His lube-laced fingers draw over my balls and press tantalizingly against my entrance. I want—

need—more. I lie lengthwise on the bed and Jace crawls on top of me. His hand gently probes my ring

as he kisses and suckles my nipple. His mask scratches the top of my shoulder, reminding me to bite

down on crying out his name.

This is Wesley. Tonight, he’s Wesley.

No, he’s not.

Now who’s the fool?

“Please,” I say, after he’s thoroughly worked me with his fingers.

He kisses a path up my stomach to my chin, and the hook bumps along my skin with them.

I grip his cock, angling it at my entrance. He sucks in a pant and kisses me hard.

“Please,” I say again as the head of his cock pushes into me. “All I want is you.”

He slides all the way in and I grab his hips as I arch against him. He stills and presses his forehead

against my ear, his harsh breath tickling my neck. “Cooper.”

I swallow the rise of emotion and focus on how full I feel, how my cock is rubbing against his skin,

how my toes are curling, the way the silky bed sheets feel against the back of my thighs.

I dig my fingers into his hips. He snaps into a thrust that jolts me with deliciousness I need more of.

He thrusts into me like a waltz, three times and the swivel of his hips, over and over until I hear the

music and feel it beating against my skin.

He kisses me again, and closes a hand around my cock.

I clench at the pleasure and we both let out a groan. His thrusts push me closer and closer to the

edge. I want to fall so badly but I don’t want this to be over. Never want this to be over.

As if he can read my mind, he slows his thrusts but he doesn’t let go of me. I fight not to give in to

the pleasure of his strokes and the way his thumb brushes over the head.

He looks down at me, his jaw clenched in passion, but he never closes his eyes. His mask glitters

but his eyes are pinning my soul to his. It’s intimate in a way I’ve never experienced. I’m somewhere

between panicking and experiencing the biggest release of my life.

He bites his lip and rocks more quickly into me. The bed groans with us, and I clutch Jace’s ass

tightly, pressing him in, in, in.

The strokes on my cock are in time to his and when he presses his mouth against mine and calls my

name over my lips, I come with him, crying out as my orgasm bursts out of me and keeps coming,

coming, coming.

malachite

I follow his blog through Germany, France, Spain, Greece, Turkey, and Scotland. I wish I’d thought

to give him a piece of malachite to protect him on his travels.

Malachite, a copper carbonate hydroxide mineral.

Mineral. Not a protective talisman.

He’s Jace, a pianist traveling the world before settling into a career of teaching.

His own person. Not mine.

Tonight, he posted about England.

I’m at Mum’s for our weekly roast but I’m not hungry. Paul offers me the carafe of gravy, but

drowning the dry vegetables isn’t going to make a difference. I pick at the chicken and eat a few peas.

After a bite of potato, I rest my knife and fork on the plate.

Mum eyes me, questioningly arching an eyebrow. “Ever since you started flatting, you’ve neglected

your diet.”

“I’m not hungry right now,” I murmur. I ask Annie where Ernie is tonight.

Mum cuts over her answer. “It’s not just now. You haven’t been hungry in months and you’re

studying yourself thin.” She turns to Annie. “Get your boy to take this one out on a guys’ night. I think

he needs it.”

“What I need,” I say, shoving my chair back from the table, “is to bloody well be in England.”

I walk out. Everything is winding me up the wrong way—even the way the bus driver gave me a

cheery greeting earlier. No, I won’t have a good day, dammit.

My days are restless as though ants are marching through my veins, tickling my insides so I can’t

settle.

I stop in my bedroom doorway. It looks smaller than it used to. Even the toolboxes lining the walls

don’t seem to have the presence they once had. I breathe in the stale air, then turn my back on the

younger me and head outside.

The veranda creeks underfoot, and the winter air bites as I hunker down, resting against the house. I

pull out my phone.

England, Stonehenge

A picture with a short caption underneath:

Something’s missing.

I rub my phone over my forehead, trying to smooth out the heavyset frown that seems to be

staining itself to my skin.

The wooden planks creak, and I glance up. Mum is shrugging on a brown winter coat and stealing

toward me. She sighs and drops down next to me, draping a green mohair scarf around my neck.

“It’s Jace, isn’t it?”

“What?”

She takes my phone and slips it into her pocket. “You miss him.”

I knock my head back against the side of the house and stare at the quarter moon. “It’s

complicated.”

“Ah,” she says in that all-knowing tone that mothers have. “I see.” I drop my head to her shoulder,

and she pats my head in that awkward way she does.

“It’s okay,” she says. For a second, the stars look like the glowworms in our cave. “It’s not like

you’re real brothers.”

apache tear drop

It is said those who have an Apache Tear Drop will never cry again.

Legend speaks of a brutal surprise attack on the Apaches, where fifty of seventy-five men were

shot. The remaining twenty-five retreated to the edge of the cliffs, where they chose to jump rather than

be killed as their brothers were.

The Apache women, lovers, mothers, sisters, and daughters gathered at the base of the cliff and

mourned their loved ones. Their sorrow was so great that their tears turned to black stones.

Holding this stone to the light reveals the shimmer of the Apache Tear Drop and is good luck to

those who have it. They will never cry again because the Apache cried enough for them.

I hold this stone after learning that Lila’s cancer has returned.

I hold it after learning that the cancer has spread to her bone marrow, lungs, and liver.

I hold it after watching Dad cry that it’s the liver that will take her away from us in a few months.

I hold it after overhearing Dad telling Jace to cut his trip short and come home.

I hold it after Annie hugs him, me, then Lila who is sitting on the grass outside in the spot her and

Dad were married.

I hold it but it doesn’t take any pain away.

The Apache women did not cry enough for Lila.

stonehenge bluestone

Annie brings over the kauri rocking chair I gave her. She smiles at me in the doorway to the dining

room as Lila sinks onto the cushions.

The patio doors are open and a warm breeze stirs the trees and ruffles Lila’s skirt. She grips the

chair arms and rocks. “This is lovely, Annie.”

Dad squeezes Annie into a hug and slips into the kitchen to make tea. His back is to me and his

shoulders are higher up than usual, as though he’s stiff with worry.

I push off the doorway to help him when the doorbell rings.

“I’ll get that.”

For all the windows in this house, it is strange that the door is so solid, so dark, so impenetrable. I

grip the cool handle, ready to let him in.

I pull the door open.

Jace stands in the porch with his suitcase and carry-on bag. He’s tanner than the last time I saw him

at Lila and Dad’s wedding, but unlike the suave suit he wore then, he’s wearing jeans stained with flight

food and wine. Even with sunglasses on, the puffiness of his cheeks gives his tears away.

“You’re home,” I choke out.

He doesn’t move forward to hug me or even push past me. It’s as though he’s afraid to cross the