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“Wine?” I offer.

He shakes his head. “I don’t drink.”

“I wish I never said the things I did,” I state, my unfocused eyes staring at the flames in front of us.

Jacques snaps his gaze to me and sighs. “You had a right to be angry, Cam.”

I turn to him. “But I didn’t need to hurt him like that.”

His lips tighten. “He hurt you, too.”

“But you can’t fight fire with fire.”

That silences him.

“You can try to validate me, but I’ll never forgive myself for what I said.” My throat is tight.

I can’t pick and choose when Xander’s obsessive tendencies are okay, but I just wish he told me the truth.

Letting out a long breath, I focus on the flames in front of us again. “I think I’m ready.”

I’m not facing him, but I can see in the corner of my vision that Jacques whips his head towards me. He’s been waiting for me to say those words since Xander went missing.

He clears his throat, leaning back in his chair. “How much do you know?”

“I know about his mum and dad. His mum didn’t care about him, and his dad committed suicide after she left. Nothing past that.”

“Yeah…” he pauses. “After his dad died, Xander was fostered. And not into a good family. He was… abused. Badly. Worse than his mum ever did.”

“What about you?” I question.

“What about me?”

“Aren’t you brothers?” I arch my brow.

He chuckles, a stray strand of hair falling in front of his face as he dips his head down. “We’re not actually brothers.”

Well.

“People only believe that we are. And being in the business we’re in, it’s better to pretend and go along with it. It makes people fear you that little bit more.”

“Oh. Xander never mentioned.”

“Because you didn’t ask. We’ve been friends since we were toddlers. We feel like brothers,” he says, his face becoming sombre before he continues.

He doesn’t hesitate to tell me about Xander. And I listen with a tight throat. He’s been waiting for this with silent hope that it might change my mind.

But truthfully, maybe I just needed time away from him.

“Why hasn’t he told me any of this?” I ask.

“Xander… His brain blocks out that part of his life. He doesn’t like to talk about it. He was doing fine until you showed up.”

“So all of this is my fault,” I muse.

“No. That’s not what I’m saying. In that box… was there a picture of a green teddy bear?”

I nod slowly, recalling the teddy bear in multiple pictures.