Preston Brothers: Lucas Part 6

"Your parents must have a lot of-"

"Shut up!" he shouted, his hand quick to cover my mouth, m.u.f.fling my final word.

I smiled against his palm, and he must've felt it because he smiled back. Then suddenly, he leaned forward, his lips puckered. He kissed the back of his hand-the hand covering my mouth. When he pulled back, his eyes were huge. He dropped his hand quickly and looked away. I touched my lips and wondered what it would feel like to have him kiss me. If it felt anything like I felt then, it was going to blow my mind. I lay on my back, looking up at the dull gray sky, and even though the merry-go-round had lost its momentum and was barely moving, my mind was spinning and the world had never seemed so bright.

When I got home, I hugged my dad like I'd never hugged him before. "What's this?" he asked, hands on my shoulders when I finally let him go.

"I just love you."

"Me?"

"And I love it here. Thank you for finding this place."

His beard shifted, revealing his smile. "So you're happy here?"

I nodded. "The happiest."

It was all true. Meeting the Prestons, spending time with Kathy, meeting Lucas, it changed my outlook, my life.

I felt worthy.

I finally felt like I was enough.

Especially when baby Lachlan was born and Kathy asked me to be his G.o.dmother. There was no official ceremony, but the t.i.tle stood.

I remember sitting at my desk and writing a letter to my mom-a letter I would never send. It told her that I loved my life. That I loved my new home. That I loved my decision to leave with Dad. And that I was happy and I was loved.

Then one day, it all crumbled-my world, my heart-the moment Dad sat me down and told me Kathy had been diagnosed with cancer. I remember looking up at the ceiling, at the bright, white light hanging in the center of my room while my head spun, and spun, and spun some more. The walls closed in, the air thick in my lungs as I tried to wrap my mind around what it would mean. Not just for her, but for her seven children. And then I thought about Luke, about the boy who offered me friendship when I had no one and nothing. I stood quickly, my heart racing. "Lucas," I whispered.

"Lucas is fine, Lois."

"No." I shook my head. "I need to see him."

"You'll see him at school."

"No! I need to see him now, Dad!"

"Honey," he said, reaching out and taking my hand. I yanked it back and ran for the door. I kept running until my lungs burned, until my legs felt like jelly, all the way to the Preston house. Logan answered the door, his cheeks splotchy. I couldn't get a word out through the tiny spurts of breath I was struggling to get through, but I didn't need words. Logan fell into my arms, his sobs m.u.f.fled by my hoodie. "It's okay," I whispered, stroking the back of his head. "It's going to be okay."

"Laney," Luke said from behind him, his eyes filled with tears even though it was clear he'd already shed so many of them.

Logan released me and Luke approached, his attempts to stifle his cries forcing my own. "I'm so sorry," I told him.

I don't know how long we stood in his doorway, his arms around my neck, mine around his waist, holding onto the only thing that felt right, that made sense, in an otherwise cruel and hurtful world. "I'm glad you're here, Laney."

"I'll always be here."

Winter turned to spring, spring turned to summer-a summer a complete contrast to the year before. But at the same time, it was identical. The previous summer, I said goodbye to my mom and, as strange as it sounds, I found a replacement.

That summer my dad said a single word that had me falling to my knees and sobbing in front of him: Terminal.

I wanted to run to Lucas, to hold him in my arms and never let him go. I wanted to curl up at the foot of his bed, keep him safe, tell him everything would be okay. That I would be there for him through it all. Dad was the only reason I didn't. "They need some s.p.a.ce, Lo," he said. "They need to spend whatever time the have left as a family."

Katherine Elizabeth Preston pa.s.sed away September 25TH .

Her funeral was five days later.

It seemed like the entire town mourned her death.

I can't really recall much of the actual funeral, my heavy heart and heavy tears preventing me from remembering most of it, but I remember Lucas. I remember the way he stood with Lucy on one side, Leo on the other, his head lowered, wearing a suit with a tie (crooked and tied completely wrong). I also remember feeling like I was a horrible person for thinking that he'd never looked as handsome as he did right then, at his mother's funeral, surrounded by nothing but heartache and fear.

I wanted to go to him. To all of them. But I didn't know what to say. What do you say to seven kids who've just lost their world?

"You should talk to Luke, sweetheart," Dad said, making our way up the Prestons' long driveway, along with many other cars, after the ceremony. "You're his best friend, and he needs you now more than ever."

I managed to find my voice for the first time that day. "What do I say to him?"

"You tell him the truth, Lo. That you're sorry. That you're there for him. That you always will be."

The words filtered through the knot in my throat and out of my mouth, "I'm scared, Dad. What if I say something wrong?"

"You won't, sweetheart. Just be you."

I found Lucas in his secret hideout, his eyes glazed as he looked out on the lake. "Hey," I said, barely a whisper.

He didn't respond. Not verbally, and not in any other way. I sat on the ground next to him, forgetting the expensive black dress Dad had bought me because I didn't own anything suitable for a funeral. Minutes pa.s.sed, neither saying a word, neither making a move to do so. My mind worked, trying to find words of comfort, of grace. "Don't," he said, breaking the silence.

