Temper for You

by Genna Rulon

  5. What do you stand to lose by discussing your past with me?

  6. Do you truly believe Sam, Griffin, Everleigh, and Hunter will abandon you if they learn what you’ve been hiding?

  “Before you answer the last question, I want you to remember something…every one of your friends has made mistakes in their lives and has regrets they must face each day.

  7. Don’t you believe they can empathize with what you’re going through, accept, and—if necessary—forgive you, just as they’ve learned to forgive each other as well as themselves?

  8. Haven’t they already proven their steadfast commitment to you?

  9. What more must they do to prove they are worthy of your trust?

  “One last question before you hitch a ride home with Griffin and Sam,” Thia added.

  10. What have you sacrificed by not disclosing your past to the people who care about you?”

  After saying goodbye to Thia, I met Griffin and Sam out front.

  “Hi, guys, thanks for coming to get me,” I said tiredly.

  “No problem,” Griffin replied breezily. “Sam will drive your car and you can ride in the truck with me.”

  “No!” Sam protested. “She can ride in her car with me.”

  Obviously, my mode of transportation was a point of contention.

  “Lo, we talked about this,” Griffin replied firmly, a tone rarely used when addressing Sam.

  “I’ll be good…promise,” she said sweetly, noticeably changing tactics.

  “You’re always good, love, but the temptation is too great. Just think of it as a preventative measure,” he replied, unconvinced by her promise. “Meg, we’re under strict orders to take you home to rest, and…” he continued while giving Sam a warning look, “not to question you about your session with Thia.”

  Ah, it all made sense now. Griffin didn’t trust Sam not to push me for answers, which in all fairness was a valid concern because Sam had to have all the answers so she could get busy fixing the problem.

  “Fine, ride with Mister I-don’t-think-Sam-has-any-self-control,” Sam said to me before turning her attention to Griff, “and you…you’ll see exactly how much self-control I possess tonight.”

  Sam snatched the keys from my hand and hugged me tightly against her petite frame before climbing into Bessie and slamming the door.

  “Wait for me to follow you,” he called to Sam through the open car window. “Meg’s car is, uh…vintage—you know how temperamental vintage cars can be,” he added with an apologetic smile.

  Despite my fragile mental state, I laughed at his floundering attempt to call Bessie a piece of shit without calling her a piece of shit. I was going to have to order a bumper sticker this week: ‘I’m not a POS—I’m vintage.’

  Sam didn’t acknowledge Griffin’s request, although I was fairly certain I saw her flip him the bird from the corner of my eye. But she didn’t drive off, so I assumed she intended to comply.

  Once Griffin and I were buckled in and on our way, he spoke, “I’m not going to ask you to share anything—I promise—but can I share with you?”

  “Of course,” I responded immediately.

  “Did you know I meet with Thia on occasion?” He glanced at me in time to see my head shake. “I thought not. There are times I struggle with my guilt from Sam’s attack. I get a horrible case of the ‘what ifs’…what if I’d gotten off my ass and asked her out sooner? What if I’d listened to my gut and called the police the night Heath assaulted Ev at The Stop? I review every detail of the months leading up to Sam’s ra—attack, contemplating the vast number of small actions or decisions on my part that could have saved her. The regrets pile up until I choke on them, suffocating in remorse.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him that he couldn’t have known and he was in no way responsible for Sam’s rape, but he stopped me.

  “I know what you’re going to say—it’s not my fault. But it doesn’t matter if you, Ev, Sam, or the whole freaking world tell me I’m not to blame. I blame myself. I’m ashamed that I allowed the woman I love—the woman who will one day be my wife and the mother of my children—to suffer, and regardless of what anyone says, I know if I’d made different decisions, the outcome may have changed. I live with it every day, Meg. Late at night, when I hold Lo close and try to calm her after a nightmare—I hate myself. When I see the pain in her eyes as she shares her story as a spokeswoman for RAINN, trying to help other survivors find hope—I hate myself.

