Some things are private. Some things needed to be said, even when the person who needed to hear them couldn’t hear anything. Ever again.
Can’t clean up after you anymore, baby brother, so don’t punk out. Make it count.
...the dead have a way of becoming saints in the eyes of their survivors...
Ethan was loyal and funny and protective. When we were little, he was the brother most likely to make me cry—and mostly likely to wipe away my tears.
When I was a child, all problems had ended with a single word from my father. A smile from him was sunshine, his scowl a bolt of thunder. He was smart, and generous, and honorable without fail. He could exile a trespasser, check my math homework, and fix the leaky bathroom sink, all before dinner. For the longest time, I thought he was invincible. Above the petty problems that plagued normal people. And now he was gone.
Why is this so hard?” I whispered. His pulse leaped crazily at my admission. “Everything worth fighting for is hard.
