Fall Guy

by Liz Reinhardt

  And I have a second.

  A split second where my life can continue to careen out of control while I sit back and watch. I’ll keep my family happy, in a way, but lose Evan, and, most likely, Remy.

  Because she’s right, of course. He’s going to kill himself, and I might as well be holding the bottle or the steering wheel or the knife or whatever it’s going to take to finally break him.

  “Fine,” I say, and she pulls her bottom lip in and chews, ready for this to be it, after one long hell of a fight.

  But I’m a Youngblood.

  We don’t give up that easily.

  “So what do you think, smartass? How do I do this intervention shit?” I reach for her hand, and her eyes fly up to my face, surprised and ecstatic.

  “Winch!”

  She pulls me into her arms, and I kiss her, scared as hell, but ready to change the path that’s been running me to nothing good way too fast. I’m ready to change my path with her, even if it scares the shit out of me. Even if I know it’s not going to be pretty.

  “First we need allies. We need your family on board.”

  I feel like suggesting we run away, hop a plane to anywhere, start a whole new life over in some foreign place, because starting completely fresh seems a thousand times better than facing down my family and what’s sure to be their ultimate shunning and refusal to hear me out or let me go.

  But Evan looks so hopeful, I trick myself into thinking, for a minute, that it all might work out. And then she says the one thing that really matters.

  “No matter what, I’m here for you.”

  So I get ready to let go and freefall in the scariest jump of my life. But she’s with me. So I swallow my fear and do it.

  Evan 15

  This is only the second time I’ve even been to the Youngblood house, but there’s this feeling of foreboding I can’t shake. Like maybe this is the last time. I know, deep inside me, that whatever goes down tonight, things are about to change in a huge way. My palms are slicked with sweat, and I feel a dizzy, light-headed rush in my head when I look at Winch. I can tell he’s nervous, too, and I get why. His family is huge and beyond intimidating.

  But I’m here for him. And I’m going to fight for him. If he falls, I’ll be at his side to pick him up. It may be the first time anyone’s ever bothered to do that for him. I kiss him before we go in, and he pulls me close, deepening the kiss until we’re creeping into the kind of territory it won’t be easy to rebound from without some serious backseat action.

  “Winch. Are you nervous?” I ask, pulling away, my lips sore and desperate for more of what they can’t have.

  Well, can’t have right now.

  He shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything to me. We get out of the car and make our way to the house, taking the steps one at an excruciatingly slow time. When we get inside, his family is seated around the huge, food-laden dinner table. There’s no one besides his siblings and parents, which I know is pretty unusual since, according to Winch’s stories, the dinner table at their house is usually a meeting place for just about everyone in their entire extended family. It’s part of what’s made it easy for him to slip away on mandatory family dinner nights to come and see me.

  Everyone looks up when we walk in. Mrs. Youngblood pulls her napkin off her lap and places it on the table when she stands.

  “Winchester, you should have called before you brought your friend over. I’m not prepared to entertain tonight.”

  Her eyes, the same navy blue as Winch’s, snap and crackle with a savagery that shocks me. Every single set of eyes looks at the colossal assortment of food spread on the table in front of them, then every set of eyes focuses on his or her respective plate.

  It’s just a tiny thing. Hardly worth noticing. I’ve been snubbed by nastier people in ruder ways. But there’s something about this whole scenario, this entire put-down that’s being disguised by a huge lie as plain as the banquet on their damn table, and I’ve had it.

  “You are full of shit,” I announce.

  Winch, who I felt tense and sensed was about to speak up on my behalf is shocked. The eyes of every member of his family swing up at me, and all six mouths drop open. If I turned around, I bet I would see Winch’s mouth hanging open, too, his eyes popped unnaturally out of their sockets.

  I should shut up. I should shut up and let Winch handle this and let the chips fall where they may and all that.

  But I’m so sick of it all. So sick of putting a sock in it, so sick of watching this family’s lies mutate and infect Winch and my chances with him. I’ve tried to be a lady. I’ve tried to keep my mouth shut and not judge and play the cool card, but it’s so not me. I’m not any of that. Whatever happens today, it’s going to get messy. Gloves off, no holds barred messy. I might as well jump in the mud pit and get my slinging in.