  “Sam will tell you I’m her hero, and as much as I love how she sees me, it’s not how I see me. Every day I fight to keep the regret and self-loathing from winning. But if I allowed the remorse to control me, I would leave Sam to punish myself for my failings—I would destroy my entire life and one chance at true happiness.

  “It came to a point where I had to decide if my regrets defined me, or if the man I could be deserved a chance at happiness despite the mistakes of the man I’ve been.”

  To hear Griffin’s pain for what Sam suffered was not a surprise, but to learn he still held himself personally responsible for events so far outside the scope of his control was shocking. He had no cause to carry the weight of blame on his broad shoulders, yet he grappled with his guilt daily. I wouldn’t classify myself with Griffin—my culpability was far more tangible—but I could identify with his struggle to live with remorse.

  I reached out and took his massive hand in mine, gently squeezing it to convey my understanding and support, while adding two more questions to my homework list: Did the woman I was becoming deserve her chance at happiness despite the mistakes of the girl I was? And if so, could the person I am now love the woman I could be enough to forgive the girl I’d been?

  "The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones worth suffering for.” -Bob Marley

  Westly

  “Jesus, you smell like a fucking distillery,” a disembodied voice grumbled, several decibels louder than was strictly necessary. “Yeah, I’m talking to you, asshole—time to wake up and buy me breakfast for rescuing your ass last night.”

  I had no clue what he was talking about, but I’d happily give him a twenty to buy himself breakfast if it meant he would go away.

  “I’m too old for this shit,” Ry complained with a grunt as the mattress went vertical and I plummeted to the floor. “Get up, shower, breakfast. Now.”

  “What are you doing here? How did you even get into my house?” I asked, disoriented from the mother of all hangovers and Ry’s assistance getting out of bed.

  “Dude, that’s how bent you were last night…you don’t even know where you are. You’re at my house, motherfucker. By the way, thanks for that three am wake-up call. You have three minutes, then I’m tossing you in a cold shower—clothes on. You can take me to breakfast soaking wet for all I care, but we’re riding in your car.”

  Threatening my baby did the trick. I dragged myself to the shower before swiping gym pants and a Henley from Ry’s room. No way could I put last night’s clothes back on my body—the mixture of whiskey and expensive perfume was nauseating to my already sensitive stomach.

  “Please, help yourself,” Ry said, gesturing to his clothes. “I’m not sure what worries me more, the thought that you also borrowed my briefs or that you may be going commando in my pants.”

  “Commando. I tried your briefs, but they were too small for my package,” I retorted, smirking. “I guess it’s true what they say, built guys tend to overcompensate.”

  His look said more than any words could have communicated. Ry was beyond confident in the quality and efficacy of his junk.

  “Take me to the diner and feed me, then you can explain what the hell you think you’re doing,” he ordered, to which I uncharacteristically complied.

  Sitting in a booth by the window, I watched as Ry added an obscene amount of RedHot to his double-portion turkey and egg-white omelet. I sipped orange juice between small bites of a plain bagel in deference to my compromised state. Whoever said a gr
easy breakfast cured a hangover was full of it. The twisted bastard probably just wanted to make other dumb shmucks suffer along with him.

  “Alright, we’re here and I have my food. Care to explain to me why you were fall-down drunk last night? And for the record, that was not an expression—I had to drag your ass all the way to bed last night because you were too toasted to walk.”

  I shrugged, not wanting to discuss the cause of my recent venture in binge drinking. I’d already given her enough headspace to fill ten city blocks; I didn’t have the intellectual real estate to spare one more square foot.

  Ry eyed me across the table before putting his fork down.

  “Let’s get one thing clear—you called and dragged my ass out of bed so I could play nursemaid to your incoherent, oversharing self. I learned things about you and sweet Meg that I can never unlearn,” he said, causing me to wince. That name wasn’t hers—wasn’t real—but Ry didn’t need to know that. “You invited me into the middle of your implosion, so cut the crap and start talking.”

