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“That should be the speech I give you,” he grinds his jaw and looks out the window, a muscle flickering in his cheek.
“You haven’t worn the Big Brother shoes in years. You don’t need to anymore. I’ll protect Poppy.”
“I will, too,” he hisses.“Theo always spoke highly of you. He said you were more of a father to him than your own dad was.” A slight grin traces Henry’s lips as he turns back to face me.“I see what he means now. I know Poppy is in good hands. You’ll protect her and love her, but remember, she’s my sister, and you’re the guy trying to date her.”
I shake my head. "Not just date. I’m going to marry her. She’s my life. My future." I point my finger and circle my face. "Get used to this face, these eyes watching you because I’m a permanent fixture in her life."
He stills, his eyes morphing into a mask I can't quite read. After a moment, it softens, and he smiles, albeit reluctantly.“I’ll be judging you too, Julian. Make my sister happy.”
Chapter 46
Poppy
They say bad things come in threes.
I don’t know who said that, but they're wrong.
Why am I surprised? People often are.
My bad things have come in dozens, and another one happened this morning. Some local kids vandalized the gravesite, and unfortunately, my parent and brothers' graves were affected.
The silver lining, yeah, there is one. Henry and I are going to visit the graves together.
We never have.
It’s long overdue, like a Blockbuster VHS tape. So long that half the people alive today won’t even know that reference.
Julian and Harper are meeting with Theo, who has a team that is hunting down Andrew. He’s still MIA. They think Andrew offed himself somewhere, and it’s only a matter of time before the authorities find his body. That or he’s trying to exit the country somehow.
I think Andrew’s too cunning and vain. He’s a master painter, and whatever image he’s trying to show to the public will work in his favor. It always does.
The media storm over Oliver Sinclair’s murder is monotonous. As it should be, I guess.
Oliver got what was coming. He abused his son, and eventually that caught up with him.
I’m not excusing what Andrew did.
Never.
It’s just a pattern that often repeats in abuse. One day, someone snaps, whether it be the victim or the abuser. That day, Andrew snapped.
Could I? Would I ever be made so small that I snapped and killed Andrew?
I grip the bouquet of poppy flowers in my hand, the crinkly wrapping paper making a sound that fills the silence in the car. Henry and I haven't spoken much. It still feels surreal that he's here, and I'm sure it's the same for him.
The poppy flowers we got are white with a saturated dark center—just black and white, so unlike the events in my life. There's a question I've been dying to ask Henry, and I know when I do, it's going to throw a lot of color into the mix. Nothing is just black and white anymore; there are so many layers.
I clear my throat, channeling my best friend Harper, who would be brave enough to ask, "Where were you the day of Peter’s funeral?” I ask. My voice sounds choked, but inside, I feel like a can of soda that’s been shaken—so eager to explode and hear what he has to say.
The car veers slightly. My question jarred him.
I forgave Henry for ignoring me. Part of forgiving means filling in wounds with some type of healing answers.
His fingers grab the steering wheel with a white knuckle force.“I should have been there.”
I nod.“Yeah, you should have. Your absence didn't just punish me, but it also made Peter suffer too. He would've wanted you there.” I admit,“I'm not trying to be cruel; I just have to be honest.”
“I know.”
