Between Lives - 3. Chapter 3

Much later, after Will has run away and Miss Emma has stuffed them full of lasagna and crusty bread, Nate takes Sophie's hand, thanks their new landlady for dinner, and crosses the narrow yard to their back door. As he walks, he rubs at the ache that has sprung up behind his left temple. The unaccustomed activity, stress, and lack of sleep – not to mention Bran's incessant flirting – have given him a pounding headache.

Sophie lags behind, yawning. Her feet shuffle over the concrete pavers, and she moans a little when Nate urges her faster across the dark space.

"Slow down," she whines. "I'm tired."

"Me too. So hurry up."

The strip between the houses is full of shadow. More so than the street, where porch lamps at least cast halos of light onto the sidewalk. The gloom is deeper here, more menacing. Unsettled, Nate ignores Sophie's pouting and guides her quickly up the steps. It takes him a moment to fit the unfamiliar key into the lock, while Sophie's complaints grow louder by the second.

"Got it," he says as the lock clicks. He grabs for the knob with a panic he hadn't realized he was feeling and pushes Sophie ahead of him into the kitchen. As he relocks the door behind him, Sophie flips the switch for the overhead light. He glances up at her delighted giggle.

"Look, Nate!" She stretches up onto her tiptoes and pushes at a hanging pot. "Like Mommy used to have."

Nate swallows. His eyes follow the pot as it swings back and forth on its metal hook. The idea of using it is daunting. His mom always took care of the meals before. With his dad, it was almost always take-out. "I'm not so hot at the cooking thing, Soph."

"It's okay."

Her voice has dropped its childlike amusement, and though the clear complexion and wide, innocent eyes are still those of his baby sister, her words and expression reflect the nightmarish experiences of the past year. "I'll help you learn." She squeezes his hand. "We'll learn together."

Pure, unconditional love for her fills him. It's always there, but these past weeks have tested him – tested both of them. Sometimes he wonders if running had been the right choice, despite the horror they left behind. Was escape really worth the unbearable wait while he saved, begged, and borrowed enough money to get them started? Was it worth all his meticulous planning? He's terrified of what he can't even admit to himself most of the time – that he's not good enough. Not a minute passes when he doesn't question his ability to take care of his sister.

"We have a home again," Sophie says. She's turning in a circle, looking at the kitchen, which is now stuffed to the gills with tea towels and canisters and all the other things that make it functional. "I can't wait to leave dirty dishes in the sink," she says, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

Nate laughs. "Me either." He pulls her in for a hug and she comes into his arms willingly. When she presses her face against his stomach and hums contentedly, his throat gets tight.

Not yet. He can't fall apart yet.

Sophie pulls away and skips down the hall, calling out over her shoulder. "I'm going to watch TV all night, and leave the lights on when we go out, and not wipe my feet on the mat."

Nate trails after her with a smile. He won't tolerate that kind of behavior forever, but what harm will it do for a few weeks? He wants to remember what it's like to live in a home, not tiptoe though it like it's a museum. Or a mausoleum. Sophie deserves to remember it too.

A light flares to life from the small living room, and Nate follows it down the hall. Sophie is bouncing on the couch Miss Emma gave them – an obnoxious overstuffed floral monstrosity that has more pillows than Nate thought possible. "Stop jumping on the furniture," he says automatically.

Sophie sticks her tongue out at him. Her bounces become more enthusiastic.

"You're impossible," he says with a shake of his head. "Let's go. Time for bed. The Pink Palace awaits."

That does the trick. She launches herself and hits the floor running. Nate winces when she misses the coffee table by inches. He lets her have a head start up the stairs and walks over to the couch, intent on picking up the displaced throw pillows. At the last moment, he stops, flooded with the urge to leave them scattered on the floor.

"Don't pick them up," Sophie says from the top of the stairs. "Leave them, Nate."

She can't possibly see him from where she's standing, but that she knows what he was thinking makes him want to both laugh and cry. Sophie can read his mind sometimes. It's a skill that he alternately loves and dreads.

"Leave them," she says again.

"Okay." He kicks one across the floor for good measure and trudges upstairs to tuck her into bed. She dashes across the landing and into her room just as he reaches the top. "Did you brush?" he asks as he walks in.

She grins at him from the bed. The mattress and box spring are propped up against a white wicker headboard, a far cry from the smelly, sagging cot in the shelter. Sophie has unrolled a couple of old blankets Miss Emma had; they're all brown and bland, not the matching pink flowers and faeries she's used to, and they smell of mothballs, but they've both been subjected to far worse these past few weeks. "I brushed," Sophie confirms.

"Your teeth?" He puts his hands on his hips and tries to look stern.

Her lips thin as she tries not to grin. Nate sighs. "Your hair doesn’t count. Go brush your teeth."

