I want to say that I don’t need any friends, but I don’t want to lie. I hate being alone.
Hell, I also hate having friends.
Like I said, I’m cursed.
She sniffs. “Lo told me something like that.”
Of course he did. “What’d he say?”
“That I have to let you get used to the long-distance. That I can’t do anything to make you feel better.”
Loren Hale. Jesus. I wonder if he even knows how much he gets me. Like he’s taken a road trip in my head and come out the other side. I don’t understand it.
“He’s right,” I say. “You sacrificing shit for me isn’t going to make me happy or feel better.”
“Then what will make you happy?”
I don’t know.
I should have a better answer to that question. But there’s one thing I know. She can’t suppress her happiness because she feels guilty. I can’t be poison in her life.
And then I hear her brother’s worry in my head. I don’t know what you’ll fucking do. Lo and Ryke thought I’d break up with her. Now I understand why.
But I won’t.
I won’t.
I still believe we’re good for one another, even a continent away. She is the thing that makes me happy. But it’s on me—because I need to find something else that can push me through a day. Not someone. Something.
I desperately need something to get me through the next three-and-a-half years.
23 PRESENT DAY – December
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
GARRISON ABBEY
Age 21
What the fuck was I thinking?
I must be out of my mind. Watching Willow leave to board a plane and fly back to London must have really fucked with my head.
Because there’s no other explanation as to why I accepted the invitation to return home.
It’s the weekend before New Years, and I should have hung up when I heard my mom’s voice, but instead, I listened to her pleas, begging me to just come home.
For a second. For a minute. To spend time with family. The family that I keep distancing myself from like the miscreant troublemaker that I am.
So I went home.
And during a ham dinner, I’ve been listening to stories about Mitchell’s grad school. How Hunter is coaching lacrosse at Penn, and Davis has put his MBA to use, snagging a six-figure promotion at our father’s loaded tech company.
“Garrison.” Dad diverts the attention to me. He scoops the last portion of potatoes onto his plate. “How’s Cobalt Inc. going?”
Davis wears a look of surprise. “You haven’t quit yet?”
“Nope.” I bite back a harsher retort.
Hunter laughs. “They haven’t fired you?”
“Nope.” But no one is more surprised about that than me.
“Connor Cobalt wouldn’t fire him,” Davis adds. “Not as long as he’s dating Willow Hale, right?” He nods to me. “Keep that on lock, man.”
I’m not dating Willow for my job. My skin crawls even letting that thought cross my mind. Sitting here turns my stomach. I stab at a piece of ham on my plate, not planning to force the thing down.
Our mom stands. “Garrison, stop playing with your food.” She waits for me to set my fork down and hand her the plate, so she can clear the table. She doesn’t always do the dishes. Most of the time we have staff wash them.
Did I mention my family is rich? Yeah, I think I did.
My brows scrunch at my mom. “It’s already dead,” I say dryly.
She sighs out like I’m being unreasonably difficult. “Please, Garrison.”
I’m about to do as told, but Hunter kicks my shins from underneath the table. Hard. I drop my fork, the utensil clattering on the lip of the plate.
Fuck.
Dull plain plumes, and Hunter gives me a harsh look like don’t be a shit.
My jaw clenches, my pulse starting to race.
Mom places a hand on my shoulder. “It’s fine, sweetheart.” Yeah, she knows my brother kicked me, but all she does is smile at Hunter with the shake of her head.
Boys will be boys, she used to tell me as a kid, blowing on my cut kneecaps after being shoved in asphalt. You have to pick yourself up and fight back.
Right.
She collects the dirty plates around the table. Including mine.
Hunter narrows his assholish eyes on me. He jerks his head from me to our mom like, help her.
I glare.
He has two feet.
I haven’t stepped into this house for months. They’re lucky I’m here right now.
“Garrison,” Davis snaps out loud. “Help Mom.”
Our mom waves me off. “No, you boys go relax and catch up. It’s been so long since you’ve all seen each other.”
Shit.
My heart rate ratchets up. “I’m actually going to head out,” I say. “I’ve got an early morning.”
Our dad makes a noise of disapproval. “Connor Cobalt surely isn’t making you work during the holiday.” True—I do have off—but that doesn’t mean I’m actually going to take it. I still planned to go into the office. Because I love my job.
Because it’s keeping me going.
Hunter pushes out of his chair and treks over to mine. “Come on, Garrison.”
Relax, I tell myself, and I stand up. Hunter slings an arm around my shoulder and pats my chest. Once he starts pulling me to the door, he tightens his arm into a fucking headlock.
“Stop, man,” I choke. I’m stumbling to catch up with my own goddamn head, and I try to pry off his stupid arm.
“That’s all you’ve got?” Hunter goads.
I attempt to elbow his ribs—he slams a fist in my kidney. I cough.
Davis laughs. “Still can’t get out of it?”
Acid drips down my throat. I didn’t realize I was supposed to become a fucking wrestler.
Hunter laughs with our older brother, then he looks over at Mitchell, who’s busy grabbing his Columbia coat from the hook. Acting like he sees nothing.
Hunter messes my hair with his knuckles, digging hard. Burning my scalp.
