Page 95 of Beautiful Distraction

“When I was fifteen, my father decided that it was time mybrothers and I got our own space. I think he did it to get rid of us. We werequite the noisy bunch.”

I spin in a slowcircle, taking in the guitar and musical instruments set up in a corner. Even Iknow this isn’t the usual stuff you get in the shops. It’s way too polished andhuge, and there’s other stuff, like amplifiers and other black boxes, I thinkare for recording, but I’m not sure.

“Is one of your brothers a musician?”

“All of us were,” Kellan says. “We had our very own band. Wecalled ourselves The Boyd Brothers, until we grew too old and developed otherinterests as well.” He winks. “Think girls and panties.”

Yeah, that’s exactly the kind of story I don’t want to hear.

I pick up the guitar. “Is this yours?”

He steps behind me. I expect him to reach out and take itout of my hands, but he doesn’t. “How did you know?”

My fingers travel over the initials engraved on it. “It saysK.B.”

“My sister bought it for me. It was my first guitar.” Hehesitates. There’s something there. I know it. I can feel his unease, so I putthe guitar back and turn to look at him.

“Sounds like she’s great,” I say softly.

He nods. “When we were young, this was our thing. Friendsused to hang out here all the time. The place was packed each weekend. Therewere parties.” He catches my glance. “Not that kind. The kind where you sitoutside, in front of a huge fire, and everyone’s singing and having a greattime. God, that was such a long time ago.” His voice is melancholic, his eyesdistant, focused on a past far away. “Then, life happened. We grew up. Everyonewent their separate ways.”

I nod, envying him because at least hehadall those experiences.

“And by everyone you mean—” I prompt.

“Ryder, whom you’ve already met, and Cash.”

“And your sister?”

He falls silent, and something flashes across his face.

I cannot bear it anymore.

“Who’s the blond woman in the picture on the fireplace?” I ask,even though I asked the same question before and he’s already given an answer.

He doesn’t blink. “I already told you. That’s my sister. Atleast…was.” There is a short silence. His face distorts to...something, andthen he walks away without another word.

I give him a minute before I follow after him.

I find him sitting outside the barn. I kneel down next tohim, making sure not to touch him. His posture is rigid, his shoulders tense.

“I’m sorry I asked,” I start, unsure what else to say.

“It’s okay.” His voice drops to a whisper. He looks up atthe sky, his eyes dark and hooded, but, oh my god—the sadness.

“What happened to her?” I ask, fighting the urge to touchhim.

There is a short pause, then, “She’s dead, Ava.”

I turn to him, even though I know he probably doesn’t wantmy presence. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too. She died five weeks ago.”

I stare at him, shocked. It makes so much sense. The pain isfresh. He’s struggling to come to terms with such a great loss.

I don’t want to impose, and yet I find myself asking, “Whathappened? Do you want to talk about it?”

He takes his time replying. “She died in a bomb blast.”

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