Something Like Love

by Monica James

  Polly is coaxing Tristan to come dance with her in front of the fire, while he sits rigid on the sofa, politely declining. She then turns her attention to Quinn, who is sitting on the recliner, watching baseball while drinking a beer. Noticing the five empty bottles in front of him, I dare say he’s been drinking for a while.

  “Come dance with me, Quinn,” she pouts, seductively moving in front of him, hoping to persuade him.

  My eyes narrow, and when he stands up in an attempt to humor her, I use that as my cue to enter. My gaze meets his, silently demanding he explain what’s wrong. He arrogantly tips his beer my way in salute, before downing the whole bottle.

  Polly and Tristan turn to see what’s captured his attention, and when they see it’s me, they both give me puzzled looks. I only shrug in response because I’m just as clueless as them.

  “Okay, dinner is served,” Cynthia announces while shuffling into the room, holding a dish of green beans. “Come sit,” she says, gesturing to the table, which is filled with a Christmas feast fit for a king.

  “Smells great, Mom.” Polly smiles, and she’s the first to walk to the table.

  “Thanks, Honey,” Cynthia distractedly replies as she’s looking at Quinn because he’s still glaring at me.

  “Mia?” she asks with a hint of confusion.

  Giving Quinn one last look, I turn to meet her worried eyes. “Thanks. It does smell great,” I say, trying to forget our screaming match only hours ago.

  I take a seat across the table from Polly, and then Tristan is the next to move. When he pulls out the chair near me, I try not to cringe, as I have a sneaking suspicion that Quinn is grumpier than a bear with a sore head because of Tristan. He’s made it more than obvious he’s jealous of our friendship, but I just wish he would talk to me about it instead of acting like a two-year-old.

  His boots thud on the wooden floor as he pulls out the chair next to Polly, who gushes, elated that Quinn is sitting near her. This dinner is already giving me heartburn.

  “Dig in. I hope you enjoy it,” Cynthia says, taking a seat at the head of the table.

  We politely reach for what’s closest and start filling our plates. We do this is silence, and every movement I make, I know is being closely watched by Quinn. I will my trembling fingers to still as I spoon up a serving of potatoes. I don’t understand what his problem is, but whatever his deal, I wish he would quit it as this dinner is awkward enough.

  Flicking my eyes to meet his, I silently demand he tell me what’s wrong, but he leans back in his chair and sips his beer, giving nothing away. Ignoring him, I pass Tristan the ham.

  “Thanks.” He smiles, happily digging in. He’s either ignoring Quinn, or he’s totally oblivious to his hostility.

  “So, Mom,” Polly says, tearing her bread roll in half. “Have you spoken to Dad?”

  That captures the entire table’s attention, and we all turn to watch Cynthia pale. “Not yet, Honey. I’m hoping tomorrow. You know we have no cell reception out here, or a phone line.”

  Before I have a chance to tell everyone I received a text from Abi, Quinn decides now is a good time to speak. “I’ll drive into town.”

  “That would be great, Quinn, thank you. By now, I’m sure Chandler will be beside himself,” Cynthia says with a strained smile.

  “You think?” Polly scoffs, reaching for her drink.

  “Of course he is,” Cynthia replies, the panic clear in her voice as she fiddles with her locket.

  “Well, why isn’t here then?” she demands, narrowing her eyes.

  I watch their exchange with interest, as I have no idea where this is headed.

  “’Cause he’s in Europe. You can’t expect him to magically appear overnight,” Cynthia replies, the strain in her response clearly evident.

  Suddenly, Polly’s fork smashes down onto her plate, and I jolt at the abrupt, loud noise. “He should have been here in the first place. It’s Christmas, for Pete’s sake! But no, of course work comes first. Just like it always does,” she concludes with a scowl.

  “Pollyanna! Watch your tongue,” Cynthia snaps, her mouth agape.

  “No, Mom!” she cries. “I won’t sit here quietly while you defend him. He should have been here to protect us.”

  I lower my eyes, ashamed they needed protecting in the first place. Tristan sees my regret and kindly reaches for my hand, squeezing it softly. Sadly, this simple gesture sets off a clusterfuck of events.