  “Excuse me, miss?” Winchester’s father half stands, but his wife puts a hand out on his arm. He shakes it off and points a finger past me at Winch. “This is the kind of foul-mouthed company you keep when you’re running out on your own family? Your mother and I raised you to have more respect than that.”

  I snort before Winch can get a word in edgewise. “More respect? Really? You’re going to talk to Winchester about respect? Respect for what? The law? The truth? Each other? Because I’ve never seen a damn thing but lies and disrespect as far as this family is concerned.”

  Mr. Youngblood’s face is a shade of scarlet I didn’t imagine human skin was capable of turning. But it turns. If steam blew out of his ears and fire came out of his eyeballs, I wouldn’t be at all surprised.

  “You have a lot of nerve, coming into my house and speaking to my family this way. Winchester, show your guest out. Now.”

  His father has both hands on the table and he’s breathing like his lungs are a set of giant bellows.

  “No.”

  The word, clear and steady from Winch’s mouth, brings a gasp from every person at the table.

  “Excuse me? I’m going to pretend I didn’t just hear that. You take that girl back where she came from, and your mother will be waiting on your apology when you get back.”

  Mr. Youngblood’s face has gone to granite, and his eyes narrow to slits.

  Mrs. Youngblood has her cloth napkin pressed to her mouth. Benelli is wide-eyed and white-knuckled. Ithaca’s red-rimmed, cried-out eyes look bright with surprised glee. Colt is gripping the edge of the table and shifts his mouth back and forth nervously. Remy leans woozily in his chair, either completely drunk or entirely uninterested in what’s going on. Or, most likely, a little bit of both.

  “I said no.” Winchester’s voice is clearer, then he half-chuckles, and it’s a sound that isn’t remotely humorous. “What Evan said is true. And it’s about time someone in this house told the truth. I kind of expected the roof to fucking cave in.”

  “Watch your goddamn mouth!” Mr. Youngblood sputters. “I had a feeling this whole thing was a bad idea. I had a feeling letting you get tangled up with an outsider would bring us trouble, and now here it is.” His glare focuses on me, vicious and hard, before it settles back on Winch like a blood-curdling dare. “I’m gonna remind you of something. Family is forever, Winchester. You were born a Youngblood and you’ll die a Youngblood. Whether or not this trash stays with you—”

  Winch rushes past me and throws over a chair lunging at his father. I grab him behind one elbow, and Benelli jumps up and grabs his other. Colt half-stands, but gets pushed back by Remy, who smacks the flat of his hand on the table. Mrs. Youngblood and Ithaca jump at the sound, and everyone turns to watch Remy sway and try to collect his words.

  “She’s good people, Pop.” He turns his bleary eyes to me. “She’s…you can’t do this to Winch. Can’t. Cannot.”

  He’s clearly drunk and about to be dismissed by their father.

  “Remington, sit the hell down before you pass out. This isn’t about your brother’s love life. This is about our family and your daughter. One wrong move could cos
t us everything.”

  He directs his attention back to Winch, who’s breathing heavily, but keeping it all together. Barely.

  “He’ll go to jail,” Remy argues. “He’ll do hard time. Kidnapping. That’s what they’ll slap him with.” He sits on the chair with a hard thump and goes a little green. “I need to go to court.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Remington!” Mr. Youngblood’s patience is extinguished. “You understand? Look at yourself! You’re half a man at best. You won’t be able to stay sober for court, and you sure as hell won’t make it in jail. Winchester is smart, capable. He’s a survivor. He can do this.”

  “I can do this,” Remy says, his voice low and so forlorn it borders heavily on pathetic.

  “You can shut the hell up while I run this family!” their father bellows, his lips curled back and his eyes strained dangerously out of their sockets. “This family runs because I run it! I make decisions and you all follow my lead. The last goddamn thing we need is your stupid ass jumping in and ruining things more than they’ve already been ruined.”

  “He needs help!” Ithaca’s voice cuts through the swirling rage of her father’s words.

  “Ithaca. Sit down.” Mrs. Youngblood’s lips go tight and her eyes squint nervously.

