CHAPTER FOUR

ASHER

The house felt different after dinner.

It was like the calm after the storm.

After Elliot’s outburst, everyone retreated to their rooms. Of course, dinner could not go on.

It made me feel slightly uncomfortable. I hadn’t felt this kind of quiet since five years ago when my father died.

I lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling, hands folded over my chest.

I hadn’t meant to storm into Elliot’s room.

The truth was, I had been angry. Angry on my mother’s behalf. Angry at the way he’d spoken to her, like her kindness was an insult. Angry that he’d made her cry.

But that wasn’t the only reason why I had gone to his room.

If I was being honest, I had gone because the look on his face when his father slapped him didn’t look defiant.

It looked… shattered.

I closed my eyes.

When Elliot had told me to leave him alone, there hadn’t been venom in his voice. Just exhaustion. Pain stripped bare. And when he’d started crying—

I sat up abruptly.

Don’t.

Thinking about it did nothing good. It only made my chest feel tight in a way I didn’t like.

Why did I care about what Elliot was feeling anyway? Who cared if he was hurt? It was what he deserved for treating my mother like she was dirt beneath his feet.

A soft knock sounded at my door, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Come in,” I said.

Mum stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She looked smaller somehow, like the evening had weighed on her. Her eyes were tired, rimmed red, but she smiled anyway. She always did that. Just smiled like everything could still be okay if she just tried hard enough.

She sat on the edge of my bed, the mattress dipping softly. “Can we talk?”

I sat up. “Of course.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “I know what happened at dinner wasn’t… ideal but I don’t want you getting mad at Elliot. I need you to… be nice to him.”

I didn’t respond immediately.

I couldn’t believe she was asking me this. But that was my mother for you. Always nice to everyone, even if they didn’t deserve it. 

I dragged a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly. “I’m trying.”

And that was the truth. It wasn’t my fault Elliot had decided, in his own head, that I was the villain.

She looked at me, like she was searching my face for something. “I know you are. I just don’t want you to hate him. He’s now your stepbrother.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “Why do you want me to be nice to him?” I asked. “He doesn’t like you. He disrespects you at every turn. Tonight—” I cut myself off, jaw tightening. “Tonight wasn’t the first time.”

She sighed, long and weary. “He doesn’t hate me. Not really.”

She couldn’t possibly believe that.

“Mum—”

“He’s grieving,” she said gently. “Grief makes people cruel. It twists things. He lost his mother. His brother. And now he feels like he’s losing his father too.”

“That doesn’t give him the right to hurt you.”

Her shoulders slumped a little at that.

I swung my legs off the bed, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. “I can take it,” I said quietly. “All of it. The pranks. The comments. The glares. If he wants to hate me, fine. But hurting you?” I shook my head. “That’s where I draw the line.”

She reached out, placing her hand over mine. “I don’t want this to tear the family apart.”

Family. I hated to break it to her but the chances of all of us being a family were very slim. At least where Elliot was concerned. He’d rather burn himself alive than think of us as family.

“I don’t want Simon to leave,” she continued softly. “I don’t want to be a mistake he regrets. I don’t want to be another mistake.”

I turned to her sharply. “Simon is nothing like that bastard. He loves you. He won’t think of you as a mistake.”

I didn’t think I could hate that bastard that called himself my father anymore than I already did, but somehow I kept surprising myself. 

I hated him in a way I’d never hated anyone else. It was a good thing he was rotting away in the ground. Right where he belonged.

Mum shook her head. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” I said firmly. “He wouldn’t have married you if he didn’t. He wouldn’t be trying—failing, maybe, but trying—if he didn’t care. You’re a good person, mum. A lovable, caring person. Not a mistake. And Simon is smart enough to see it. Trust me.”

She smiled sadly. “You’re really a good son. I’m lucky to have you.”

This. This was what I strived for. To be the perfect son that made my mother happy. It was the least I could do after making her give up her dreams.

She squeezed my hand, then stood. “Just… try to understand Elliot. That’s all I’m asking.”

After she left, the room felt too quiet again.

I lay back down, staring at the ceiling, my mind drifting, against my will, to the image of Elliot in his bedroom. Crying. Alone.

I didn’t like that I’d seen him like that.

Didn’t like that it had felt intimate. Vulnerable. Like we’d shared a moment.

I told myself I was nonchalant. That I didn’t care what happened to him.

But nonchalance didn’t knot itself in your chest like this.

Didn’t follow you into silence.

Didn’t make you lie awake wondering if someone was okay.

Didn’t make you want to get up and check on said person.

I stared at the ceiling a little harder, trying to blank out my mind.

I was trying.

God help me, I was.

Somehow, I knew this was only the beginning.