How long will we be apart? Forever. It fucking feels like forever.
Unbearable doesn’t even cut it. And fuck me, for putting all my hope and desire and utter want into this one thing. Because losing something I never had shouldn’t feel this devastating. This crushing.
“Garrison,” Connor says softly. “Understand that I’m doing this for your own benefit.”
That gets to me.
I swing my head and choke on a bitter laugh. “My benefit?” I say in disbelief. “Unless it benefits me to feel miserable, then I don’t see how this has anything to do with me.” I clench my knee with a shaking hand. “You know what. I qu…” I can’t finish those words. They’re sawed off by something inside of me.
I blink hard, pushing back more emotion.
Connor watches me with tranquility that should calm me but it’s setting me on edge. “I’m not trying to push you to quit, Garrison. I don’t want that. Neither do you. But if I let you go to London seven days out of the month—every month—you will quit.”
I don’t see how I will. “You don’t know that.”
He raises his brows. “Four words I don’t hear often.” His lip lifts. “I know you. I know that you lead with your emotions, not your head. And if you’re in London for seven days, you’ll email me asking for another day overseas. It’ll turn into telecommuting for eight. Then you’ll ask for another week. Fourteen days will turn into twenty-one. And then by the end of the year, you’ll call me to say that you want to stay there permanently. Because given the choice between Willow and this job, you will choose Willow. So I’m not giving you the choice. I’m allowing you to have both while you still can. And one day, you’ll thank me for it.”
I grind down on my teeth. Pain leeches everywhere, all doors shutting from me to her. No way there. No escape or passageway.
“You don’t trust me to stay seven days in London and come back?” That’s what I’m getting from this.
“No, I don’t. And if you thought about it more, you might not trust yourself either. Just ask yourself which would be harder: not seeing Willow for months, or having to leave her every three weeks?”
I finally understand what he’s saying.
Either way I’m fucked. But at least in one scenario I get to see her. Hold her. Comfort her. But Connor already told me I don’t get a choice. He made it for me. That hits me.
“This decision,” I say. “It’s not from my boss, is it?”
Connor rolls up his sleeves slowly. “No, it’s not.” He glances my way. Blue eyes hitting mine. “It’s from your friend.”
The limo rolls towards the gated neighborhood, slowing down. My head is heavy. Spirits dulled. I don’t know what to do. How to see Willow more often. How to make this relationship work. If it’s even possible anymore. I try one last thing. The good ole guilt trip.
“Yeah, and what happens if we break up because we can’t see each other?” I ask. “You’re going to be an accomplice to that, you know. If you’re such a great friend, you could have helped.” I feel like utter shit as soon as I say the words. Fuck, why even go there?
Because I’m me.
Because I could.
Connor stares through me like I’m made of glass. “If you break up because you can’t see each other, then your relationship is too fragile to last anyway. Blame me, if you’d like. But it will be sorely misdirected.”
Fragile.
I feel fucking fragile.
“How do I make us stronger?” I ask him since he seems to have all the fucking answers.
Connor smiles a soft, genuine smile. “First step is believing you already are.”
The words roll around in my head for a couple minutes. Until the limo slows to a stop at Loren’s house.
There’s one more thing I need to ask. One more unanswered question that’s going to plague me. “One more thing,” I say. “How well do you know Jonathan Hale?”
Connor’s expression flatlines, impassive again. “Better than you. Why do you ask?”
I shake my head, already coming up with a roundabout answer. “I just don’t know him that well, I guess, and if Willow and I are going to be more serious, I figure I should start trying to.” It’s not untrue.
Jonathan and I have met briefly at group events—Lo usually invites him—but for the most part I don’t interact with Jonathan. I always figured it was because my relationship with Willow was slow and new, but her relationship with her dad was even slower and newer. It never bothered me that she didn’t want those two things colliding.
