifying, like cry in his arms and beg for forgiveness and promise that I’ll stay.

So, I walk away at a normal pace.

But I don’t look back.

48

ZOEY

Cruising around to clear my head is difficult when I’m driving a stick shift and my right wrist is broken and my left ankle is bruised. After stalling out for the third time at a Stop sign, I turn the headlights toward home.

Well, Grandma Minnie’s cabin.

I don’t feel like I have a home anymore.

Warner started to take on the qualities of a home. When I was lost, I wanted to be where he was. When anxiety made my shoulders tense and my back ache, he was my comfort. When I hesitantly thought about the rest of my life, he was there.

Not anymore though.

When I pull up the drive, the house is lit up, the porch lights revealing my four brothers lounging in the rockers I’ve restored. Each one of them has a different instrument. They don’t seem to be playing—yet. When I shut off the engine and step out into the cool night, I catch a few experimental twangs.

Tuning up.

They’re all focused on their instruments until I step into the pool of porch light. Then, as if attached to the same puppet strings, each one tenses and leans forward.

“What’s wrong, Zoey?” asks Donovan.

“You’ve been crying.” Abram homes in on my face.

I brush fingers along the tops of my cheeks, finding that he’s correct. Bet my eyes are a puffy red mess.

“Was it Warner? Glitter or no, we’ll go fuck his shit up.” Carver is already standing, setting his fiddle to the side.

“Knew we were going to give him a beatdown at some point,” Byron says, as if compelled to add his voice to the barrage.

An uncomfortable wave of affection and resentment crashes over me.

I love my brothers. But sometimes, the only thing I need is for them to shut up.

“Just leave it alone,” I mutter, heading for the front door.

“Not going to happen. Tell us where he is.” Abram steps toward me, all menacing and tall. As if I would ever give in to his intimidation tactics.

Instead, my good hand slaps against his chest, attempting to shove him, but barely managing to make him rock.