I stare up at Bryson. His head is blocking the sun, leaving his features shadowed. It bugs me. I can’t read the sudden shift in his tone or his expression. “I know him. Maybe not this new version that’s popped up since you guys got back from touring. But the real Cameron, I know.”
Bryson sits, not on the swing next to me like before but in the chair farthest away. He was like that in the truck, too. Distant, though more emotionally than physically. “Ever notice how no matter what we’re talking about, Cam seems to slip into the conversation?”
I open my mouth to protest, then close it because he’s right. “I guess he’s always been the link between us, even though we’ve known each other for nearly as long.”
Bryson sets down his drink and puts his elbows on his knees. “Let’s try for the next ten minutes to talk about something that doesn’t include your best friend.”
“Okay.” Though even as I agree, I feel my head swimming with confusion. Everything in my life is linked to Cam in one way or another. Everything except . . . “Zoe and Nate broke up yesterday.”
“Nate?” He tilts his head like I’m confusing him. “I thought she was dating Sean or John or something like that.”
“Nope. Nate. And why, I couldn’t tell you because everything she described was disgusting.”
“Sounds like every boyfriend she’s ever had.” He shakes his head. “My sister is notorious for picking losers. Then again, she has my stepdad for a father, so it makes sense.” The spark of anger in his tone is hard to miss.
“Yeah, she mentioned her dad . . .” I hesitate because I’m not sure if our conversation was supposed to be confidential or not. Then again, Bryson lived it, so I wouldn’t really be telling him something he doesn’t already know. “She said he could be controlling.”
“That’s the understatement of the century,” he grunts. “But money is money, and both my mom and Zoe let him rule with it. He pays for that apartment, you know, and her car and everything else she could possibly desire. I keep hoping at some point she’ll wise up and get out from under his fist.” His voice rises with his conviction and lowers again when he looks at me. “Why is it that our parents can have such a profound effect on us even now?”
“If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t be hiding out here, trying to kill enough time to avoid Sunday night dinner with my mom and her new boyfriend.”
“You don’t like him?”
“I don’t just not like him.” I look down at my fingers. “I hate him. Or maybe I hate the idea of him, I don’t know. The two are impossible to separate right now.” The same indignation I’ve been struggling with all day rears its ugly head again. “For months I’ve been the dutiful daughter, walking on eggshells, holding in all the things I wanted to say because my mom was too broken to hear them. And now, when I’m the one who needs support and guidance, all she wants to do is talk about her new love interest, who, by the way, is nothing like my dad.” I tug my phone viciously from my pocket and hold up the screen. “Three texts in the last fifteen minutes. Michael’s grilling. What kind of steak do you want? Can you pick up A1 on your way over?” I shove it back in my pocket. “She just assumes I’ll go. Because that’s what I’ve always done. Well, you know what? I’m sick and tired of doing what people expect me to do.” My arms cross in staunch determination. “I’m not going. Not tonight, and maybe not ever again.”
Bryson listens, not moving or saying a word, just like he did yesterday. And like then, I want to rip out his voice box and demand a response.
“If that’s all you have to say, maybe we should go back to talking about Cameron.” I don’t mean to sound resentful when the words come out, but part of me is. Bryson keeps opening this door of honesty in me, and once I say all the horrible things I’m feeling, I can no longer deny they exist.
His brows pinch together. “Why does my quietness bother you so much?”
“Because I can’t read you. I don’t know if you’re judging me, or if you agree with me, or if you understand at all.”
“I understand. A little too much.” He bolts up and returns to the spot by the post, as if all the things running through his head are forcing him to move. “I just feel inadequate to offer you any kind of advice, except to say don’t do what I did when I was faced with the same crossroads.”
“What did you do?”
“I cut them off.”
“Completely?” As much as my mom frustrates me, I couldn’t imagine not talking to her.
“Yep.”
My heart squeezes for the boy I know still exists under all that armor. “Why?”