  “Pollyanna, go to your room!” Cynthia demands, standing up and thumping her fist onto the table, which surprises me, as I’ve never seen her so angry before.

  “No!” Polly screams, jumping up and stomping her foot. “You can’t just send me to my room. I’m not a child anymore. I won’t censor my thoughts because they hurt your delicate feelings.”

  Tristan squeezes my hand once again when I let out a small sigh, as I feel remotely sorry for Cynthia. The gesture is purely innocent, but in a room filled with crazy, angry people, Tristan’s hand may as well have squeezed my boob.

  “How ’bout you stop pawing her, Tris?” Quinn barks from across the table. Tristan apprehensively loosens his grip, but he doesn’t let go. “She’s a big girl and doesn’t need you to hold her hand.”

  “What the fuck is your problem?” I retort, my last tether of patience snapping as I glare at Quinn.

  As he clenches his jaw, I stupidly say, “I think you and Polly need to take a chill pill.” The moment it’s out, I know that comment is going to bite me in the ass.

  “What?” Polly gasps, her daggers now directed my way. “Gah! That’s rich. Chill pill? You sure as shit know all about them, don’t you?”

  “Fuck you,” I snarl, ripping my hand out from Tristan’s grip, who looks hurt that I’ve broken our connection.

  “Fuck me?” she scoffs. “No, Mia, fuck you. We wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for you!” Polly yells, pointing her finger at me.

  “I know,” I sneer, clenching my fists in my lap before I punch her in the face.

  “No, you really don’t know. You destroyed my life!”

  “Polly that is enough!” Cynthia cries, horrified.

  But Polly ignores her as she kicks back her chair and stalks over to me. Tristan is up in an instant, ready to protect me as he stands in front of me, acting as my human barricade. But Quinn adds fuel to the already out of control fire as he snarls, “She doesn’t need your protection, Tristan.”

  “But she does yours?” Tristan spits back, turning to glare at Quinn.

  “Stop it!” I yell, looking across the table at Quinn, who looks ready to explode. “What is the matter with you? Stop being such a jerk,” I foolishly chide.

  “You’re the jerk!” Polly suddenly screams, advancing forward, but Tristan remains my bodyguard.

  “Excuse me?” I gasp, leaning to the left so I can look at her without Tristan’s broad back in the way.

  “You heard me,” she replies, stopping inches from Tristan’s chest. “It’s so damn obvious that these two”—she gestures backward and forward with a finger between Tristan and Quinn— “are in love with you, and you’re just stringing them both along. How about you choose one, and put the other out of his misery?”

  How dare she. There is absolutely no truth to her lies, but as I look to Quinn, I can see that he might actually agree with her. And the fact that Tristan hasn’t piped up in my defense is a sure sign that he too, doesn’t entirely disagree with her.

  I don’t understand; how did I end up being the bad guy? The bad guys are the ones who did this to us. They’re the ones who forced us to run, and now we’re stuck in this cabin of confessions where I’m the monster—well, fuck them all.

  “Choose one?” I spit out, pushing past Tristan, who tries to put a reassuring hand on my shoulder, but it’s too late. I shrug him off as I continue scowling at Polly.

  “You want me to choose one so you can have the other?” I sneer, getting into her face, totally ignoring her personal space.

 
; She gasps, taking a small step back, obviously frightened by my rage. But she can go to hell. They all can.

  I don’t hold back as I snarl, “Well…fuck you all, because I choose me. You can have them both.” I shoulder past her before I say something else I’ll regret.

  Chapter 23

  No Words

  “What am I doing?” I whisper to my only friend in the world.

  Lucky whines before leaning forward and licking my cheek in support. “Thanks, boy,” I coo, resting my head in his mane.

  This is so fucked up. Actually, it’s beyond fucked up, and at the moment, I would happily turn myself over to my dad to escape the fucked-up-ness of this situation.

