Page 1 of Chasing After You
1
Josh
Eight Years Earlier
Sometimes, when it was late at night and the house was quiet, I liked to pretend that my parents were alive.
It was a silly thing to do, especially at seventeen, but I couldn’t help but dream of how my life would have turned out if not for the car accident that had taken them from me.
I thought of them daily; it was hard not to when I saw my mother’s ivy-colored eyes every time I looked in the mirror and heard my father’s booming laughter still ringing in my ears.
If I tried hard enough and shut my eyes tight enough, I could almost feel my mother’s gentle caress on my cheek. I longed for her to hold me again. I longed for stupid dad jokes and movie nights spent on the living room floor of our old home.
Most of all, I longed to wake up in the morning to be told it had all just been a bad dream.
I was eleven when they died, twelve when my first foster family said goodbye from their porch as the social worker walked me to her car, and thirteen when the Halbrooke family adopted me.
The Halbrookes hadn’t even fostered me before the state gave me to them. I’m sure they were given all of my records and stuff, but they only sat down with me for ten minutes before declaring they wanted me. Thirteen-year-old me was too excited to hear that a family wanted to adopt me—that someone wanted me—that I didn’t question it.
Looking back, it made me nauseous to think about how they acted like they were picking out a puppy, not a human child.
Victoria and Daniel Halbrooke—or Mom and Dad as they liked me to call them—came from old money. Daniel was a career politician; Victoria was his arm candy.
They dressed the part too—him in perfectly tailored suits that smelled of Colombian cigars and money, her in pearls, knee-length dresses, and floral perfume that clung to your skin no matter what soap you used to wash the scent away. Their mansion sat prettily behind gated fences and topiaries in the city’s finest neighborhood.
I learned to sit up straight at dinner, to keep my elbows off the table, to say “sir” and “ma’am” with just enough deference. Victoria would smile at me as if I were a prized show dog doing tricks. Daniel, when he wasn’t at the Capitol or on some business trip, would pat my shoulder with all the warmth of a campaign handshake. I told myself it didn’t matter. I had a roof over my head, clothes that weren’t from a donation bin, and chef-prepared meals.
The only thing that I lacked was their affection, but there was something that made up for that.
My little brother’s love.
Dorian Halbrooke was my life.
My reason to get out of bed.
That first day, when Mom and Dad brought me home, I was mesmerized by the shy little boy waiting for our return. Dorian’s black hair looked glossy and soft to the touch. He was four years younger than I, the quiet to my loud, the thinker to my doer. His pale skin and ethereal features reminded me of a pixie from the fantasy books my mother used to read to me, lulling me into nights of sleep filled with fantastical dreams of adventure.
When my new Mom and Dad explained that it was my job to watch over Dorian and keep him entertained and safe, I accepted it. Even as a thirteen-year-old, I had already understood that they’d only adopted me to raise their child. Dad was obsessed with the idea that his campaign would somehow suffer if they hired a nanny. He was convinced that it would hurt his family-first public image.
Dorian clung to me. He’d follow me from room to room, wordless at times, content just to sit near me while I did homework or read. At night, he’d creep into my bed after a nightmare, pressing his cold, thin fingers against mine until sleep reclaimed him. I became his anchor, and in turn, he became my purpose.
There was a purity to Dorian that sometimes scared me. He looked at the world with wide, glassy eyes, like he didn’t understand how cruel it could be. And maybe he didn’t—Victoria and Daniel kept him in a bubble of wealth and curated perfection. Tutors came to the house instead of school buses. Playdates were screened like business meetings. Everything in Dorian’s life was monitored, measured, and controlled.
I was the only variable they hadn’t accounted for.
No matter how many toys they bought him, how many designer clothes they threw at him, they couldn’t get him tolove them. His real, crooked smile was a gift just for me. His aquamarine eyes glittered when we were alone, going dull whenever Mom or Dad would attempt to butt into whatever we were doing.
As the years passed by, Dorian’s disdain for his parents only grew, while his love for his big brother became stronger and stronger.
By the time he was eleven, he’d stopped calling them Mom and Dad altogether. In public, he used their names; in private, he rarely mentioned them at all.
Victoria tried harder, lavishing him with curated praise, spa days that he definitely didn’t want, and uncomfortable, stiff hugs. Daniel remained distant, more focused on his speeches and photo ops than on the child he paraded around like a trophy. Dorian saw through it all, even then. He had a quiet kind of intelligence—soft-spoken but razor-sharp.
He once asked me, in that careful way of his, if I thought we were like the kids in fairy tales—the ones locked away in golden cages. I laughed at the time, ruffled his hair, and told him no.
He was more like a doll to be pulled off the shelf when needed, being ignored for the most part. Not that I ever said that out loud to him.
We built our own world inside the walls of that cold estate. Secret codes, late-night whispers, stories made up under blanket forts while the Floridian rain lashed against the windows. I was his knight, his hero, his constant. And he—he was the only person who truly saw me, who never treated me like I was a burden or a charity case. His love was effortless, unconditional.