He crosses his arms against his chest. “How much has Cam told you about why I moved in with him our senior year?”
“Nothing really. It was a simple, ‘Hey, by the way, Bryson lives here now,’ and that was it.”
Bryson chuckles. “You sound just like him.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice.” And once again my best friend springs up between us. Maybe it’s becoming both of our defense mechanisms. Well, not today. “Why did you move out?”
“I didn’t move out. He kicked me out.” Bryson pauses, his eyes meeting mine. A vulnerability, totally out of character for him, leaks through his stare. It whittles into my chest, makes me want to leap from my spot on the swing and erase all the pain he’s gone through. “We never got along. Ever. I hated him from the first day I met him, and that opinion did not change over time. The only thing that did change was my size and my attitude, and once I couldn’t be physically bullied, he moved on to controlling me through other means—money.” His fist closes and opens again. “It worked for a while, especially when he showed up with that incredible truck on my seventeenth birthday.”
I remember that weekend. Bryson drove up to the church like he owned the universe, and to most in our group, he did. I was the only one who refused to gush over something so insignificant, especially when it only seemed to rot away at his character. “What happened?”
“Not one particular thing.” He shrugs. “It was more an awakening to the fact that I, too, had been bought off by this man I despised. This man who would shake hands with people at church and act like he was so strong in his faith. He’d hug my mom like she was his soulmate when people were around and then belittled everything she did at home. Insulting her. Mocking her. He was a fraud, our life a smoke screen dictated by what he wanted the world to think of us. And my playing the obedient stepson was all part of the image.” Bryson tugs at the back of his neck. “It took four months of my calling him out on all his crap before he snapped.
“It was a random school night. Nothing special. He was badgering me about rinsing out my cereal bowl, and I made some snide comment about how it must be nice to have his wife bought and paid for so he didn’t have to lift a finger. Just a stupid teenage comment that was really more insulting to my mom than to him, but it was the last straw. He exploded. Then I exploded. And just when I thought the guy was going to bury his fist into my face, he turned away and stormed out of the room.” He pauses, and I’m sure he’s picturing the moment in full color. I can see it in the set of his shoulders, in the way his stance has moved into a defensive position. “I thought we were done, but then he came rushing back through the living room with my guitar in his hand. He threw it on the lawn, along with everything he knew mattered to me at the time. He said if I couldn’t respect him and his rules, then I could figure out how to live without them.” Bryson’s jaw clenches. “I had ten dollars in my wallet and a quarter tank of gas. He knew it, too. He wanted to see me beg him to stay.” His eyes get dark, the anger pushing through. “To this day, I’ve never stepped foot into that house again. I picked up my things, loaded the truck, and never looked back.”
Nausea rolls in my stomach. I knew the relationship between Bryson and his stepdad was strained, but this is way beyond normal conflict. I think back to Bryson’s music, to the songs I’ve never understood or appreciated till now, because even though that event took place over a dec
ade ago, his lyrics prove that rejected seventeen-year-old kid still haunts the man he’s become.
He starts to speak again, to correlate the story to my situation, but I can’t register anything about that now. I’m too busy standing, too busy closing the gap between us, until my arms are wrapped around him in a hug I know he needs as much as his sister did.
I press my check to his chest and squeeze, though he’s made no effort to respond besides turning to stone next to me.
“What are you doing?” There’s a hint of fear in his voice that makes me even more determined to shatter the wall he lives behind.
“Hugging you.”
“Why?”
“Because that story breaks my heart. And I think it broke yours, too.”
He tries to wrestle free. “It was twelve years ago. I’ve recovered.”
I squeeze tighter. “Well, I haven’t, and right now I need to be held, even if you don’t.”
My last words seem to break the remaining resistance. Bryson’s hands slide to my waist and then land around my back. The surrender is immediate. I feel it in his muscles, his chest, even in the way he sighs like he’s lost whatever fight he has left. For three blissful seconds, we stay there, holding each other in an innocent bond of friendship. And then, like it did the last time we dared to touch, a spark eliminates all chance of platonic denial.