"Don't what?"

"Don't say you're sorry. Or that you'll miss her. Or that she was an amazing person and the world is a lesser place because she's no longer part of it. Or that I'll be okay. That one day, I'll get over this. Or to remember her for everything she was, because I've heard it all. There's not a d.a.m.n thing you can say to make it okay. Not now. Not ever." He didn't say it with malice, and I didn't take it that way. He was just... sad. So d.a.m.n sad.

And right.

And I realized then that it wasn't as if Kathy had died suddenly-been in a car accident or any other form of accidental death. For months we knew this was coming. For months Lucas, along with all the other children, would've heard the same words over and over. It would do nothing to take away the pain. The hurt. The sadness he was so openly displaying. He was a twelve-year-old boy who was hurting, and the one person who could make it better had been taken away from him. He pulled his knees to his chest, his tie now undone, separated and hanging loosely around his neck. His hair was a mess, his eyes tired and teary.

The words came to me quickly, without thought-words I'd held onto and kept secret until that moment. "My dad's not my real dad," I told him. "I mean, not my biological dad. I don't know who he is. Dad married my mom when I was five and he's treated me like his own ever since." I glanced at him quickly, but he was looking down at his lap. So I focused on the lake, at the ripple of water that seemed to mirror my emotions. "After they got married, Mom took a late shift at a tile factory. She would sleep in the mornings and be gone in the afternoons, so for a long time Dad was the only parent I had. I barely saw her. On weekends she'd be gone hours, sometimes days at a time, and we didn't know where. So Dad and I got closer while Mom chose to drift away. After a few years, I'd hear them arguing. A lot. I'd hear her yelling at him for not doing enough to support her, for breaking promises to her that he'd take care of us." I licked my lips, my mouth dry. "She didn't have the life she expected, but I'd never been so happy. And as the years went by, things got worse. The breaking point was when Mom came home late one night and Dad asked where she'd been. She picked up a chair from the kitchen table and threw it at him. He told her then and there that he wanted a divorce." I reached out for his hand, and he let me hold it. "I kind of just stood there frozen, my heart sinking because I was losing the only parent who cared about me." I blinked back the tears, knowing I had no right to carry them. Not that day. "A few months before I moved here... I stood in the driveway, watching him load up his car, leaving the house he owned, a house he offered to my mom and me... and I just stood there crying, not wanting to say goodbye. I couldn't let go of him when he hugged me... when he promised to keep in touch. I didn't want him to keep in touch. He was my dad, regardless of what my birth certificate said." After heaving in a breath, I found the courage to continue. "And I looked at my mom, pleading with my eyes to not let him go, and she just looked at me, not a single ounce of sorry or regret on her face, and said, Make your choice, Lois. Him or me.' So I got in his car and we drove away. For weeks we stayed in a hotel room, and she never once checked in on me. Sometimes I'd dream of seeing her waiting for me outside of school, just to let me know she was there, that I could go to her." I swallowed loudly, pushed through. "He gave up everything, the house, the car, all the money he had. And he never once looked at me the way she had-that I'd somehow ruined his life. So now we're here, and he's struggling to make ends meet because he wanted to keep the peace. And I know he did that for me so that I didn't have to deal with her. And I know you don't want to hear how great your mom was or any other generic speech you may have heard a million times, but your mom was the closest thing I've had to one, and I'd give up my mother if it meant that you could see yours just one more time."

He stared at me, his head slowly moving from side to side, his eyebrows drawn. "I don't know what I would've done without you." He kept his hand on mine, the other wiping at my unjustified tears. "My Lois Lane."

I hugged him so hard I swear I pushed all the air from his lungs. "My Clark Kent."

It was a few weeks after the funeral-thunder and lightning and huge gusts of wind accompanied the rain, and I lay in bed-deathly afraid of storms. Justin Timberlake's Cry Me a River the soundtrack of my current life status.

The song suddenly stopped and the room filled with darkness. "Lois?" Dad shouted from upstairs.

"Yeah?"

"The storm must've cut off the power."

"I figured."

He made his way down the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs and toward me, flashlight in hand. "You okay?"

"How long do you think it's going to be out for?" I asked.

"Why? You expecting to outweigh the rain with Timberlake's tears?"

I said nothing.

"That song's been playing for three days straight, Lo."

"I like the song."

"It's a little depressing."

There was a knock on the bas.e.m.e.nt door which led to the backyard. The only one who would know to use it would be-"Lucas!" I shouted.

Dad opened the door.

Luke stood just outside, hair soaked, along with the rest of him. His arms were crossed, shivering against the cold. "I'm sorry for coming around so late, sir." He was in a white t-shirt and running shorts and nothing else. His teeth clanked together as he said, "Laney told me once she was scared of storms... I wanted to make sure she was okay."

"Does your dad know where you are, son?" Dad asked.