"Do I have to?"

Her pout would normally undo him, but even he has his limits. "Yes, you do." Nate can't even imagine what would happen if either of them got a cavity. Every penny has to count until he finds a job. "And don't forget the ones in back," he adds as she slips by him out the door and across the hall.

"I'm not a baby!"

With those few words, his stomach ache returns full force. He slumps against the doorframe and curls his arms around his abdomen. "Yes, you are," he whispers.

He manages to tuck her into the makeshift bed without further argument. He checks to make sure her window's locked, kisses her, checks the lock again, then slips out the door, pulling it halfway closed behind him. After a quick check of the window in his room and also the small frosted one in the bathroom, he hovers on the landing outside her door. It's been sixty seconds since he left her, and already her breathing is deep and even. Knowing she's asleep and can't tease him for his over-protectiveness, he edges back around the door and into the room.

Standing there, looking down at Sophie, he lets the wave of hatred for his father crash over him. It's not something he indulges in often. Anger strips a person of their self-control, his mother always said, and he's seen it in action. He won't let fear or his father force him into making stupid mistakes.

He lowers himself onto the edge of the bed. Sophie's hair is tangled around her face, and he takes a moment to smooth it back. She told Will that Nate's hair was like their mother's had been, and while his is closer in color, it's Sophie that inherited the wild curls and fiery auburn highlights. Her brow furrows at his touch. She smiles in her sleep, and looks so much like his mother in that moment that it aches.

"I won't let you down, Mom," he whispers while he strokes her hair.

Everything about his promise is etched permanently into his memory. How his mother looked those last few days in the hospital, pale and trembling in her bed, trying to be brave. How they were both so damn scared that Nate's knees were knocking together and she couldn't speak without stopping again and again to wipe the tears from her face.

"You remember how it was, darling," she said. "With him. Don't let him hurt Sophie. Take care of her. That's your job, now." She sobbed once, clapped her hand over her mouth. "Promise me."

He grabbed onto the sidebar, pretended to be confident, and tried not to notice how cold the steel was against his palms. "I promise," he said. "I won't let anything bad happen to Sophie."

His mother cried then, silently, hands over her face, while the IV dripped painkillers into her blood. Nate gripped the icy metal and prayed – not that it helped anything in the end. His mother died. Their father came. For a while, things were bearable. Nate relaxed, let his guard down, and that, he knows now, was exactly what the man was waiting for.

His hands clench in his lap. He failed his mom, and he failed his sister.

Sophie mumbles something in her sleep and rolls onto her side. With one last touch to her shoulder, Nate leaves the room. He's exhausted, but jittery. Sleep is out of the question at the moment.

Instead, he paces the floor of their new house, memorizing where the floor squeaks and where it doesn't. He's on his third circuit of the kitchen when he hears a knock at the back door. Wary, he slides across the room and peaks around the checked café curtain.

Bran waves from the other side of the door, then holds up a foil-covered paper plate. Feeling as conflicted as he did earlier, Nate unlocks the door and lets him inside. He nearly takes Bran's shoulder off slamming it shut again, but Bran simply smiles and hands over the plate. "Cookies from Grams. Chocolate chip. You guys left before she could give you any."

Nate takes the plate with a muffled thanks. "It was getting late and Sophie was tired."

"I know. Moving all that stuff took longer than I thought it would, but hey," he holds up his hand when Nate starts to interrupt. "That's okay. You have no idea how psyched I am that it's done." He flashes a smile. "Thanks, Nate."

Nate's fingers curl into the tinfoil, leaving small gashes around the edges. He knows he's staring, but Bran is staring too. "You're welcome." He clears his throat and turns to place the plate on the counter. "Tell your Grams thanks for the cookies. She's really done too much for us already."

It's a dismissal of sorts. A pathetic one, because Nate doesn't really want Bran to go, and the fact that Bran's hoisted himself up onto the counter next to the cookies means he probably feels the same. They haven't had the chance to talk much, not with the goings-on that afternoon, and as Nate watches Bran swing his denim-clad legs back and forth, he can't help but think that's a good thing. He's nervous, tongue-tied, and the last thing he wants is for Bran to know why. Hoping his disquiet isn't too obvious, he swipes his sweaty palms over his pants. "Um . . . ."

Bran grins. He picks at the mangled tinfoil, lifts an edge, and digs inside for a cookie. His fingers re-emerge, gooey with chocolate, and he holds his prize out to Nate. "Grams baked these especially for your guys. Try one." His teasing tone is at odds with the intensity in his eyes.

Nate takes it quickly, hoping Bran doesn't notice the way his fingers are trembling, but the soft dough comes apart in his palm and they end up with their hands clasped together, cradling the crumbled pieces. Nate's heart trips against his chest at an impossible speed.

