Brothers of Paradise Series

Lily

“So you just bought this place?”

“Yes,” I say. “It’s all mine now. I’m going to turn it into an art gallery, and host art classes.”

Parker shakes his head, looking around at the space. “Have you told the mothership?”

“No. I’m postponing that a little bit.”

“Good. I can’t imagine Dad’s going to be happy, but it’s your life, Lils.” He throws his arm around my shoulders. He smells like ocean and tar. “You know I’m in your corner.”

I grin up at him. “How come you were so annoying growing up? I like you much better as an adult.”

He laughs, the deep, belly-kind. “Because that was my role. You already had a big brother in Henry and a protector in Rhys. I had to be the one who pulled on your pigtails.”

“Had to?”

“Of course,” he says, face serene. “Imagine how sheltered you would have been otherwise. Come on, let’s go get ice cream. I’ve been craving mint chocolate chip all day.”

I turn off the lights and lock up the studio. It’s going to need work, but all I feel is anticipation. For the first time in a long while, I’m genuinely excited about a creative project.

I’m also very, very tired. As Parker and I walk toward Paradise Shores Gelato, I can’t hide the giant yawn that escapes me.

“It’s not even six p. m. yet,” Parker points out. “What’s going on? Has Turner been running you ragged at work?”

“No, no. I just stayed up too late last night, that’s all.” I’m quiet for a beat. “I was painting.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’ve started again. I need things to fill the gallery with, you know.” The last part is more of a joke, but it had felt amazing to hold a paintbrush again. My body remembered what to do without instruction. I just had to finish the outlines of the scene before I could go to sleep-the sand dunes and the ocean, the horizon, the two people walking along the shoreline.

Parker grins. “You’re right. Hey, have you seen Hayden around lately?”

I shake my head and focus on the ice cream menu. I know it by heart, but I’m afraid to meet Parker’s gaze. Hayden has stayed away for days, ever since the night in my gallery. His reluctance to tell the others about us hurt. The uncertainty could only mean one thing.

He wasn’t sure if we’d last.

“He’s been AWOL all week, but these past few days he hasn’t even responded to my texts.” Parker clicks his tongue. “I wanted him to come out on the boat this weekend. It can’t be good for the man to spend all his time working.”

I frown. He hadn’t responded to my texts, either, and if he was ignoring Parker too…

“Something must have come up,” I say, trying to sound dismissive. “You know Hayden.”

“Yeah, but he should talk to me,” Parker sighs. “He always played things too close to the vest. At least the two of you seem to be getting along better now.”

“Yes. Absolutely. It’s all in the past.”

Parker nabs the menu from my hands. “You’re going to get cookie dough. You always do, so quit looking for other options.”

“You’re right. Two scoops.”

He winks at me. “My treat today. To celebrate my little sister opening her very own art gallery.”

We order, eat and laugh, and I try to push away the frustrating thoughts, but it’s difficult. Worry and unease chase each other in my stomach. I call Hayden as soon as I’ve said goodbye to Parker. There’s no response, just like the day before. It’s not like him, to stay away like this, without an explanation.

But then, it’s exactly like him, a voice in my head whispers. This is what he did ten years ago. Left without a word or a note. Maybe he’s done it again, and I’ve been a fool for trusting him.

I wrap my arms around myself. I can’t go down that path, not yet. There might still be a logical explanation-I just need to find him.

So I start at his house, ringing the doorbell. But it’s dark inside and there’s no response. I even call his name once or twice, like an idiot, but nobody answers.

Then I head to the marina. I know Parker goes there sometimes when he needs to think, and maybe Hayden does, too. He did spend a lot of time there growing up as well.

But hope soon dies in my chest. The docks are abandoned, and there’s no lone figure sitting out by the pier.

There aren’t many options left. I could call Gary and ask, but… that feels like giving up. And it’s too likely to give me the answer I can’t stand. I can almost hear Gary’s kind, gravelly voice. Sorry, girl, but he’s gone.

No. I can’t bear it-him telling me that again.

So I text Hayden one last time. It’s long, but at least it’s heartfelt.

Hey. Is something wrong? I’m here for you if you need me, regardless of what’s happened, or what’s going through your mind. Please let me know where your head is at. It’s like you said: we’re us, Hayden. Always will be.

I send it and sit staring at the phone’s screen with my heart in my throat. The minutes tick by, ever so slowly. There’s no response.

In the distance, the sailing boats bob softly in the water, and I have to swallow to keep my tears at bay. Maybe I’d pushed too far. Or it had gotten too serious too fast. I thought we’d been good… but I’d been wrong.

My phone beeps.

Sorry. I’m at 47 Oakdale. Join me?

Relief pounds through me. I don’t even respond, just put the car in drive and head to the address. It’s not until I turn onto the street that I realize where he must be. There’s really only a couple of bars in Paradise Shores, and The Seahorse is one of them. It’s supposed to be a play on an old English pub.

He’s at a bar?ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

The place is nearly empty, low music pounding through it. There’s only one person sitting at the bar. There’s tension in his shoulders and his hair is messy, the kind of disheveled it gets when he’s run his hands through it too many times to count.

There’s a glass in front of him. He’s staring at it with an intensity that sends shivers down my arms. The air coming off him…

Something’s happened, and I’m suddenly very sure that it has nothing to do with me. Not directly, anyway.

I approach Hayden slowly and slide into the seat next to him. I can tell that he knows I’m here, but he says nothing, just slowly spins the amber liquid in the glass around and around. It looks untouched.

The air around him feels impenetrable.

“Whiskey?”

“Scotch.” His voice sounds low and unused. “Twenty-five years old. Matured in an oak cask.”