Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [86]
Miranda’s knees went watery, enough to make her grateful when Adam stepped up a little closer and lent her his silent support. She blinked. What was she supposed to say to that?
“You and Frankie?” She hated the sound of her own voice, high and thin with something like fear.
A fear she saw echoed in Jess’s blue eyes—God, their mother’s eyes—but his jaw was set and determined. Miranda watched him nod and saw their father in Jess’s stubborn chin and solemn expression.
“Miranda. I’m gay.”
There was a momentary flash of recognition—Yes, I know, I’ve always known—before Miranda throttled it.
“But you . . . you like girls,” she said stupidly. “I mean, what about that girl at Brandewine? Tara?”
But Jess was shaking his head. “No. Tara was my friend. Or at least, I thought she was. She was the first person I came out to—and she couldn’t wait to tell the whole rest of the school and all the people we worked with at the restaurant. Pretty much nobody wanted to have anything to do with me after that.”
“This is why you came home,” Miranda realized, dazed. “Oh, my God, you must have felt so alone. And confused!” Her heart ached with the knowledge of what Jess had gone through, and guilt at not having dug deeper to find out what had prompted his transfer from Brandewine.
Actually, the guilt ran far deeper than that, but even looking at it sideways made panic start to bloom in her chest, so she shoved it down.
“I wish I’d told you before,” Jess said. His face was lightening, as if he felt relieved at finally coming clean. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t hold it against me.”
“Oh, honey,” she choked out. “No, of course not.”
Pulling away from Adam, she rushed to wrap her arms around her little brother. He was only an inch or two taller than she was, and still so skinny and coltish. Not even done growing yet, and he’d had all this bewildering chaos of emotion happening inside him. And he’d had no one to turn to.
It had always, always been Miranda’s job to be there for him. She’d failed in the worst possible way—but no more.
“None of this is your fault,” she said fiercely, not ready to let him go. “You’re only a baby, Jess, how could I blame you?”
He stiffened in her arms.
“Miranda—”
She let him pull away, but kept one hand circling his wrist. She couldn’t bear to lose the connection entirely.
“It’s okay,” she said soothingly. “We’re just going to go home and talk this out.”
Jess gazed at her uncertainly for a moment, then his eyes cut to someone behind her. Miranda realized with a start that Adam and Frankie were both still standing there, bearing witness to this incredibly private family moment.
Moreover, it was Frankie Jess had looked to, as if for permission. And suddenly Miranda knew exactly who was to blame in all of this.
“How could you?” she hissed at Frankie. “I wasn’t so wrong, after all, was I? Maybe you didn’t hit him yourself, but what you’ve been doing to him is a hell of a lot more damaging than a scratch.”
“Whoa, Miranda, what?” Jess was shaking his head, but Miranda ignored it. He was a child, he didn’t know what he wanted. But this . . . this man, with his too-tight jeans and too-cool attitude—he’d tricked Jess into believing something that just wasn’t true.
“He took advantage of you,” Miranda told Jess. “He picked up on your normal, natural teenage confusion and he took advantage.”
Her voice shook dangerously and she had to press a hand to her eyes for a moment before she could go on. Frankie the Scumbag did not get to see her cry.
When she looked at him again, however, Frankie the Scumbag was staring at Jess.
“Bit,” he said hoarsely. “Bit, I—”
Frankie reached out a hand, and Miranda lost it.
“Just stop,” she cried. “Don’t talk to him, don’t look at him. And for the sake of all that’s holy, don’t ever, ever touch him again. Oh, my God, I can’t stand to think of your hands on him, I can’t stand to think—”
“No, you stop it,” Jess said, startling her. His eyes were blazing as he shook free of her restraining grasp. “I’m not