For all the subtlety Bran's using, his grin isn't predatory, but open and questioning. The danger that Nate's feeling isn't coming from him. It's stemming from the idea that what he wants at this very moment isn't normal, and being one hundred percent normal is an important part of the plan.

They can't afford to be different right now. They can't afford to be noticed. The plan is everything. Keeping Sophie safe is everything.

Nate pulls away, scattering the crumbs over the floor. "I'm not hungry," he says, louder than necessary.

Bran blinks, then slowly withdraws his hand. "Okay." He cocks his head, throws Nate a confused smile, and then squats to scoop up the pieces of cookie.

"I'm not—" Nate blurts, then cuts off when Bran looks up.

"Not what?" he asks when Nate doesn't continue.

Nate opens and closes his mouth several times before he can work the words past his lips. "Not . . . interested."

The lie chokes him, but he forces himself to meet Bran's surprise-widened eyes with his own. He doesn't look away.

"Oh." Bran's smile stays bright. He stands and brushes the crumbs into the nearby garbage can. He takes a bit longer than necessary to wipe his hands clean, but just as Nate starts to panic, he looks up. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and gives a self-conscious shrug. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Nate rushes to say.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." Bran runs his fingers over his lips, then pushes his bangs off his forehead, leaving his hair disheveled and sticking up in places. "Not interested. I'll remember that in the future."

Nate hates the way those two sentences make his unsettled stomach roll. He aches with the loss of something he doesn't even understand. The pain is so keen, he opens his mouth to take back the ridiculous lie, but before he can, Bran speaks.

"So, Nate. Are you still in high school?"

"No," Nate blurts. That's the truth, at least.

Bran accepts the abbreviated answer, but doesn't pursue the subject further. Nate cringes, but at least that particular topic of conversation has been cut off.

"I graduated last year," Bran says. "I go to the state college here. Part time, though. I don't like to leave Grams alone all day."

Nate's seen evidence of their close relationship, so Bran's admission is hardly surprising. "Cool," he says, hoping it's a sufficient enough answer.

"Sorry your dad had to leave like that earlier. He missed dinner."

Lies atop of lies. For a moment, Nate forgot that they were his way of life now. "Yeah. He works really long hours. Three different jobs. The truth is, we hardly ever see him, but it's okay. Sophie and I are used to taking care of ourselves." He clamps his mouth shut before any more nonsense spills forth. He darts a glance at Bran.

"That's tough." Bran's fingers pull out another cookie. This one he pops into his own mouth. He winks at Nate. "Don't tell Grams. I'm not supposed to be eating any of yours."

"I won't."

"I remember back when I was little and my dad lost his job. We didn’t really have a Christmas that year. No money." He shrugs. "But it was still okay. We had each other."

Nate nods, remembering the warmth and happiness that were the norm in his mother's house. "Where are your parents?"

"They're dead." Nate's mouth drops open, and Bran reaches to touch his arm. At the last second, he pulls back. "It's okay. It happened a long time ago. I was really young. About Sophie's age."

"I'm so sorry," Nate says. Bran's admission draws something out of him, his last kernel of honesty. "My mom's dead too. A few months ago." At Bran's raised eyebrow, he elaborates, "Cancer. It was pretty quick. She was gone just a few weeks after we found out what was wrong."

"Jesus." Bran makes another aborted attempt to touch him before dropping his arm back to his side. "I'm sorry. Um . . . mine died in a car accident. Grams has been taking care of me ever since."

"She seems great." Tempted to touch when he has no business doing so, Nate slides away. Their fledgling connection is making him nervous; he doesn't want to inadvertently share something he'll regret later. He moves around the edge of the island, and the physical separation helps put him back on an even keel.

Bran lets him go. "Yeah, she is. Your sister's cool, too. She's pretty smart."

"Too smart for her own good," Nate mumbles.

Bran bursts into laughter. "Yeah, I can see that. But I'm an only child, so it's going to be neat having her here. Like a surrogate little sister."

Nate waits for the familiar rush of angry protectiveness, but it doesn't come. While he's wondering over its absence, Bran lets out a low whistle. Nate looks up in time to see him carefully lifting his camera off the table. "Okay. Now this is cool."

Nate grins and joins him at the table, forgetting his promise to himself to keep Bran at a distance. "Isn't it?" He takes the camera and cradles it in his hands. "It was a present from my mom last Christmas. Actually, it was supposed to be my Christmas and birthday present last year cause of how much it cost." He smiles sadly.

They both admire the camera in silence for a moment. Bran points to the small screen on the back. "It's digital?"

"Yeah."

"It looks exactly like a regular camera."

Nate runs his fingers over the buttons. "Media quality. The kind they use in the field. Takes ten frames per second."