  Polly is lucky I didn’t knock her damn teeth out after listening to her lies. I am not stringing Tristan and Quinn along. Or am I? I’m baffled when thinking back to the feelings I felt for Tristan in the woods because I don’t know what that was. I’ve never been in love with one, let alone two boys before, so maybe I am stringing them both along. I mean, they didn’t exactly scoff at Polly’s claims when she accused me of being a home-wrecking whore.

  Throwing the pillow over my face, I scream into it, needing to get some of this rage out before I see Quinn. I’ve been in hiding for about two hours, hoping the time away will give me the willpower to not want to kill the inhabitants of this house. So far, it’s not working.

  A knock on the bedroom door only adds to my irritably. “Mia?” Tristan asks from outside my door.

  “What?” I reply, throwing the pillow to the ground.

  When he remains silent, I shout annoyed, “What do you want, Tristan?”

  “It’s Quinn,” is his simple reply, and I quickly sit up as he’s got my full attention.

  “What about him?” I ask, brushing my hair behind my ears, eagerly awaiting his response.

  “He’s going to drive into town,” he says with a sigh.

  “What? Now?” I snap, jumping off the bed and charging towards him.

  As I open the door, Tristan’s pale complexion has me softening a fraction. “What’s going on?” I ask, absolutely exhausted.

  When will this shit ever end?

  “After you stormed off, he lost it, and I thought he was just going to blow off some steam. But he’s adamant he’s driving into town to call Chandler, as he needs to get the hell away from here.” Join the club.

  “Hide the keys,” I say, leaning against the doorjamb for support.

  Tristan runs a hand through his hair, also looking worse for wear. “We have, and that’s held him off…until now.”

  At that precise moment, the car engine roars to life, startling both Tristan and me.

  “Shit,” I curse, pushing past Tristan and flying down the staircase.

  As I shove the backdoor open, I’m blinded by bright headlights. Giving my irises a moment to adjust, I shield my eyes and run madly towards the car.

  “Get out!” I spit, reaching for the handle, but of course the door is locked. “Quinn, get out of the car!” I repeat, glaring at him, but he won’t look my way, and only stares vacantly straight ahead through the windshield.

  “Quinn!”

  But his only response is him stepping on the gas and loudly revving the engine, drowning out my pleas.

  “Bro, listen to her, you’re in no state to drive. Get out before you hurt yourself.”

  Tristan’s comment has Quinn turning at a painfully slow pace, and when he meets my eyes, I gasp, afraid of the anger contorting his features.

  His nostrils flare as he says through clenched teeth, “I’m fine. Now move.”

  I really wish he would stop saying he’s fine, when he is clearly not fine.

  “What has gotten into you?” I yell, bashing on the window in frustration, as I have no clue what the hell is wrong with him.

  As Quinn’s mouth tips up into a sinister smile, I feel the tiny hairs on my arms prickle in panic. “You really want to know what’s gotten into me?” he asks, his eyes ablaze.

  “Yes, you asshole, tell me!” I demand, even though I know this is the beginning of the end.

  “You,” he snarls, his foot reviving the gas. “You are ingrained into every fiber of my body, and I’m drowning.”

  I take a step back, startled by his confession. But when he doesn’t elaborate and simply turns to stare blankly out the windshield once again, I snap.

  “What have I done?” I cry, fruitlessly attempting to open the locked door. “Talk to me!”

  “Mia, leave him,” Tristan says, pulling my hand away from the handle, as he can see this is a losing battle.

  I cringe at his unintended inept comment, but sag against him, utterly defeated, because Quinn is being an asinine fool. As Tristan wraps one arm loosely around my shoulder, the gesture doesn’t go unnoticed by Quinn as he quickly turns, scowling at our union.

  But that was Tristan’s intention all along, because as soon as Quinn is distracted, Tristan suddenly shoves me out of the way and out of nowhere, he smashes a boulder straight through the window. He must have fetched this rock when I was pleading with Quinn, as he too saw that there was no way we were getting Quinn out without excessive force.

  Quinn is just as stunned as I am, but as Tristan reaches into a hole where the window once was and yanks Quinn out, it’s game on. I’m pushed to the ground in the scuffle, but I don’t attempt to rise, as I’m not sure if my shaky legs could hold me up.