  I sighed, debating the probability of getting out of this conversation—zilch.

  “I hooked up with a girl last week and brought her home. Meg saw us and took it hard.”

  “Did you sleep with the barfly?” he asked directly.

  “No, I couldn’t…not after I saw the look on her face. Even though there was no reason for me to feel guilty,” I added defensively. “It’s not like we’re together.”

  “True,” he said without further commentary.

  “Ever since, I’ve been obsessing over every detail, trying to fit the puzzle pieces together. But it’s like I have two different puzzles mixed together and none of it makes sense. Is she the amazingly sweet, fun, caring girl I spent the last six weeks with, or is she the lying, manipulative bitch who put her desires ahead of my principles?”

  “You’ll never be able to answer that question unless you talk to her, which I distinctly recall pointing out last week before you tossed me from your house,” he reminded me testily.

  “Sorry about that, I wasn’t in the right headspace to hear you at the time,” I apologized. “The problem is, I’m not sure I want to hear what she has to say. I still want the girl I thought she was, but the glimpses of the other Meg—no thanks.”

  “You can’t love someone unless you accept all of them, even the parts you don’t like. She’s not a buffet where you get to pick and choose what you want and leave the rest. If there is a part of her that’s a deal-breaker for you, then there’s no future,” he said sagely. “But…you reacted without getting the details first, which is why you’re questioning the decision after the fact—there’s still so much you don’t know. If you want to stop going nuts—and drinking like a frat boy—you have to talk to her and get the facts to reassure yourself you made the right choice.”

  I nodded my agreement, “But what if I made the wrong choice?”

  “Then, my friend, you’re screwed. That stunt with the bimbo last week…” he finished with an exaggerated whistle. “Not some of your best work.”

  “Thanks,” I responded sarcastically.

  “Just speaking the truth. And, brother, lay off the booze. With or without your girl, Jim Beam is not a friend to hang out with every night.”

  “Thanks, Ry…for everything,” I said with sincerity.

  After dropping Ry back at his house, I headed home to prepare for court the following day. Several hours passed lost in case law when my cell phone rang with ‘Hunter’ displayed across the screen. I debated ignoring the call, in no mood to hear another sanctimonious lecture, but decided to answer seconds before voicemail would have picked up.

  “Black,” I answered coolly, preparing myself for the inevitable confrontation.

  “Wes, how are you doing? Haven’t heard from you in a while,” Hunter replied amiably.

  I pulled the phone from my ear and double-checked the screen. Yep, ‘Hunter’ was still clearly displayed. Huh.

  “Hey, Hunter, good to hear from you. I’m alright, just busy with work. How about you?”

  “I’ve been better. I’m working a tough case right now, you know what I mean…one of those cases that feels really personal—it’s a bull’s-eye straight to the heart. Of course, we’re all working overtime trying to help Meg out…she’s in rough shape, man. Breakups are always tough, but it’s especially difficult when she knows she’s the one at fault.”

  It was confirmed—I was officially living in the Twilight Zone. Not only was Hunter talking to me like we were still friends, but he was talking to me about Meg and acknowledging that she was the one who screwed up.

  “Wes, you still there?”

  I cleared my throat, trying to find my voice.

  “Yeah, I’m here. I’ve had cases like that when I worked in the DA’s office…the ones that follow you home. I hope you get your guy.”

  No way was I touching his Meg comments.

  “Thanks. Hey, we wanted to invite you to poker night on Friday at Griffin’s house. It’ll be Griffin and me, plus another friend, but we need a fourth. You in?”

  “Umm, I’m not sure. I had tentative plans with a friend—”

  “Bring him…or her. The girls won’t be there, if that’s a deciding factor,” he volunteered, saving me from having to ask.

  “Alright. Sounds like a plan. What time should I be there?”

  “Eight o’clock work for you?”

  “Yeah, that’s perfect. Thanks for the invite,” I said, truly grateful. Provided this wasn’t a set-up for a beat down, I was relieved to learn the friendships I’d formed with the guys could extend past my time with Meg.

