Suddenly, I sense the presence of someone standing behind me.

“Didn’t see that coming,” Ryder says quietly as he leans against the workbench.

“I’m not in the mood.” I get off the bike and head toward the house to grab my keys when he steps in my way.

“Are you ever?”

“No, not really. Move,” I bark at him.

“Why don’t you just stop for a fucking second? You’re always in such a bad mood, so you push everyone away.”

“Move, Ryder or I’ll move you myself.”

“I busted your jaw once already this week. I can do it again, but I’d prefer we don’t fight anymore and maybe actually have a real conversation.”

I grind my teeth at the guy standing in front of me—my brother. It’s still such an impossible thought to comprehend.

Falling back toward my bike, I keep my back on Ryder. “You want to tell me how much I deserve this? That I should just let her go. I must not give a shit about her after what I said last night.”

“Sounds like you already know.”

The pain in my chest becomes unbearable, like a lump of grief spoiling behind my ribcage. It’s worse than anything I’ve felt by far.

Ryder clears his throat and takes a step closer, holding out a flask. “You look like shit,” he says with a grimace.

Taking the liquor from his hand, I take a quick swig, and the burn quickly makes the pain worse, like accelerant on a fire.

“You’re right,” he says. “You do deserve this, but you’re wrong about one thing. Letting her go would be a mistake. If it were me, I’d go apologize now because I suspect you do give a shit about Savannah. I bet you give a lot more than a shit.”

I don’t answer. I don’t even move.

“Murph, I don’t know why you insist on pushing everyone away. But people will care anyway. Hazel cared. Savannah cared. I care.”

The tension in the room grows thick while he waits for me to say something, but this stuff is so fucking impossible for me that I can’t even utter a word. I want to tell him I care too. About everyone. That the pain of being pushed away my entire life has driven a wedge between me and any chance of me getting close to anyone. It’s a defense mechanism that I can’t rewire or change.

“It’s okay,” he says after a moment. “You don’t have to explain it to me. I get it.” He drops a hand on my shoulder, and other than the left hook he gave me last night, it’s the only contact we’ve shared since he came home. Something about it, feeling my brother’s hand on my jacket, unnerves me.