Page 11 of Rebellious

Pulling away, he takes my hand, placing my palm to his cheek. “My blood sugar is high.”

At his confession, I look to his side and find his insulin kit next to him. The syringe is drawn up, and the alcohol pad is laying over it as if someone interrupted him. But I know that isn’t the case.

“Lie back,” I whisper, letting my palm drag across his cheek until I reach his mouth. His eyes close, soaking up the aching reality between us. This is our life. No touching. No nakedness. No kissing. No loving each other.

It’s a hard line. One Bennett makes us write on each other’s skin each time we get close to feeling anything remotely resembling love.

The problem is, I have loved Bennett Jameson all my life. When his father placed him in my arms at two years old, I knew Bennett Jameson was born to be mine. I’ve loved him from the moment he opened his emerald-colored eyes to the day he took his first steps right into my three-year-old arms, and even still, on his seventeenth birthday when he was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes.

No rule will ever keep me from loving him more than I already do.

But for him…

No matter how much he loves me, he’ll never break his rules. He needs them to pretend what we have is merely friendship. And I… I can’t bear to lose him by not playing by the rules. This—his mouth on my hand in appreciation—is the only way I’ll ever feel his lips on my skin. And some days, I can live with that. But those days have been reduced to mere seconds as I’m graduating in eight hours and moving to Boston, taking a job as a sideline reporter when the summer is over.

Away from my family.

And away from Bennett Jameson, my childhood love and friend.

Air replaces the warmth of his lips, and I’m pulled back to reality as Bennett lies back on the bed. I lift his shirt while his eyes pinch closed. He hates needles and my touch; it’s absolute torture for him. But stabbing himself with a needle is far worse. Bennett’s never been able to give himself an injection. He can check his blood sugar independently, but if he needs insulin… he requires me.

Opening the alcohol pad, I wipe it against his skin, taking care to rub away the black marker where, just last night, he made me write another rule: No getting drunk together.

Imighthave tried to grope him, and hemighthave let me had my brother not fallen into us.

“Deep breath,” I coax, pinching a bit of skin and positioning the needle above. His stomach drifts inward with his breath, and upon his exhale, I prick his skin, injecting him. He doesn’t flinch or make a sound, just stays still beneath my hands.

“All done,” I tell him, wiping the site and placing a delicate kiss right next to it—another exception to his rules. Injuries can be kissed and nurtured. He isn’t a machine.

Bennett clears his throat. “Thanks.”

I rock back on my heels and make sure the knot on my towel is still intact. “I’m just going to change,” I say.

He nods, standing, and righting his shirt. “I’ll make some coffee.”

“Thanks.” Yeah, it’s awkward, but sometimes we can’t help it. I could go across the courtyard to my townhome, but that would require me to leave. And with my time with Bennett being finite, I don’t intend to waste a minute.

Standing, I pull open Bennett’s dresser drawers and pick out a sports bra and shorts. Even though we’ve been up all night, pub hopping and bungee jumping, we’re still going for a run. Why? Well, I find running clears my head, and second, our family is in town for tonight’s graduation, and my father insisted he and Bennett’s dad meet us for a run.

Running is a tradition in our families. We’ve grown up with waking at five in the morning and hitting the open pasture. My mother says that running keeps the demons away. My father says she gets her rocks off by making everyone cry at the ass crack of dawn. But he’s done it for as long as I can remember.

As soon as I’m dressed, I head down the hallway, hearing a banging on the front door. Fenn is passed out on the sofa. I kick the cushion. “Why haven’t you answered the door?”

He swats at my legs. “Leave me be, Demon.”

I ignore his bullshit. “Where’s Bennett?”

“Don’t care,” he mumbles. “Go home. We played with you long enough today.”

Aren’t siblings lovely?

I pull a lock of his hair that gets a decent whine out of him before heading to the door and throwing it open. “Hi, Daddy. Hi, Uncle Cade.”

Bennett and Drew’s father flashes me a smile that reaches his eyes. It’s warm and inviting and sends a shot of pain that settles into my stomach. I’m going to miss that smile. Not from my uncle Cade, but from his son, Bennett. Like his father, Bennett is stingy with those smiles, doling them out only occasionally.

Like this morning.

“Don’t I pay for a house across the courtyard for you?” My father’s eyes narrow before his gaze travels up and down my body as he takes in my running attire. My dad is pretty cool most days, but he’s never been a fan of me running in just a sports bra and shorts.

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