  “No!” Tears are running down her face, spilling onto the tablecloth, and she’s wiping them away with the backs of her hand as fast as they come. “No! Everyone in this family just follows whatever Pop says. Well, Remy is really sick. Winch is in love, but he can’t be with Evan. Colt wants to play football. I want to be with Andre. But no one gets what they want in this family except Pop, and it’s not right!”

  Benelli moves away from Winch’s side to comfort her sister, but Ithaca throws herself out of her reach.

  “Don’t! You gave up on what you wanted so you could be the perfect daughter. I’m not like you. I can’t just forget the person I love because someone tells me to. Don’t you see that being perfect in this family just makes you the most fucked-up of all?”

  The room erupts into a series of screams and shouts and threats as Ithaca storms away.

  In the midst of it all, Remy slides out of his chair, teeth chattering, and smacks his head on the side of the table before collapsing on the floor, a slow, seeping pool of bright blood gushing from the gash at his temple and puddling around the table leg.

  “Remy!” Winch’s scream rises above all the chaos, and he’s at his brother’s side in a second.

  I grab my phone, poised to dial 911 when Mr. Youngblood snatches it out of my hand.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I yelp, trying to snatch the phone back.

  He holds my phone over his head, making me jump like some little kid being bullied on the playground until I realize how ridiculous I look and stop hopping around.

  “911? Are you crazy? No authorities. No hospital. They’ll do a tox screen, and he’ll be in big trouble.” He tucks my phone in his pocket and puts his hands on his sobbing wife’s shoulders. “Calm down, all of you. Jazmin, go get clean towels and the bandages. Winch, lay him down so his head is tilted back. Benelli, call Campart.”

  “Campart? The vet?” she asks, her eyebrows knit.

  “Or Fillamin.” Their father’s voice is distracted as he squats low near Remy’s shaking, convulsing form.

  Winch is smoothing the hair back off Remy’s forehead, looking at his brother’s contorted face. Remy’s eyes are wild and his mouth is open like he’s about to wail at any second, even though no sound is coming out at all.

  “Fillamin isn’t even done with RN school.” Benelli bites her lips and looks at me.

  I give her a full-on glare, laced with disgust.

  I thought this family was insane with all its lies and secrets and coverups. But that was before I watched them do anything at all to avoid the one thing that would save one of their own. Now, I’m positive they’re criminally insane, and I know for certain that if Winch goes back to them after this, there won’t even be a minute’s consideration.

  He and I will be unequivocally done.

  “Just call one of them,” Mr. Youngblood snaps, grabbing a towel out of his wife’s hands and putting pressure on the gash on the side of Remy’s temple that’s still gushing blood all over the floor.

  Benelli looks at me across the dining room, and I shake my head. “I would call 911, but your father took my phone,” I say. “But, I’m not the kind of person who’d stand around and watched someone I cared about die.”

  Benelli closes her eyes and presses three numbers on her phone. The relief is instant, and a cool, black dizziness circles around me. I stagger back into the corner of the dining room, and it’s like I’m in a plane that ascended too quickly. My ears clog up and I can’t hear a single thing. All I can focus on are the rushed, frantic movements of the people I love, loathe, and am undecided about until a knock reverberates from the door and breaks me out of my spell.

  Paramedics rush in. Mr. Youngblood’s face is fierce and accusatory. Benelli presses her phone to her lips and watches, eyes wide, as the workers shove Winch and his parents aside and begin the frantic work of trying to save Remy’s life.

  The seconds tick by in violently quick succession, but also drag like we’re all set in excruciating slow motion.

  They heave Remington onto a stretcher and rush out the door, Mrs. Youngblood at their heels, Mr. Youngblood following his wife. Winch chases after them, but the paramedic shakes his head. Not enough room in the ambulance.

  I turn to Winch’s siblings, huddled uncertainly in the dining room. Ithaca, who crept out from her bedroom when the screaming died down, is staring at the stain of Remington’s blood.

  “C’mon.” I wave them with my hand. “Let’s go make sure Remy is okay.”

