Page 96 of Crew
"No." He turned to face me. His eyes bore into mine. "No matter what happens, I'm not going anywhere."
I felt my throat tightening again, that same damned wetness forming in my eyes. I curved my pinkie around his.
"We're crew," he added. "We don't leave."
Oh. "Yeah," I managed. "We're crew."
"Seriously, are you okay?"
I nodded. "I'm okay."
My eyes went back to the house, a different sort of yearning burrowing a hole in my chest. I felt Cross' entire body soften, and he moved his arm to rest over my shoulder. His pinkie never unhooked from mine, and I lifted my hand to keep holding on.
He rested his head against the side of mine. "You never love the ones who are going to go."
"What do you mean?"
"That's why you dated Drake. You didn't care if he left."
I almost sucked in my breath. It was true. I hadn't realized until now. "That's why I liked him?"
"Lust is not exclusive to need and love. You lusted after him. You didn't need him."
A ball dropped from my throat to my stomach. He had no idea what he'd just said to me, and I didn't respond.
I shifted my body to rest back into him.
We'd sat like this so many times, but this time, Cross did something new.
He leaned back, his arms bracing behind him, and I almost fell into him. He caught me, easing me to lie on his chest, and wrapped his arm around my waist.
He was holding me.
And I let him.
We didn't talk for the rest of the night. We never moved either.
It was dawn when I walked back into my house, Cross right behind me.
I was going to get dressed, and then we'd go to his house so he could do the same before school. It felt right having this closeness with him again--not that we hadn't been close before, but there'd been a brief interval when we hadn't been himandme, just him and me.
I'd stepped into the hallway, turning toward my bedroom when I heard the floor creak behind me.
I stiffened, knowing it wasn't Cross. He was just coming through the screen door.
"Why do you do that?"
My brother.
My heart dropped. He sounded mad, and I turned to find that he was. Or he wasn't. He had bags under his eyes. He seemed to have aged in just the few hours since I last saw him.
He wore a ripped T-shirt and grey sleeping pants.
I took a beat to consider my options.
Technically, I'd fucked up. He had been the nice one, checking on me yesterday, giving me space after the Ryerson fight. And Heather had asked me not to leave, but as I sat in the house yesterday, it had hit me.
If I followed their rules, they would keep piling them on.