  I watch in absolute horror, but I’m powerless to stop it because Quinn and Tristan are about to kill one another and anyone who stands in their way. They circle each other like two caged fighters, ready to brawl till the bitter end. But I can’t allow that to happen, because unlike those fighters, who are mere strangers, these two are brothers. And they are blood.

  “Stop!” I scream, thankfully finding my feet and storming towards them.

  But the Berkeley brothers are in sync with the other, and they both charge, facing the other head on.

  My pleas fall on deaf ears as Tristan throws the first punch, landing Quinn square in the jaw. Quinn’s head snaps back with a sickening crack and I cover my mouth, stunned. Tristan takes another swing, splitting Quinn’s lip open, blood instantly pouring from the wound.

  I’ve seen Quinn fight before, and this fight is purely one sided. Quinn is making no attempt to protect himself. He’s accepting each strike, almost embracing it, like it’s punishment he deserves. As Tristan hits him a third time, blood trickling from a wound to his eye, I know this has to stop.

  “Fight back!” Tristan yells, clenched fists raised.

  But Quinn shakes his head, wiping his bloodied mouth with the back of his hand. “No.”

  “Fight me!” Tristan implores, ready to strike, but I reach for his arm, holding on tight.

  “Enough, Tristan. Enough,” I whisper, hoping he buys my staged composure.

  The contact stuns him and his muscles slacken under my hand.

  “Enough,” I say one last time, and thankfully he listens, his bloodied fists dropping to his side.

  But Quinn just refuels the fire by spitting, “Dad was right, you are pathetic, getting everyone to fight your battles.”

  “Quinn!” I reprimand, but I don’t have time to elaborate, as my body begins vibrating, but it’s not me who’s trembling, it’s Tristan.

  I know I have roughly five seconds to defuse this situation because if I don’t, Tristan will do something he’ll regret for the rest of his life.

  It happens in a heartbeat, and I foresee every move. I let go of Tristan’s arm, and spinning around quickly, I slap him—hard. He stands stunned as he cradles his reddening cheek, but before he has a chance to speak, I charge over to Quinn, who also looks stunned, and I give his cheek the same treatment as Tristan’s.

  His hand also flies to his cheek, and as he opens his mouth to no doubt yell at me, I yank on the scruff of his collar and drag him across the grass. He comes willingly, as he knows better than to provoke me when my temper has exploded and I won’t see reas
on. I don’t know where I’m going, but what I do know is that I need to separate the two brothers and talk to Quinn.

  Is he drunk or just plain insane to provoke Tristan that way? Maybe he’s both. Either way, I need him to tell me what the hell is going on.

  Our heavy breathing bounces off the cool night’s breeze, but I’m heated from head to toe, and I welcome the cold, hoping it’ll cool me down. I’m thankful when I see a small, secluded boathouse up ahead, as I’m about to implode from my raging adrenalin.

  Quickening my step, I kick the door open and pull Quinn in, releasing my hold on his collar as I slam the door shut behind me.

  “What is the matter with you?” I scream as I turn around and stalk towards him.

  “I think you’re the one with the problem,” he says, moving his jaw from left to tight. “Tristan really does fight like a girl compared to you.”

  “This isn’t funny, you asshole!” I yell, barely refraining from slapping his face once again. “Tell me what the hell is going on.”

  “Why don’t you ask Tristan,” he retorts.

  I barely contain my wrath as I snarl, “And what the hell does that mean?” But I know exactly what it means.

  Quinn is jealous. But this stems way beyond jealousy. This has got to do with his past.

  “Why didn’t you fight Tristan?” I demand.

  Quinn only shrugs, not answering my question, so I decide to make him answer. “What, you’re jealous? Is that it?”

  But he remains silent, only crossing his arms across his chest in defiance, which enrages me further.

  “I think you are. I think you’re so damn jealous you’re swimming in envy. But why? Have I ever given you any reason not to trust me?”

  Quinn lowers his eyes, my words hitting hard. But still, he remains mute.

  “I know I haven’t. So why do you feel threatened by him?”

  “Drop it, Red,” he hisses, meeting my eyes with a look of fury.

  Finally, progress.