Only this time, instead of letting go, Bryson’s body takes the lead, his legs brushing against mine, his arms tightening like a ratchet moving me closer to him.
My nerve endings flare as awareness takes over every inch. His nose nuzzling my hair, his breath caressing my neck, his heartbeat matching mine in unfamiliar cadence.
“Do you feel better?” he whispers, his words offering me a way out while his body pulls me closer.
I should say yes and let go, but I don’t want to. I want to inhale the scent of him, to wonder what his touch feels like on bare skin, to lift my head and feel our lips—
Two sharp paws slam into my hip, carrying the full force of a giant Lab. Gravity takes over as momentum pushes us sideways, forcing separation as we scramble not to fall. Bryson’s successful. Me, not so much. My elbow bangs against an unsuspecting chair as my knee scrapes along the hard concrete. Bryson’s last-minute attempt to catch me breaks the worst of the impact but doesn’t stop the stinging pain of broken skin. “No jump!” I growl, trying to find my footing despite the obnoxious animal standing over me.
Slobber rolls down Bentley’s tongue and lands on my forearm. He’s smiling at me like he did me a favor, and maybe he did. Ten more seconds and who knows how much of a fool I might have made of myself. “Stupid dog,” I say, half laughing as I use his collar to pull myself to my feet.
“You okay?” Bryson’s not laughing. In fact, he looks ready to strangle the poor dog at my side.
“I’m fine. More annoyed than hurt.” I rub at the scratches that are peppered with red droplets of blood. Minor injury considering I was completely upended. “Sorry. I about took you with me.” I drop my arm and force a casual smile. “Thanks for, um, appeasing me. And for your advice. I think I will go to dinner tonight.”
He watches me carefully as if he knows I’ve just minimized this moment between us. If it bothers him, I can’t tell. He already has a smirk in place. “That’s the shortest-lived rebellion I’ve ever witnessed.”
“Who says it’s over?” Bentley pushes his wet nose against my thigh, and I instinctively reach down and scratch at his neck. “Maybe I’m just pressing pause for a juicy piece of steak.” I smile up at Bryson, ignoring the way my pulse still races or the way I catch just a hint of disappointment in his eyes.
“You did say food was a good motivator to behave.”
Before I can agree, Bentley barks twice as if to concur and demand his prize. I squat down and rub his head affectionately. “Nice try, ol’ boy, but you and I still have a lot of work to do.”
fifteen
It’s not the steak that brings me here, as I claimed. It’s not even Bryson’s story or his obvious regrets about severing ties with his mom, though those did have an impact. No, I’m here because it’s not easy to break a twenty-nine-year habit of surrendering to expectations.
I mash on the doorbell and wait for my mom’s call to come in. It never comes. Instead, the door opens and I’m greeted by a man who has no business answering my childhood front door.
“Darcy, hey, perfect timing! I was just asking your mom how you like your steak cooked, and she was guessing medium-well.” Michael’s wearing a long black apron that says Barbecue King and holding an unopened Coke bottle he very likely just pulled from the fridge. My dad’s fridge. My dad’s grill, too.
“Medium,” I say, though I’m still reeling from Michael opening the door as if he’s the new man of the house.
“Great. I will make a note for the future.” He says future like it’s a foregone conclusion, and immediately my nerves bristle. I thought I could do this again, but now I’m not so sure. Having Cameron as the buffer last week made a bigger difference than I realized. I wait for him to move so I can enter the house. Instead, he glances over my head and waves. “Hey, Mrs. Snyder. How’s Henry doing?”
I turn around and gape as my notoriously grumpy neighbor, the very one who used to chase me and my brother from her yard with a broomstick, beams at the man in the doorway.
“So much better, Michael. Thank you for coming over so quickly.”
Michael moves past me and down the driveway. “Anytime.” He gives her a quick side hug. “And you tell him to stay off that ladder from now on. I’m just a few feet away, okay?”