Davis snatches his coat while I’m still struggling to remove Hunter’s bicep from my windpipe.
I don’t have time to reach for mine. Because Hunter forgoes his own winter jacket. Front door open, he exits into the cold night in a preppy sweater and collared shirt—forcing me outside with him.
I almost slip on the fucking icy steps, and he’s still crushing my windpipe. So by the time Hunter lets go and pushes me into the two-inches of snow with only my thin hoodie—I’m livid.
I land on my knees and hand. Body shaking, anger barely warming me in the chill. Picking myself up, my chest rises and falls heavily and my breath smokes the air.
“Come on,” Hunter says like I’m a three-year-old kid crying over spilled milk.
I’m not crying.
“Fuck you,” I sneer.
Davis tosses a football in the air. “He’s just playing around, Garrison. Lighten up. It’s the holiday.”
I swallow hard. Cool. “I’m grabbing my coat—”
Hunter blocks me, his chest puffed out against mine. “What do you call this?” He fists my hoodie.
I slap his hand off me. “Don’t touch me.” My heartbeat hammers my ribcage.
He laughs. “Come on.” When he sees I’m serious, he shakes his head. “Don’t be such a pussy. You don’t need a fucking coat.” He spreads his arms out to illustrate that it’s not cold, and how he’s also without a winter jacket.
My speeding pulse is now in my throat. I tear my eyes off him, and I lift my gaze to Mitchell, who zips up his teal Columbia jacket—he looks away from me.
Not doing a fucking thing, per usual. It’s hard to blame him, but it’s easy to hate him.
Davis pats my back.
I tense more. We’re adults, and I still can’t figure out a good exit strategy from “bro time” with my brothers.
“Boundaries are the
edge of the property.” Davis points the football between all of us, his younger brothers. “Two-on-two. Mitch and Hunter versus Garrison and me. Tackling is fair game. You okay with that Garrison?”
Hunter smirks. “Or are you going to pussy out like you always do?”
I stare at my brothers. Davis. Hunter. Mitchell. All in their mid-to-late twenties now. And I’m not seventeen anymore.
I’m not a kid.
But they’re still bigger and taller than me. Still treating me like the rope in a game of tug-of-war. Something to pull to achieve whatever the fuck they’re after.
I rub my frozen hands. “No tackling.”
Hunter rolls his eyes. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, he asked.” I point at Davis. “I’m telling you no fucking tackling.”
Davis gestures to me with the football. “How about light tackling?”
Really. “How about none?”
“Learn to compromise, man,” Davis tells me like he’s the wise older brother here. “It’ll solve a lot of problems for you in life.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Light tackling is fair game.”
Hunter jumps up and down and cracks his knuckles.
Bile rises in my esophagus. Being here. Outside. Alone with them. Why did I put myself in this situation?
It’s on me.
They’re my family.
It’s still on me.
I don’t want to see them again… But they’re my family.
It’s still on me.
I war with my thoughts, unable to decide where to place blame other than myself. It’s all I can think, even as Davis tosses me the football.
Run, I think. Move your fucking feet or drop the ball—something. Anything. But I’m frozen, and Hunter sprints towards me. He goes in for the tackle.
His full weight rams into my chest, his elbow driving in my ribcage, and I land with a violent thump on my ass. God, motherfucker!
I wince through my teeth, my tailbone searing, the snow not bracing impact with the hard ground. Tears sting my eyes—but I refuse to fucking cry in front of them.
Hunter pushes his knee in my stomach on his way to a stance. I cough hoarsely, and he grabs the ball from my loosened clutch. Far too easily for his liking.
Anger surges in his eyes. “Why do you have to give up? It sucks playing with you, man. You’re worse than a fucking girl.”
Say hello to my misogynistic brother. I try to catch my breath and glare up at him. “Then don’t play with me.” I cough again. “I’m fine with that.”
He growls in frustration and swings his head to Davis.
Davis gives me a look. “You’re too sensitive. Stop being weak shit. Get up.” He gestures for me to rise.
I am weak shit. I feel it.
Sucking in a pained breath, I rise off my shrieking body that screams for me to run away. Flee. Flee.
Flee.
My hands are numb from the snow. My stomach is in knots. Like I might actually puke in a second. I stare right at Mitchell.
My twenty-three-year-old brother hangs back. Behind both Hunter and Davis, and I think, can you please…
Help me.
Mitchell stuffs his hands in his jacket. And he drops his gaze to the snow.
Right.
I rub my nose that drips from the cold.
“We’ll be defense,” Hunter says, tossing the ball to Davis.
Not again. “Look, as fun as this was,” I say sarcastically, still trying to catch my breath, “I have work tomorrow—”
“Don’t be like that,” Davis says.
“Like what?” I snap, my pulse accelerating again.
He shakes his head, pissed.
Hunter cuts in, “You’re such a little bitch.”
“I’m not doing anything!”
“Exactly!” Hunter yells. “Just be a fucking man, you cocksucker. Stop pitching these tantrums.”
I let out a short, bitter laugh. “I’m pitching a tantrum? Look in the mirror.”
