Not the Only One (Book 1 in the Four of Us Trilogy)

Thirty-Five

Rachel

I was cleaning and vacuuming my room when my mom came in holding my ringing iPhone.

I shut off the vacuum and held out my hand. "Sorry it bothered you, Mom!"

"It's fine; It's Miles...he's called you 4 times in the past ten minutes. It must be important."

I knew exactly why he was calling. "Yes, Mom, he hates talking on the phone, so it must be...thank you for bringing it." I slid the answer call button, and she kissed me on the forehead before ducking out the door.

I waited until the door clicked shut and held the phone to my ear. "Hey, babe, are you okay? Sorry, I was vacuuming."

"Hey hon," he said distractedly. "It's okay. I need to talk to you, and it needs to be in person. Can you meet me at the beach?"

I looked down at myself; Nike running shorts, Miles' baseball t-shirt, my hair unkempt from cleaning. Oh well.

"Yes, where?"

"Our spot down by St. Andrews?" I knew what he was talking about; the place where we almost kissed on the day we skipped school.

"Be there in ten."

"Thank you...I love you."

"I love you too," I answered, clicking the end call button, shoving my feet into my sandals and running downstairs.

"Mom," I called. "Miles needs to talk to me, and he wanted to do it in person," I said, hoping that would be a good enough explanation for her.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, looking over her shoulder. She was washing dishes in the kitchen.

"I don't know. He's upset about something," I said, not wanting to go into details. Not yet.

"Okay. Be home in time for dinner, please. And you're welcome to bring him over."

My heart skipped a beat. "Um, okay. I'll ask him. Thanks, Mom," I said, kissing her on the cheek and running out the door.

When I got to the beach, Miles was already sitting on the wooden beach chair we'd shared that day. His head was in his hands, and I could tell he'd been running his fingers through his hair.

I came up behind him and sat down, snaking my arms around his waist. "Miles," I whispered.

He turned around, his blue eyes swimming with relief when he saw my face. "Rachel," he breathed, putting his hand on the back of my neck and pulling me to him, kissing me with reckless abandon.

"Mmm," I hummed in surprise, matching his passion, but feeling his sadness at the same time.

He broke the kiss reluctantly, resting his forehead against mine. "Rachel," he said again, "everything is so fucked up."

"What is it?" I asked, putting two fingers under his chin and raising his face so I could see his eyes.

"Luke came over earlier, and he had a photo with him he found in his attic."

I furrowed my brow. "Okay?"

"It was a photo of his father...his red-haired, fair-skinned father...with his arm around another red-haired, fair-skinned man...my dad," he said, the words seeming to take the air out of him.

I sat back against the chair suddenly, my back slamming into the wood harshly. "What? Wait, are your dad and his dad...brothers?" I asked, the whole idea seeming absurd.

"It looks like it. They're around the same height, same ginger features, and they looked semi-happy standing together. But the other weird part is that my dad got home when he was there...and when he saw Luke, he freaked the fuck out," he said, picking at the skin around his thumbnail, a nervous habit of his I'd noticed.