  “Our father will call for us when Remy’s ready to have visitors.” Benelli crosses her arms and clamps her mouth in a determined line, even though her eyes race back and forth with anxious uncertainty.

  Colt picks up the chair Remy knocked over when he fell.

  “I want to go.” His voice is shaky.

  Ithaca comes to stand next to me. “Me too. I’m sick of waiting on everyone else to make decisions all the time.”

  I walk towards Benelli and keep my words low enough that her siblings can’t hear. “You can wait for your father to call you. Just be prepared if you never get the call you’re expecting. Did you see him? Remy is sick. Really sick. And this might be…you may want to be there. In case.”

  I can’t bring myself to even say the words, but just hinting at them has Benelli blinking like mad, her resolve shaken.

  “I’ll get my purse,” she murmurs, pushing past me.

  The twins file to the car, and I come to stand next to Winch, who hasn’t moved a muscle since the ambulance pulled away. He’s frozen still, his eyes staring at the vacant spot where he last saw his brother.

  I’m afraid.

  I shake and cold sweat because this was my idea. I pushed things. I added fuel to the fire and even threw the match that ignited this raging inferno.

  I had no idea it would turn out like this.

  I had no idea Remy would wind up in the back of an ambulance.

  I’m afraid Winch will blame me. Will accuse me of working against his family. Will take out his pain on me. Will be unable to forgive me. Will hate me.

  I put one hand on his arm, and the touch of my fingertips on the skin above his elbow shocks him out of his catatonic state. He blinks once, twice, his face a complete and total blank that makes my throat go dry.

  And then he sweeps me into a huge, crushing hug, his face buried in my hair so I won’t see him crying the tears I feel soaking into my skin.

  I slide my arms around his waist and rub along his back. He’s a few towering inches taller and pounds of packed muscle heavier than I am, but I do my best to offer him as much physical comfort as I can.

  “This is my fault.” The words hiss out, and I know it’s because if he speaks clearly, the sobs will ma
ke good on their clear and present threat. “I did this to him. I put him in the hospital.”

  “Shut up.” I force my voice to stay firm and rough while my hands soothe and gentle through his hair and knead at his neck. “Shut your mouth. Don’t you dare put this on your shoulders. Your brother was seriously ill. If he didn’t fall today, in front of your whole family, he would have done it in private. And maybe choked on his puke or his tongue and died. Or maybe your parents would have decided not to take him to the hospital. It needed to happen exactly the way it happened. He needed medical attention, and now he’s getting it.”

  He pulls his mouth across my face and presses his lips to mine in a kiss that’s more ravenous than romantic.

  “I love you,” he says against my mouth. “Thank God you’re here. I don’t know what I would have done without you. I love you, Evan.”

  The relief is so intense, I sag against his body, dropping the strong girlfriend act for a long second so I can just be with him, locked in his arms, happy in this moment when we somehow crystallized as a unit, a pair, a bonded set of two. I am the pepper to his salt, I am the cream to his coffee, I am the jelly to his peanut butter, and it feels good. It feels right.

  I hope with everything in me that it lasts.

  His siblings file out of the house and squeeze into the back of the car, which I drive because Winch is still shaken and edgy. Even the fact that I’m the one driving is a huge proclamation of how our relationship stands and what it means. He trusts me behind the wheel, driving his siblings, taking him to the hospital to join the rest of his family. I just watched Winch’s brother seizure and got talked down to from his parents, but I feel, strangely, good. Real. Happy.

  And nervous. Frustrated. Mistrusting. I know very, very well how the best feeling in the world can sometimes be nothing but the prelude to disaster.

  We pull into the hospital, and Winch shakes his unease and pulls on that air of command he wears so confidently.

  “Winchester Youngblood, here to see my brother, Remington.” He charming smile brings out a smile on the face of the pudgy nurse behind the counter.

  She’s not immune to his good looks and flirtation. “Remington Youngblood,” she repeats. “That’s some name.” They exchange another smile, and my blood boils. I know this is all about playing a game, getting things done. I still hate it. But all my stupid jealousy dies down quickly when I see her face lose its flirty smile. “Oh. Your brother is in critical care. I’m afraid I can only admit family.”