Hunter fumes, his jaw locking. He breathes hard, literal smoke coming out of his nose thanks to the cold air.
I glare back, against better judgment.
Davis pats the football. “Let’s just play. Garrison sprint.”
I have no choice. Because Hunter charges for me—already planning on tackling and Davis hasn’t even thrown the ball for me to catch yet.
I run towards the neighboring house. Feeling the weight of my brother on my heels. Encroaching my space. Closer, and closer. Coming for me.
The ball soars through the crisp night air, and I don’t care about it. I don’t want it. Yet, I’m reaching up for the stupid fucking thing.
My fault.
Hunter tackles me from behind. My chest meets a blanket of hard snow, wind knocking right out of my lungs. I inhale but can’t exhale.
He laughs, happy that I finally gave in. “Barely better.” He messes my hair.
I’m about to stand, and he playfully pushes my head.
I shove his hand away as he tries again. “Stop, man.”
He shoves harder.
“Hunter—”
He forces my face into the ground. Making me eat snow. Cold burns my lips, and I shut my eyes.
Davis laughs.
I struggle out from Hunter’s hold, trying to rip his hand off my fucking head.
Mitchell just stays quiet. Just stands there.
I manage to turn over on my back, my face stinging raw. Hunter pins my shoulders and pulls my right arm in a lock. Like we’ve suddenly switched from football to wrestling. “Come on, get out of my hold.”
Davis stands over us. “You got this, Garrison. Just try.”
Just try. Why didn’t I think of that? What a genius. “He has a million pounds on me.”
“Don’t make excuses,” Davis says. “Or else you’ll always be flat on your ass.”
Hunter laughs, wrenching my arm harder. Motherfuc—I wince again, the brittle air drying my lungs.
I writhe under my brother. Trying to escape. He’s cement. I’m being crushed to death, breath comes shorter. “Get off,” I say, panicked.
He slaps my face. “Fight me, man.” He slaps harder. “Come on, grow some balls.”
My cheek sears. I push at his chest and scream between my teeth to force him off.
Unable to move him.
I can’t move him.
I picture myself easily sliding out from under Hunter. I picture myself straddling him. I picture two of my fists repeatedly slamming into his face. Until my brother is bloodied beneath me—but my fight or flight response is screaming fly the hell out of here.
“Take a breath,” Davis coaches. “Think about your next move. Stop flailing.”
Hunter looks over at Davis, and they laugh like this is all in good fun. Always at my expense.
“I’m done,” I choke out.
Hunter eases up some, enough that I gain control of my left arm.
“Swing,” Davis says.
I stupidly try to sit up and swing.
Hunter clasps my fist and shoves me down. The back of my head hits snow. His knuckles land in my stomach. In my ribs, over and over. I heave for breath and try to curl into a fetal position.
Fuck.
“Stop,” I gasp, clawing at the snow to get the fuck out.
Hunter drags me back, about to put me in another hold, and I kick his chest.
“GET THE FUCK OFF ME!” I yell into the deadened air. Somewhere down the street, I think I hear Christmas music.
I don’t want to hear it.
I don’t want to hear it.
Please don’t let these bastards ruin Christmas music for me. Please let me keep something. I thrash and must connect with Hunter’s dick because he backs off a little, clutching his crotch. Davis kicks snow in my face before I can get up.
I cough and wipe it out of my eyes. My whole face scalds painfully. My throat feels raw, but I can’t tell if that’s from screaming or the cold.
Staggering to my feet, I rise without anoth
er blow. Mitchell picks up the football off the snow and throws the thing in a clean arch to Davis. He catches the ball like we’re still playing.
While they’re distracted, I do what I’ve done since I was a teenager.
I stumble to my feet and I bolt.
“GARRISON!” Davis yells.
I don’t look back, my feet carrying me to my car in the driveway. I’m shaking, and I fumble with the keys before I unlock the door.
Slipping inside the Mustang, I turn on the ignition. Heat almost immediately blasts from the vents. Great car, thank you. Exhaust gurgles from the pipes.
My hands are still quaking. My teeth clanking together, but I glance through my rearview and start to back out.
I almost think Hunter might stand at the end of the driveaway just to fuck with me and block me in. But the three of them don’t move off the yard. And I start to get it.
Why they always let me go…
Because when I run away, I seem like the petulant child. Like the overly sensitive son who can’t handle playing rough with his brothers.
Fuck that.
Fuck them.
I leave anyway.
* * *
She can tell something is wrong.
I never told Willow that I was having dinner at my parent’s mansion. Even now, I don’t tell her about what just happened with my brothers—how Hunter repeatedly nailed me in the ribs.
Part of me is ashamed. Shame is strong, even years later when I know my brothers are complete shit and it can’t be all my fault. Right?
But she can sense that something’s off—just over the phone. Elevators to my apartment complex are out of order, so I take the stairs. Slowly, one of my arms hovering around my battered ribs.
With the other hand, I press my cell to my ear, my boots making wet puddles on the concrete steps.
“Garrison.” Worry coats her voice. “Can you please talk to me?”
“I’m talking,” I say tightly, pain in every movement.
“No, you’re breathing,” she refutes. “Really weirdly.”
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