Page 111 of Where Broken Wings Fly

“I’m okay.”

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself. I could carry you?”

“Mi,” I reassure him. “You don’t need to carry me. I’m okay.”

Guided through the sprawling cabin, I follow Micah into a darkened bedroom on the left hand side. We pass the spare room where I can hear Zach reading a bedtime story to Arianna in a ridiculous, high-pitched princess voice.

“It’s in my bedroom,” Micah explains as he opens the door. “Excuse the mess. I don’t sleep in here often.”

Letting me into the dark space, I glance around while he flips the lights on and ducks inside the en-suite bathroom. Unlike Killian’s room, this is decorated in calming shades of blue. The ocean washes against the walls, blending different hues into a soothing cocoon.

His wooden double bed has been lacquered a glossy shade of black, contrasting the deep blue sheets and navy blanket. While his walls are bare, the bedroom floor is cluttered with art books, colour swatches and the odd discarded paintbrush.

“I like your room.”

He chuckles from the bathroom. “It’s a mess.”

On the bedside table, a single framed photograph rests. I can’t help but be nosy. Inside the frame is a middle-aged man who looks just like the twins, down to their similar shorter height, thick caramel-brown hair and malachite eyes.

Smiling ear to ear, there’s a younger version of both twins hooked under each of the man’s arms. They all look so happy. It hurts to see Micah’s wide, childish smile. I’ve never seen him display happiness so easily.

The photograph is positioned at such a specific angle, I imagine that if Micah were to turn over in bed, it would be like his dad were lying there with him, rocking him back to sleep. My heart breaks all over again.

Micah leaves the bathroom and stops beside me. “That’s my dad.”

“You both look like him.”

“He raised us after our mum left. Dad used to take us camping and backpacking all the time. We even came to Briar Valley once for a trip. He was very outdoorsy.”

“You don’t talk about him much.”

He seems to shake himself out of it. “No, I don’t.”

“Do you miss him?”

I watch his throat bob with emotion. “More than anything. He was my best friend. We were so close growing up—me, Zach and Dad. It was the three of us against the world.”

“I’m so sorry, Mi.”

“Yeah,” he deadpans.

Turning his back on the photograph, Micah leads the way into the bathroom. It’s light and airy, the slate tiles contrasting the panelled walls. The centrepiece is a huge clawfoot tub, full of jasmine-scented water.

“Zach has fancy bubble bath,” Micah explains nervously. “He won’t admit it, but he’s a complete softie for having a bath. Literally spends hours in there.”

“That figures.”

“If you don’t like it, I can—”

“It’s fine,” I cut him off.

Micah rubs the back of his neck. “I’ll leave you in peace. Shout if you need anything.”

Before he can run off, I grab his arm. “Would you mind staying? I don’t want to be alone right now. But I understand if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Ah, sure. I can stay.”

Averting his eyes, he studies the ceiling while I strip off my sweats and Killian’s borrowed t-shirt. Undoing my ratty ponytail, I let my hair trail down my back and climb into the tub, sinking beneath the hot water.

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