Ben sat on his board, legs dangling in the water (shark bait position, one of his non-surfer friends called it), watching his sister and Jesse, completely fucking confused.
Being a sane human being, Ben knew that “true love” and “soul mates” were bullshit. But, sometimes, Quinn and Jesse made him wonder. You could almost see cables physically connecting them—like climbers, roped together.
Which made it impossible to understand why she’d been kissing Marco Cavanaugh that night in Maine.
Ben hadn’t realized it was her until this whole fucked up pregnancy thing, when little parts of that evening gelled in his head: It was at a party at the Cavanaughs’, the Cutlers’ neighbors on Southaven—a good-bye party, since the Cavanaughs had sold their house. A barbeque followed by a bonfire. There were maybe twenty people at the bonfire, and enough of them were girls with long hair that when Ben saw Marco kissing someone on the dock, he hadn’t thought twice. But later that night, Marco had been acting jacked up around him, and Foley Cavanaugh, Marco’s older cousin, had said to Ben, “You got a live one there,” while gesturing at Quinn. Ben had been too high or whatever to really wonder what the hell Foley meant. Now, though, it all made sense.
Well, not all of it. Not why she would have kissed Marco to begin with.
Those guys . . . Marco and Foley . . . Ben had been friends with them growing up on Southaven, but they’d never been especially nice to Quinn. Teased her, didn’t let her hang out with them—normal older kid stuff. So it wasn’t like there should have been some hot reunion.
The only thing that made sense was that Marco had coerced her to kiss him in some way. Which, of course, made Ben wonder what else he’d done to her that night.
Ben gripped his board. He should have had his eye on her during the party. But she’d been with Jesse, and Ben had been too fucked up to really pay attention. He’d been useless, just like his dad always said. Just like when they were kids. A terrible big brother. And he wasn’t only useless, he was a liar. And he hated himself for it.
But he was going to make up for it now. He was.
He’d told a friend of his who was a survivor of sexual assault that something might have happened to his sister but she wouldn’t talk about it, and his friend had said to let Quinn know he was there for her, but not to force her to talk about it if she wasn’t ready.
Fine. He’d done that. But it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t going to just sit around and do nothing. Not this time.