But now that I know Jonathan used to say shit to Lo that my brothers used to say to me…it changes things. I should know my girlfriend’s dad better, and I want to make sure he’s not going to screw her over with that loan. I can’t tell Lo and Ryke about it, so I’m going to try to protect Willow myself—with everything I have.
Connor eyes me. “Jonathan Hale is a person you’re better off not knowing. Especially you.”
“Why?”
“Because unless you share his last name, you are collateral damage in his life. And you have the most unenviable position.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re dating his only daughter.”
17 BACK THEN – December
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
GARRISON ABBEY
Age 18
“Please go outside, Garrison,” my mom begs from the kitchen. The smell of freshly made Christmas cookies wafts through a ten-foot archway—straight into the nearby living room where I sit.
The ornately tufted furniture, including this taupe couch my ass is on, should honestly exist in Downton Abbey. Not Pennsylvania.
I don’t pause or turn off my game console. “Maybe later,” I say, more than disinterested.
During Thanksgiving last month, my mom guilted me into joining Davis, Hunter, and Mitchell for a “brotherly” dinner in the city. Unbeknownst to our parents, they really planned some Turkey Pub Crawl thing, and with my fake ID, I could accompany them.
On paper it sounds great. Bonding time! Brothers! Beer! But I’d rather cut off my big toe than be around Davis and Hunter when they’re piss drunk.
I tried to leave when Davis started shoving my head with “brotherly” aggression, but Mitchell convinced me to hang around for a while longer. I should’ve bailed because at the next pub Hunter waved a hundred-dollar bill in the air. The consequence, of which, gave me a bruised kidney and dislocated shoulder. For a whole week, it hurt to piss.
I still hear my brother’s stupid voice and see that pub and those fucking men.
“I’ll give anyone a hundred bucks to fight my brother here,” Hunter decreed, smacking my shoulder hard, cash between his fingers.
I jerked out of his hold. “No,” I spit. “Fuck that.”
Davis laughed and chugged his beer. Mitchell hung back, texting some girl he started dating.
Hunter raised his voice to announce, “He needs to become a man.” He slapped my face hard enough to leave a handprint. “You’re such a little cock-sucking pussy.”
I shoved him towards a high-top table, and Hunter almost flipped a switch, his eyes flashing murderously. I raised a hand for him to stay put. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. My heavy pulse could’ve busted my eardrums.
Davis laughed more. “Why are you running away from him?” he asked me. “Push back.”
Fuck that shit.
“Don’t be a pussy.”
If I pushed back, I would’ve ended up with two black eyes. Hunter outsized me, and he had Davis on his side.
“Going once!” Hunter hollered at the crowds, still waving the bill. “Twice!”
Two leather-clad biker guys—way older than us—exchanged a look and then hopped up from their bar stools.
“He’s joking,” I said, backing up towards the exit.
“I’m not,” Hunter retorted. “Come on, Garrison. Fight back!”
“Be a man,” Davis shouted, hands cupped around his mouth like he was cheering m
e on. Pumping me up. Encouraging me. To be a man.
Bullshit. I shouldn’t have to bear my fists in a drunken brawl to be called a motherfucking man. They’re the immature ones.
I kept backing up.
The bikers followed me. Step for step. Not slowing.
Not hesitating.
“I don’t want to fight!” I screamed furiously and desperately, hoping someone—anyone—would hear me.
The bikers sped up to a sprint, and I spun around to run away. I fled the pub, reached the sidewalk, and was kicked in the lower back. Right in my kidney. I fell to my hands. The man grabbed onto my arm, and my shoulder popped out as I fought against him. Freeing myself, I ran as far as I could and then spun back around to my parked car.
I offered to be the “designated driver” for that reason. I wanted an escape in case I needed one. My brothers found their own way home. Took a cab or something. And then they complained to our mom how I bailed on them.
I didn’t tell anyone what really happened. Not even Willow, who was having a shit time in Maine already. Apparently, her little sister threw a tantrum about Willow moving away to Philly, and she refused to be in the same room with Willow the entire holiday.
