Thrane: Book Four of the Cantrell Brothers Series

Chapter Nine

And they did.

That day, Thrane asked her if she wanted to stay for lunch, and she gladly accepted. He pulled a chair from his classroom and set it next to his desk, taking that one instead of his big office chair. The leather was still warm when she sat down.

They'd made the customary small talk. How was your weekend? How was the school year going so far? She found out he usually went to Sunday church with his parents and two of his brothers, Titus and Trace. But he also had two other brothers, Taivon and Tobias. His parents had a thing for T names, it seemed.

Thrane talked about how annoying his brothers were, how spoiled his little nieces and nephews were, and how clingy his family was, but he smiled the whole time, his face lighting up when he talked about them. It was so different from how he usually was whenever he was around others. He was so open with her, and she cherished that. She really did.

He asked her questions, too, always focusing on her with that unwavering dark gaze. She told him about her family, her little brother and her two parents. Her brother, Jamie, was in his first year of college. He was still living at home and was pursuing a career in mechanical engineer and design. Her family lived about two hours north of here, but she'd driven up for her brother's birthday this past weekend. She'd missed the little brat.

They ate lunch together on Wednesday, too, and then Friday, because she didn't have lunch duty.

"Do you have any big plans for the weekend?" she asked, talking through her mouthful of peanut butter and jelly.

Thrane was slouched in the desk chair, his hands behind his head and his eyes on her. He'd rolled up his sleeves. Combine that with the pose, and Amara was finding it difficult to focus on his face as he talked.

"Football game tonight, Callie's got a soccer game tomorrow, and then church." He rolled his eyes but smiled all the same. "But other than that, no. You?"

She shrugged. "Just those backdrops. I did find a new playlist on Spotify, though, so I'll listen to that while I paint."

"You should go tell Mason to fuck off. Or at least help you or something."

"He's busy with all the play practices and stuff. And I've got some students to help, so it's going pretty well."

"Still."

Amara took another bite of her sandwich, not knowing what to say.

"I could help you," he said. "I'm shit, but I can at least stay within the lines."

"You don't have to do that. I –"

"I want to. I feel like it'll be relaxing."

Her heart pounded in her chest. "Are you sure?"

He grinned. "It's more for me than for you, sweetheart. Maybe this could be a nice, positive outlet. Keep me from tearing my hair outta my skull."

He said it like it was a joke, the words themselves serious but the tone careless. She noticed he did that sometimes. And then there were the little nicknames he called her. Sweetheart, darling, even sugar that one time . . . He used those when he said something especially concerning, as if to distract her. And it usually worked. Somewhat. She just hadn't felt brave enough to ask him such a personal question.

But maybe that was what he needed.

"Is everything . . . alright?"

It was like her question wiped him. It took the smile off his face, the ease of his posture from his body, and the light out of his eyes. His feet hit the floor, and his arms crossed his chest; he was shielding himself, she thought. Amara had done it more than enough times to be able to recognize it.

"Yeah. Why?" His mouth was tight, the words clipped as they tumbled out.

The peanut butter felt stuck. It took her a few tries before she managed to swallow the lump of what now tasted like clay in her mouth. She cleared her throat. "You seemed . . . stressed. Like, what you said . . . that's how I feel when I'm stressed, anyway."

"I'm not stressed."

"Okay."

"I'm fine."

"Okay. I just . . . if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm always here," she said, softly.

But it must have been too soft.

His hands tightened, twisting the fabric of his shirt. He glared at her. Like, really glared. His brows were harsh slants over those dark eyes, now filled with such an anger and iciness that Amara had to look away. His nostrils flared.

"I'm not some mental case, you know. You don't have to fix me or whatever the fuck everybody else is trying to do, okay? I'm not some fucking . . . helpless animal. So don't try and rescue me. I don't need your help. I don't need anybody's help."

"I never said that. I'm just trying to –"

"Help," he snapped. "Well, don't. I'm fine."

She managed to look up, right into his eyes. Those hateful, awful eyes. "I was going to say that I was just trying to be a good friend. Believe it or not, some people want to support their friends because they care about them."

Thrane didn't say a word.

Amara wiped the tears from her eyes, furious that she'd let him make her cry. "But I don't know you well enough for that."

She threw the rest of her lunch into the garbage. The thought of eating made her sick. Even now, the food in her stomach was threatening to come up and spew from her mouth.

Thrane didn't try to stop her as she walked out. Amara didn't even think she heard the chair move. She wiped at her eyes again as she walked down the hallway, just trying to reach the bathroom before lunch ended so she could at least clean her face.

But she ran into Miranda.

The woman was at the sink, washing her hands, the soap squeaking on her hands. She wore a long floral skirt and a brown top. She looked like a mother. As soon as Miranda saw her, she washed and dried her hands, holding onto Amara's shoulders with wrinkly hands.

"What's wrong?"

Amara shook her head, feeling the warmth trickle down her face. Her nose was runny, too. "Nothing. Nothing. It's just . . . Don't tell anybody. Please."