A few feet? I nearly choke on the words. How much time is Michael spending here?
I leave the two of them to their lovefest and walk inside the house like a detective. A pair of reading glasses I don’t recognize sit on the end table by Dad’s recliner, along with a book my mom would never read. I consider going into Mom’s room but realize I really don’t want to know how serious they’ve gotten.
“Mom?” I call with a shaky voice as I check the kitchen and laundry room. I open the back door and find her on a lounge chair, sporting a very revealing swimsuit she would have never let me wear while growing up. Her hair is piled on her head, shades cover her eyes, and AirPods fill her ears.
“Mom.” I practically have to shout before she finally reacts, sitting up with a jolt.
She gently pulls the white earbud out of her left ear. “Oh, hey, honey. Did you get the A1 sauce?”
I show her the bottle, still having no idea how to stomach Michael’s new comfort level in my childhood home. Random dates were one thing, but this . . . this feels much too permanent.
Mom swings her legs over the chair so she’s sitting. “You look upset, honey. Is something wrong?”
Before I find the courage to answer with the truth, the back door opens and closes.
“Well now, that was quite a blessing.” Michael emerges holding a cookie sheet with three seasoned chunks of raw meat. “I was telling Mrs. Snyder about Dexter’s recommendation on the ski resort in Utah. Her daughter lives up there and knows the owners. She promised to get us a family discount.” He turns to me. “We’re taking Dexter’s family skiing this fall. You should join us.”
My mouth literally hangs open. “You’ve been talking to my brother?”
Michael misreads my tone and chuckles like I’m somehow happy with the news. “Yeah, he gave me the third degree until we realized we have all the same hobbies.”
“It was quite funny.” My mom carefully makes her way over to Michael’s side, and for some reason it feels like a choice. Him instead of me. “Dexter calls now more than he ever has. I think he likes Michael more than he likes me.”
“Not possible,” Michael adds in a sickeningly sweet tone.
Mom smiles up at him and rubs his back with her hand. “Do you need any help?”
“Not at all, beautiful. You relax and let me do the hard labor.” He leans down and kisses her right
in front of me, and it’s the final break to my control.
I suddenly don’t care that Bryson hasn’t talked to his mom in twelve years. In fact, right now I welcome the idea. I look between my mom and her new boyfriend and feel complete clarity. No matter how nice he tries to be, or how many gourmet dishes he tries to make me, there is one thing he will never be able to do. He will never be able to replace my dad.
“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” I say and set down the A1 bottle on the closest flat surface. I’m back in the house seconds later and halfway through the living room when I feel my mom’s hand around my arm.
“Darcy, what is going on? Why are you leaving?”
I turn around, and gone are the shades covering her now very concerned eyes. “Sunday nights are supposed to be for family, Mom. Family. That’s why I come every week. Not so I can play nice with your new boyfriend.”
“But I thought you liked Michael.”
I close my eyes because I have no idea how to express what I’m feeling, especially to her. “Aren’t you the tiniest bit concerned about how fast this is moving? He’s here every time I call; he’s cooking, answering the door, making vacation plans with Dexter. He’s rooted himself in your life, and you hardly know him.”
“I know him better than I ever knew your father,” she says unapologetically. “He’s kind, considerate, and has never cheated.”
Her words are a slap across the face, and I look away because it suddenly hurts to breathe.
A gentle touch lands on both of my arms. “Darcy, you have to let go of this fantasy that your dad is ever coming back. He’s not, nor do I want him to. We don’t love each other anymore.”
“Do you love me?” The question catches in my throat.
“You know the answer to that.”
Maybe I do, but it doesn’t lessen the spear in my heart. I feel lost and alone, as if no one understands or cares how much it still hurts that Dad is gone. The family I’d known and counted on my entire life no longer exists.
“Come back outside. Spend some time with him, try having a real conversation, and then maybe you’ll see why—”
Love and the Silver Lining Page 12