Willow ate Thanksgiving dinner alone in her bedroom—but not totally alone. I Skyped her and ate my pumpkin pie at the same time.
In the living room on Christmas Eve, I pound harder on my game controller, crushing my score on Street Fighter II. My mom already guilted me into leaving my bedroom, but I’m not going to be guilted into any “brotherly” activities this time.
“Garrison.” My mom says my name in a way that completely obliterates each syllable with disappointment.
I know how to fix it. How to make her happy. To vanquish her disappointment, I have to become more like my brothers, but I can’t be them. I couldn’t live with myself knowing I was just like Hunter or Davis or even Mitchell.
And that says a lot because I’ve barely been able to live with myself as is.
My mom appears in the archway, cupping a wine glass with lime seltzer. I try not to make eye contact, but she still lingers. “I know they’d love if you joined them.”
They brought their lacrosse sticks from college, and they’re playing in the yard, tossing the ball between the three of them.
“I’m busy,” I say flatly, my stomach starting to knot. My character Ryu is knocked on his ass by Dee Jay. I lose the first round and try to concentrate on the second, but I’m overly aware of how many times I blink, trying to shake off my mom’s presence and request.
I lose the second round.
In the short break, I grab the remote and turn up the volume, wishing she’d take the hint and leave me alone.
My mom struts over and snatches the remote from my hand. She turns off the TV.
I stare flabbergasted at her. Usually she stands passively off to the side and lets me be a spoiled, ungrateful shithead.
I angrily toss my controller aside and slouch back on the couch. I pull up my hood and wait for her to lecture or yell or whatever she’s decided to suddenly do.
“Your brain is going to rot from these video games,” she says like all moms do, but if life were different—if sports were perceived as “lesser” and video games were seen as something “more”—would I be the beloved son then?
“I have a brain?” I say, sarcasm thick. “No way.”
Sadness softens her eyes, and she sweeps over my dry tone. “Your brothers are home only a few times out of the year. Why can’t you at least visit with them?” It’s the same question. The same fight.
The same request.
Over and over, it never changes. I don’t think it ever will. “I don’t like them,” I tell her seriously.
“They’re your brothers.”
I lift my foot on the couch cushion, arm draped on my kneecap. It takes me the longest second to find words. I want to shut down, but if someone can help me, I think it’d be a parent. A mom.
“Mom, it doesn’t…” I shake my head and meet the confusion on her face. “Just because we’re brothers doesn’t absolve them of all the shit they’ve done to me.”
“They love you. I know they do. They tell me all the time.” There she goes, defending them again. She fights tears and cups her drink with both palms. Like she’s afraid her hands will shake and she’ll drop the glass.
Love. Is how they treat me called love? I’m not making this up, right? They truly suck. It’s not all on me. It’s not my fault.
Is it?
I hate questioning myself. I used to do this as a little kid. Hell, I do it when anyone points out a bruise. It’s just what brothers do. Now that I’m older, I’m starting to see it’s not cool or right or something I want in my life.
It’s why I avoid them.
“Garrison,” she pleads.
I hang my head. “You know Thanksgiving?” I’m going to puke. I have to tell her though. I need to tell someone. I don’t want this weight on my chest. “I only bailed on them because Hunter paid two guys a hundred bucks to fight me.”
I brave a glance, and she only looks befuddled. Like she’s trying to figure out a defense for her three sons. Like she’s their trial lawyer.
“Were they drinking?” she asks quietly.
“Yeah, but…” What does that fucking matter?!
“I’m sure they were just playing around. You’re too sensitive about things, Garrison.”
“The man dislocated my shoulder,” I say, my throat burning raw. “Mom.”
She sighs like I’m being unnaturally troublesome.