Luke shook his head, droplets of rain falling on his shoulder. "No, sir. My dad doesn't really know where he is most of the time." His gaze shifted to me standing behind my dad. I swallowed the knot in my throat, a million emotions. .h.i.tting me. He looked so sad, so hopeless, so young. Too young to be feeling the way he did.

"Get inside," Dad said, breaking the silence and pulling on Luke's arm to get him out of the rain. "Did you run here?"

Luke held my stare. "Yes, sir."

I finally found my voice, my eyes glazed with tears. "Why are you here?" I breathed out.

He spoke, his voice hoa.r.s.e. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

I looked at him, disbelief washing through me. He stood there, his skin glistening and his eyes red and raw. "Lucas... Are you okay?"

He stared at me a long time. Then he let out a sob, so quiet I barely heard it. I stepped toward him, my hand going for his. "I hurt, Laney," he said, his voice cracking with emotion.

"Where?" I rushed out, searching his body for any sign of injury. After what felt like forever, and finding no blood or broken bones, I looked up at him, and I could instantly tell that the pain he spoke of wasn't physical. It was so much worse. I wrapped him in my arms, ignoring his wet clothes and my dry ones, and at that moment, we pretended the storm and the darkness drowned out his cries and devoured his pain. His chest rose and fell against mine, his grip on me getting tighter with each pa.s.sing second. Then he exhaled a shaky breath, his mouth to my ear. "I hurt everywhere."

My dad made us hot chocolate, and we pretended like we didn't think we were too old for it. Lucas spoke while Dad and I listened. He told us about how his dad was suffering, lost, and trying to find the answers at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey. Luke had seen his dad pa.s.sed out drunk more times than he'd seen him upright, and Lucy was the one holding it together. Her and the twins' baseball coach-some boy named Cameron who would later play a huge role in all their lives. The night before, Logan had gone missing. No one noticed until Luke checked in on everyone at around two in the morning. Logan was out in the freezing lake, his pajamas still on. When Luke had found him, Logan simply said, "I wanted to feel something." They promised each other they would never tell Lucy because she had enough to worry about, and Luke gave Logan the clothes off his back and snuck him back into the house, up the stairs, toward baby Lachlan's room where Lucy and Leo were awake, attending to a fussing baby. The twins woke, too, and joined them in the nursery. All the kids cried. Together. Apart. But silent, not wanting to wake their dad.

It was the first night Lucas ever spent in my house, in my bedroom, on the couch. It took him a few hours to fall asleep, and I watched as his chest rose and fell, his search for peace finally found in his sleep.

It was heartbreaking, breathtaking, and in a way, it was kind of beautiful.

Lucas Preston was beautiful.

Chapter Six.

LUCAS.

Lane found out about this craft store a few months ago via Reddit. Yes, apparently there's a Reddit page for everything. Even craft junkies like her. And, apparently, she traded one Sat.u.r.day shift for three Sunday shifts at the small movie theater where she works so she could hop on a bus to check it out. When she told me that she'd been, I got so mad. I gave her this huge lecture about how girls like her shouldn't be traveling on buses by themselves. I yelled, told her she was naive and she should have told me she was going so I could've driven her. Then she started getting angry back because she's crazy. She said that my anger was unjustified and that I was overreacting. I told her she was an idiot. She said I was stupid. We froze each other out for three days. Those three days sucked. So I apologized-even though I didn't really know what I was sorry for-and told her she was right. She wasn't. If anything, she was stubborn and clueless. Still, I conceded. Like I said, those three days sucked. She forgave me quickly, then started on about how she was old enough to do what she wanted. It wasn't about her want to go visit the stupid store. It was about her safety. So I told her that, which then led to another argument. Another three days of suckage, and then, on the fourth day, she opened her locker and there-next to her psychology textbook-was half a Snickers bar.

So, I'm a sucker who hates fighting with his best friend.

She was still wrong.

I was right.

The end.

"This place needs some form of organization," I whisper, hovering behind her.

"It's kind of what makes it amazing, though," she says, half turning to me, her smile uncontainable. She steps over a random pile of who-knows-what. "All this yarn and thread and patterns everywhere."

"Is there something you're looking for in particular?" I ask. It's not that I'm in a rush to get out, but I'm hungry. And antsy. I skipped my run and now I have all this built-up adrenaline, and I don't know what to do with it.

She smiles up at me, and the adrenaline doubles.

I smile back. "You have a list, don't you?"

"It's only a small one. I promise," she says quickly, her hands on my chest as if she's trying to calm me. Now she's biting her lip, her full, strawberry-tasting bottom lip, and an image flashes into my mind with what I could do with all that built-up adrenaline. It includes her, her bed, and her lack of clothing.

Blink. Push out fantasies. Breathe.

I say, "Take your time. Honestly."

"You can sit over there," she tells me, removing her hands from me and pointing to a chair covered in yarn. Put your hands back on me, Laney. "Go on your phone or something. I won't be long."

"I left my phone on your bedroom floor."

"Oh."

"I'll help you find what you're looking for. What's your next project?"

She seems to hesitate. "A cross-st.i.tch."