“Did so. You never come to me first in case I make you cry with my bolstering wisdom.”
“Your what now?”
“I’m clever and cuddly. Deal with it.”
“What good is cuddly if you’re not here?”
“Not everything’s literal. How did it go?”
Suffocating emotion got the better of me again. I wrenched a breath from my lungs, picturing the grief in Folk’s wise eyes, the hurt in Ranger’s, and the sadness in Locke’s. “Brutal to watch, but they made it beautiful.”
“You didn’t watch, you were there.”
“They scattered him in the wind.”
“They set him free, Nashie.”
Like we should’ve done years ago, but the time forwhat ifswas long gone. I leaned forward on the bench as I listened to Rubi bustling about Orla’s kitchen, righting whatever mess River had already made, weathering the storm he got in return. Belligerence was River’s love language. Rubi lived for it, and in this moment, so did I. Wasn’t sure why they were arguing about Rubi’s passport, though. “The fuck you need it for? It’s about to expire.”
“I had good hair in the picture.”
“You hadnohair in the picture, and you were going through your unforgivable hat phase.”
“What are you trying to say about my sartorial elegance?”
“That none of us need a reminder of your buzz cut days.”
Rubi sighed. “S’pose you’re right. I didn’t love having cold ears all the time.”
“And you do love having a mane to shake in my face whenever it rains.”
Rubi grumbled something—at me or River, I couldn’t tell. Movement beyond the house distracted me and I shoved my phone in my pocket, freeing my hands, gaze laser focused on the lone figure approaching from the still-dark fields in the distance.
For an honest to God minute, I mistook the man for Saint. Then I thought it was Folk—if he’d grown a couple inches in the last ten minutes, put a little lumber on, and lightened his hair to a honey-wheat blond.
Poet Whitlock.
Had to be, and as the fella drew closer, I realised that bar the shape of his silhouette on the foggy horizon, he looked nothing like Saint either. Which should’ve made sense, but I was tired, emotional, and without the people who usually fixed that for me.
Poet reached the porch, assessing me in the sage way that was perhaps a Whitlock thing. “You okay?”
Lord knew what my face was doing. I scrubbed my hands down it and rose. “Yeah. Sorry. Half asleep. Nash. Nice to meet you.”
Poet studied me closer. “Nash?”
“Yeah.”
“Thought so. Ivy told me about you. I’m Folk’s brother—”Definitely Poet— “You need anything?”
I glanced behind me, longing for Locke. “Nah, I’m all right. Thanks though.”
Poet said nothing.
I turned back to find his scrutinising stare had intensified.
“Deaf.” He tapped an ear. “I need to see your face when you speak.”
“Oh. Fuck. Sorry.”