  Friday night arrived quickly and I was surprised by the nerves plaguing me as I knocked on Griffin’s door. The man in question answered and ushered me in with the same friendly demeanor to which I’d become accustomed. Maybe this wasn’t a set-up.

  “How are you, Wes? Glad you could make it,” Griffin asked as he led me into the kitchen where Hunter and an attractive, middle-aged woman were seated.

  “No girls? I asked Hunter.

  “I’m not a girl, I’m a woman…usually. Tonight I’m one of the guys. I don’t subscribe to typical gender roles, unless it pertains to cutting the lawn or taking out the trash,” she said breezily.

  “Wes, meet Thia, an old friend,” Griffin introduced. “Watch out, she’ll bleed you dry ‘til there’s nothing left if you don’t keep your guard up,” he stage whispered.

  “I’d listen to him if I were you,” Thia confirmed. “I’ve been known to make grown men cry.”

  Hunter chuckled and muttered something to the effect of ‘and not just at the poker table,’ but I couldn’t be certain.

  Thia was quirky yet had an authoritative demeanor in a very informal way. I liked her and feared her in equal measure, because I suspected that she was the smartest person in the room but didn’t need to flaunt it.

  “Alright boys, sit those tight tushies down and let’s get this show on the road. My money’s burning a hole in your pocket.”

  We all settled in with cards and beers in hand, playing with focus as we felt one another out. It wasn’t until the fifth hand that the trash-talking began, and then it was no holds barred.

  When Hunter refused to call Griffin’s bet, Thia scolded him, “Dammit, Hunter, why did you even bother to come tonight if Ev refused to take your balls out of the lock box she keeps them in and return them to you on loan?”

  “You’ve got it all wrong. I gave my balls to Ev before I left the house tonight for safe-keeping, because I knew you would bust them until they were black-and-blue,” Hunter immediately countered, leaving Griffin and I rolling with laughter.

  The goading and barbs continued as the pots climbed higher. With a pair of fours in hand, I folded, having already pegged Thia’s tell when she had a winner as well as Griffin’s when he was bluffing.

  “Why the hell did we even invite him? He keeps taking my money and then pussyfooting away when there’s any risk to his pi
le-o-chips,” Griffin complained.

  “Never would have guessed he was a cheap bastard,” Hunter agreed.

  “Hey, now…I’m not cheap, I’m sensible. Just ‘cause you two goons throw money around like it grows on trees doesn’t mean I have to refill your coffers. Try a little restraint, gentlemen,” I returned, enjoying the banter.

  “I appreciate a man who knows how to manage his money,” Thia interjected. “It’s hard to earn and easy to piss away. The financially secure learn that lesson young…or they learn to use their assets to increase their assets—either way works.”

  “I don’t know, Griffin…maybe Wes is such a tight-ass at the table so he doesn’t have to seduce some sugar momma tomorrow night to pay the mortgage. He is awfully pretty,” Hunter razzed.

  “That he is, but I think the explanation is much simpler—he’s afraid to put too much out there because he may lose something he can’t get back,” Griffin theorized.

  “Ah, so you’re one of the guarded types who doesn’t want to play the game unless the odds are stacked in your favor. Risk gets too high and you fold. It’s a sound strategy, keeps you safe and you never have to worry about losing big,” Thia summarized. “Then again, sometimes you have to go all in to win the big pots, but that takes balls the size of coconuts.”

  “You’d know, Thia. No one in this room has balls as big as yours,” Hunter said.

  “Laugh all you want, lawman. I’m content to have the biggest pair in the room, just surprised the lot of you aren’t feeling emasculated by my presence. I’ve lived long enough to know when the potential reward is worth any risk. I thought you fools had already learned that lesson the hard way, but maybe it was luck, not brains…or balls.”

  Griffin and Hunter exchanged knowing looks, clearly understanding her reference. I, on the other hand, was lost.