His camera never fails to cheer him up, and he's so into his admiration of it that he misses how Bran sidles up close. "You must be some photographer, to have your mom buy you something like that."

Nate revels in a flash of pride. "She used to say, 'You're going to be famous one day, Nate. One day, I'll pick up a National Geographic and your name will be there on the cover.'"

It's been almost a year since she died – a long, hard, painful year – but his voice still cracks on the last word. Bran's hand settles on the small of his back, no hesitation this time. It's far too intimate a gesture, considering, but it feels so damn good that Nate leans into it. He's been offered very little comfort lately.

The kitchen's cool, but the heat from Bran's body fills the small space between them. His thumb moves over the thin cotton of Nate's t-shirt, only a millimeter at a time, testing, but when Nate sighs and his eyes flutter closed, it takes up a rhythmic stroking.

"Bran," Nate whispers, quivering.

Behind him, Bran stiffens, then springs away. The warmth dissipates, and Nate shivers in the sudden chill. He barely manages to set the camera down without dropping it, and by the time he's turned, Bran's at the back door. His parting smile is as strained as Nate's. "Enjoy the cookies. See ya around."

Suddenly, the last thing Nate wants is to be alone. "Do you want to stay? Maybe watch some TV or something?"

"Can't. It's getting late. I've got an early class tomorrow."

Nate nods and beats down the disappointment.

Bran unlocks the door and steps outside. He turns at the last moment, raising his hand in a wave. "Welcome to the family."

"Thanks."

Bran takes the warmth with him. Nate shivers as he walks across the room to lock the door. His skin feels clammy, and his clothes are sticking to him in all the wrong places, but since they haven't been washed in a week, and he spent most of the afternoon sweating and moving furniture that hasn't seen the light of day in ten years, his less-than-fresh feeling is no great shock.

He turns off the lights and climbs the staircase in the dark, slipping into the bathroom as quietly as he can, though Sophie sleeps like a log most of the time. The glare from the bare bulb is too bright and invigorates his ever-present headache, so he flicks it off and adjusts the knobs in the shower using the meager light leaking through the frosted window.

The shower, too, is a treat. The water's hot, and he's not panicked about leaving his belongings unattended, as he was in the shelter. There's no rush.

He steps under the gushing water with a low groan, then tips his head back. Noises become muffled. Steam fills the room and swirls like gray fog in the dark. He pushes away the memories that try to haunt him. Worry creeps in, looking for a foothold, but he refuses to acknowledge that either – at least for now. Tomorrow will bring its own set of challenges, though if Will comes through like he's supposed to, Nate will be able to breathe a bit easier.

In the absence of memory and worry, his mind gives him something else entirely. Water trickles down his back in hot rivulets, and Nate imagines they're Bran's fingers, stroking and teasing. Comforting him. The steam makes him light-headed. He leans against the slippery tile and pretends it's Bran standing next to him, a strong, solid, safe presence.

When his body reacts to the images, he ignores it. His stomach tingles, more pressure builds in his groin, and before it can become unbearable, he washes, twists the knobs off, and steps out of the tub.

His backpack yields one last clean pair of underwear and a t-shirt. He wrinkles his nose at his jeans. The thought of putting them back on isn't appealing, so he leaves them on the bathroom floor. He peeks in on Sophie before padding into his own room. In the dark, the blue paint and white bead-board look so familiar that he stops short in the doorway. It's not as easy to shake off the coincidence as it was earlier, but he can't decide if it's good or bad that this room is just like the one he grew up in.

A quick perusal of the bed makes him smile. Sophie must have been in earlier; more brown, tattered blankets have been spread atop Miss Emma's donated mattress. He climbs onto the bed and burrows under them, but sleep remains elusive. There's a compulsion nagging him. He wants to get up and check Sophie again, maybe bed down on the floor of her room, or barring that, on the landing outside her door. He resists it. Barely.

To distract himself, and because it's dark, and he's alone, and no one will ever know, he fantasizes. His hand creeps down his stomach and makes a slow circle around his navel, then drifts lower under the waistband of his underwear. His body's ready, sprung back to life at the first thought of Bran, and he catches his breath when, in his eagerness, his fingernails scrape against his flesh. He can't remember the last time he did this. Weeks, maybe. Which isn't natural, he knows, or even healthy, but there have been so many other things to worry about. Too many other things.

It doesn't take much. He's barely started, really, before the most innocent memory –Bran's warm fingers on his back – sends him over the edge. His body arches with the intensity of it, and he bites back the moans so nothing escapes his lips but the quietest whimper. As he sinks back onto the bed, embarrassed laughter bubbles up his throat. Clearly, his body is more eager than his mind has been. Not that it matters. He doesn't need to explain to anybody whose touch, imagined or otherwise, set him off. He's alone, and no one will ever know.

It's his secret.