Recovery by Nicole Dykes (top 5 books to read .txt) 📕

“I’m not good, Mya. I’ve done some bad shit.”

“But you care. You care so damn much. I’m . . .” His hand rests over mine, so large and comforting. He makes me feel so damn safe. “I’m cold, and I try to keep people away. Why can’t you just use my body and let me go?”

“I see you, Mya. The real you. And you aren’t fucking cold. And I’m not fucking nice. I just really . . .” his hand moves from my hand to my mouth, his thumb tracing my bottom lip, “really like you.”

I smile, a tear sliding down my cheek. “I don’t want you to like me.”

“Yeah, I got that.” His smile only adds to my comfort. “But I do.”

“I’m hard to love.”

He laughs at that. The bastard actually laughs. “You’re not hard to love in the slightest, Mya. You’ve just been surrounded by assholes your whole life.”

I choke on a cry, fighting it. I don’t want to cry. I want to stay wrapped in his happiness and warmth. “Everyone leaves.”

His hand drops to my waist, pulling me into him. “What do you mean?”

“My dad left before I was born. Quinn, Rhys, Sean, and Logan. They all left. My mom was never there, even when she was.” A warm tear slides down my cheek, but I keep going. “Charity,” her name is a sad whisper as I close my eyes and picture her once bright smile. “She was my best friend in the world, and she left without saying a word to me.” He holds me closer as I start to sob. “And then Trey left.”

I don’t want to think about this. The pain is too great.

But I force myself to go on when he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t try to force me to talk. He just holds me.

“He trusted me. He knew from a young age, like I did, that we couldn’t trust Mom. When we’d go to the grocery store, on the rare occasion Mom actually bought food, if the cashier asked if he could have candy, he’d look to me for approval. Not her. Never her. He was always looking to me.”

His hand slides gently over the bare skin on my hip, calming me, but I continue to cry. “You were a good sister.”

I shake my head. “Until I wasn’t. He trusted me so damn much, Jase.”

I feel his hand under my chin as he tips my head to look up at him. “What happened?”

“I had a job as a waitress in the shitty little diner near our apartment.” My chin wobbles with the sobs that are about to take over my entire body. “I was so tired when I got home that evening. Trey had been cooped up inside and had so much energy.” He was smiling so big when I came home. My heart aches in my chest, but I keep going. “So much damn energy. We didn’t have a lot for him to do, and he begged me to let him go outside and play.”

His hand smooths over my hair, and my tears fall.

“I shouldn’t have let him, but I was so damn tired.”

He holds me closer, and I want so badly to get lost in him. But I’m back at the shitty apartment—a one bedroom for three people, brown water coming out of the leaky faucet, the smell of mold and rot.

“I told him he could go outside for twenty minutes while I stayed on the couch with a book.” I let out a strangled cry, thinking about the next moment that I play over and over in my head. “I must have fallen asleep. But I was woken up by a loud sound, a bang and then another.”

“Fuck.” His voice is a harsh whisper.

“I ran outside, but I was too late. Trey was lying there, lifeless, blood seeping from his chest. He was already gone, but I still pulled his body onto my lap and rocked him, begged him to come back, told him how fucking sorry I was. I knew it wasn’t safe for him to be outside in our neighborhood. But I let him.”

“He was a kid, Mya. That wasn’t your fault. He should have been able to play outside.”

“But that wasn’t our reality, Jase. And I knew that. I just wanted a few minutes to myself to read and rest. Look what it got me.”

His arms wrap around me as he pulls me flush against him, letting me sob against his chest. Warm. He’s so warm. And safe.

“It wasn’t your fault, Mya.”

I cry harder when he says that, and he only holds onto me. Taking my pain. Wrapping me in warmth and kindness when all I can offer him is my bitter coldness.

“What happened afterward?”

I try to force away the memories. The ambulance and the cops pulling up. Them taking him out of my arms. Trying to get me to calm down as I wailed into the night. “They took him away. And then the media came. Fucking flies to the corpses. It was the sixty-second murder that year in the city.”

I rest my hand on his bare chest and feel his heart.

“That’s awful.”

I nod. “The press wanted their story. It was a big one. The community rallying together to prevent violence. Pastors on the screen telling people it needs to stop. Grieving mothers used for ratings, sobbing and telling their stories.” I look up at him, knowing I sound distant and bitter because I am. “They didn’t care. It all fades. Soon there’s another crime. Another victim. Lottery winner. Sports team victory. They all move on, and I’m still without my brother.”

He’s careful with his words. “I’m sure they wanted the story and the ratings, but I have to believe they also want change.” I’m about to argue when his hand caresses my cheek and holds it. “Or someone watching wants change. Wants better for the world. Maybe your little brother’s story will spark that change and will hit the