Page 48 of Broken Trails
But she isn’t one of them anymore. Not even close.
I lug the last box into the granny flat out back. Now that Harrison and Imogen have their own place—a brand-new, spacious three-bedroom build just down the road—this space is mine.
Harrison swears moving so close was for the kids, but Imogen insists he just didn’t want to be too far from me.Clingy bastard.
I’ve been shifting my stuff in, bit by bit, making it mine. Since they left, the main house has felt… quiet. Empty in a way I’m still not sure I like. Not that I’m complaining—this flat’s peaceful, tucked away, exactly how I like it. The last thing I bring in is my bedside lamp. To anyone else, it’s just junk. To me, it’s the one thing that’s followed me everywhere.
It’s the only thing that’s ever made the nights bearable. It may sound strange, sure, but that ugly, chipped, rundown lamp has always been the line between lying there with my chest tight, listening to my pulse hammer in the dark, and actually closing my eyes.
Even when I was a kid, I’d wait until Harrison was out cold before I flicked it on—just a weak little glow, barely enough to light the room, but enough to keep the shadows from closing in. Enough to stop the thoughts that always crept in when the world went black.
Turns out, Harrison was waiting on me, too. Both of us were way too stubborn, neither willing to admit that we needed it. But once that light was on, we’d let ourselves ease into sleep. It never came easy, not back then, but it came a little easier with that soft glow between us.
A quiet hum of safety we couldn’t say out loud, but we both felt all the same .
Some nights, we got lucky. Other nights, there’d be footsteps. Raised voices. Harrison shoving me into the cupboard like muscle memory. One hand on the door, the other clenched so tight, his knuckles would go white. I’d sit there in the dark, knees pulled tight to my chest, listening to our father rip through the house like a fucking hurricane, praying Harrison didn’t get the worst of it. Hoping it’d pass quickly.
He always did.
And it never passed quickly.
We haven’t shared a room since we were teenagers. Haven’t spoken about those nights in years. But I still catch myself wondering if he does it too—leave a light on. It keeps the dark from pressing in. I guess over time, some habits stop being habits before they turn into armour.
Small, stubborn acts of survival you never outgrow. This one’s mine.
Harrison mentioned last week—over a beer—that Dr. Lowes reckons he’s doing so well he won’t have to see her as much. Then he grinned and said she wants us to do a session together.
“Brotherly shit,” he called it. I laughed it off.
Imogen’s been pushing too. “Might help you, you know,” she’d said. “Doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with you.”
The ironic thing is, I was the one who made him go in the first place. I was the one who’d encouraged Harrison to talk to someone, and I don’t doubt Imogen did the same. And now, I’m the one refusing to talk.
That voice in my head says it’s becauseI’m fine. I’ve always been the chill one. The easygoing one. Or maybe I’ve just always had him standing in front of me, taking the hits. I scrub a hand over my face. Maybe they’re all right.
I owe Harrison more than I’ll ever admit.
Part of me envies him—how he found someone who gets him. Really gets him. Like two puzzle pieces with jagged edges that still manage to fit. I want that. Or, I think I do.
But the idea of letting someone get that close? Of handing over the soft, ugly parts I’ve spent years hiding? I’m not sure if I can bring myself to let anyone close enough to find out.
Not emotionally. Not affectionately.
I don’t date, and I never hang around long enough for a second night. That’s when they start leaning in, wanting things I can’t give. Things I don’t even know how to give. It’s easier to be thelaidback, sarcastic brother everyone expects. It’s just best this way.
So why the hell am I so torn up over one woman now?
Why does she feel like the exception I’ve spent my whole life avoiding?
A knock pulls me out of my thoughts. I glance over my shoulder to find Mum standing in the doorway, arms crossed tight. “It’s quiet now, huh? Without your brother, Imogen, and the kids.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You’re not wrong.”
“I liked the noise.”
“Me too.”
Her gaze sweeps the room, taking in the shelves I put up, the freshly painted walls. “You’ve done a good job. It… feels like yours.”
