Page 74 of Broken Trails
Imogen’s voice cuts through again, sharper this time. “So, you asked a couple of questions?”
“Yes,” I reiterate with an exasperated sigh.
“Great. So then don’t be a hypocrite whenweaskyouquestions, and you brush them off.”
Ooft. Her word lands with weight. Because she’s right. She doesn’t mean Zoe.
She meansthis. Me. Clamming up when my brother tries to check in.
“You, of all people, should understand how hard it is to open up,” she continues. “And Harrison’s not interrogating you to stir the pot. He’s looking out for you. Talking about your shit—your real shit—is the only way to move through it.”
I chew slowly, not answering straight away. Because I know where that’s coming from. Harrison’s been in therapy for two years. Since the worst of it. Since the last time our father paid us a little visit. Since Imogen got dragged into the mess. We almost lost Harrison that night. Watching him unravel, watching him spiral to a place I couldn’t reach, was scary as fuck. But in some twisted way, it also allowed him to finally stop pretending like he was fine. To admit he wasn’t.
He’s not the same guy he used to be—and I don’t mean that in a bad way. My brother gives a shit. He always has. I’ve never once doubted that.
But me? It’s not that I don’t talk. I do. When it matters. When it makes sense. I’ve had hard conversations. I’ve opened up when I’ve needed to. Maybe not often. But I’m not some brick wall. Still, when it comes toher… I don’t know what to say. Not because there’s nothing there, but because there’stoo much.
Too much I don’t understand, and don’t know how to name. What she said last night hit somewhere I didn’t expect. Somewhere I haven’t let anyone touch in a long time. It’s not that I don’t think Ishouldtalk about things. It’s just that I can’t find the words to explain why. So yeah, maybe I am a hypocrite for asking Zoe to open up when I can’t even say what I’m thinking out loud.
Imogen flicks a glance at me, as if she just read the thought straight out of my skull. She is always too perceptive for her own good. Like me. I take another bite of pizza.
Harrison’s still eating, quiet for once, probably realising he doesn’t need to keep pressing. Not right now. Imogen, though, she’s gone still. Lost in her own thoughts.
I swallow, wipe my hand on a napkin, and nudge her foot under the table. “Penny for your thoughts?”
She lifts her eyes. “Just thinking about Zoe. She’s interesting. Hard to read, but not in a cold way.” She glances between Harrison and me. “I like her. She’s dry, smart. She doesn’t pretend to be something she’s not. And I can tell she’s been through something. I can spot a woman with a heavy past in a heartbeat.” Her words loosen something in my chest. It’s not validation I was after, but knowing it’s not just me who sees Zoe—really sees her—makes me feel a little less crazy for noticing every damn detail.
Imogen would know, too. She’s lived through enough of it herself—the disappointment, the abandonment—in her life to know some signs. I don’t confirm her suspicions about Zoe. It’s not mine to speak on. So I remain quiet.
No one says anything else for a moment. The air feels a bit less crowded somehow. Joseph drops a piece of crust on the floor and lets out an exaggerated sob, full of toddler devastation.
Harrison laughs before leaning over to grab it off the floor. He inspects it with mock seriousness, then blows on it—probably for imaginary dust—and hands it back. “Five-second rule,” he says.
Joseph doesn’t even hesitate, shoving it back into his mouth with gusto.
I shake my head, biting back a smirk. “Alright. Can we change the subject now?”
Harrison’s already grinning. “Yep. Tell me about Dutton’s. Are you racing again?”
“Yeah. Jax called me last week. Five-lap circuit. Point system for each lap, but the last lap is all or nothing. First over the line wins.”
“Payout?”
“Three grand. Plus a few grand worth of credits at Dutton’s workshop. Thinking of throwing it into the Ducati.”
He whistles. “Bet that bike could do with a little TLC.”
“Couldn’t we all,” I mutter.
He smirks. “Zoe know you’re racing?” I shoot him a flat look.
“What?” he says. “It’s relevant.”
“I haven’t told her… yet.” But I’m not mad about the question. Because he’s not wrong. We made a truce. We’re on talking terms. But I don’t know where the line is anymore. How far I can push before she slams the door shut again. It’s fragile, whatever this thing is between us. One wrong move and it could vanish. So, no, I haven’t told her. Not because I’m hiding it, but because I want to get it right. And for once, I’m not in a rush to ruin it.
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