“I didn’t want to fight,” I say. “I didn’t want to even be there—”
“Then maybe you should try to be happier when you’re with them. They won’t give you such a hard time.”
I’ll never win with her.
After a short pause, she adds, “Your father says you need thicker skin, and you know, he’s right. The real world isn’t kind either.”
“Whatever.” I shut down now and grab my controller. As she sees me about to play my game and ignore her, she lets out this wounded noise, between a sigh and a cry.
I stare blankly at the paused television screen.
She sniffs loudly. “I just…” Her voice breaks. I always make her cry in the end. “I just don’t know what to do anymore, Garrison.”
She acts like it’s her fault that animosity exists between my brothers and me, but then when she has the chance to make it better, she puts it all on my shoulders. Go spend time with them. Befriend them. Please.
“You could’ve gone to jail. Just like your friends,” she starts listing my terrible decisions, bad actions, awful characteristics. “You got tattoos without me knowing. You were found drinking vodka at school.”
Once.
I was caught once, but I’d done it plenty more times.
“You’ve been in trouble for vandalizing, backtalking, and cutting class.” She takes a pause to wipe a fallen tear. “But thank God you didn’t break into Loren Hale’s home that night. Watching your best friends get in trouble—I thought that was your wakeup call. But you’re still skipping school. You still won’t listen to me or your father. You won’t speak to your brothers. Nothing has changed.”
Everything has changed.
I’m certain that I’m not the same anymore. I feel overturned. Inside-out. I’m fighting against the person they want me to be and fighting for the person I am inside.
The fact that she can’t even see this makes me wonder who she’s even looking at. Does she even know me at all? Or is she still resenting the fourth son she was given?
I shrug and turn on my game.
With the biggest sigh, she retreats into the kitchen, and I numbly scroll through Street Fighter II characters. Every so often, I hear her sniffle like she’s silently crying. I make no effort to comfort my mom, and it’s fucked up.
I realize that, but a sick part of me wants her to feel as terrible as I do. How many times have I shown her bruises from Hunte
r’s fists and lacrosse stick? How many times has she repeated my father’s phrase, get thicker skin?
My skin could be superhumanly thick, and I’d still get bruises and broken bones. What then, Mom?
From the kitchen, I hear the sliding glass doors swoosh open and my oldest brother’s voice.
“Mom, what happened?” Davis asks. “Why are you crying?”
Shit.
I quickly pause the game and shut off the television. My brothers must file into the kitchen, one-by-one, because they each say a few consoling words while my mom blubbers something about wanting me to be with the family this Christmas.
“He’s with us, Mom.” Davis comforts her easily.
While I stand, I catch a glimpse of my mom through the archway, dabbing her tear-streaked cheeks with a dishrag.
“We’ll make sure he doesn’t run off to his friends,” Hunter says.
My nose flares, and I find myself waiting—to listen in. I should move. I should go. I know better.
“It’s not like he has many friends left around,” Mitchell says with a short, uneasy laugh. Like he’s not sure if anyone else will love his joke.
Hunter does. “That’s right.” He laughs mockingly. “What does he have, like one friend?”
“You can’t be surprised he lost them all,” Davis says to our mom, I think. “If he’s not on his computer, then he’s on his cellphone or playing video games. The kid is socially inept.”
I clench my teeth so hard that my jaw aches. This is what my family really thinks of me. A socially inept, lazy delinquent. Whatever.
“Mom, don’t cry,” Davis says.
“I’ll get him to play two-on-two basketball with us,” Hunter reassures her. “You can be sure of that.”
I start high-tailing my ass towards the back staircase. I can lock myself in my bedroom or crawl out the window and sit on the roof.
For how big Hunter is, he’s somehow deceivingly fast. Right as my foot touches the first stair, he fists the back of my hoodie and yanks me backwards.
My pulse explodes, and I spin frantically out of his hold. But my movement forces me back into the living room.
Wherever You Are (Bad Reputation Duet Book 2) Page 16