“Oh my God. Shut the hell up,” I tell her.
“I’m serious. Apparently she tried to break up with him yesterday because she thinks the two of you belong together and that you’re the one who can make him happy. And she wants the two of you to be happy.”
“Jesus, that’s just sick. What is wrong with that girl?”
“I don’t know, but she seemed genuinely sad about it. Like you just ruined your and Brandon’s shot at happiness with that article.”
“What is she thinking? How could anyone think that he belongs with anyone but her? They are completely perfect together.”
“I know. She loves him so much and apparently he basically said the same thing you just did but she’s convinced herself that he belongs with you.”
“I seriously feel like I’m going to vomit. That’s just so… wrong. Why would she do that to herself? To him?”
“I can see it,” Angel says. “I was kind of shocked that you were going to publish that second article you wrote about him for anyone to read because it felt more like a love letter.”
“That’s not what it was. It was a story of two friends.”
“Two friends that lost each other and when they finally found each other again all was right with the world. It totally had a star crossed lover’s vibe.”
“Stop,” I tell him. “Seriously, Angel, stop. I don’t feel that way about him and he doesn’t feel that way about me. Obviously. I don’t need any more drama in my life than I already have.”
“Okay,” he says, holding his hands up in a defensive position.
We sit in silence for a minute before Presley finally breaks it by telling Angel the song he’s strumming is by one of her favorite bands. They fall into their own little world of music and I fall into my own little world of misery and exhaustion.
Two hours later I figure Mom is passed out and it’s safe to go home. All I want is to get into my bed and forget about everything. Presley decides to stick around and Angel, who has only had one beer, promises to deliver her home safely.
As I drive past the football stadium that is still lit up even though the game would have ended a few hours ago, I absently wonder how they did and if Brandon’s always perfect game play has led the people of Carver to forgive him. It’s all I can hope for at this point.
28
I wake to a loud pounding. I pull my pillow over my head and try to ignore it. I’m still half asleep but aware enough to assume it’s Nash and that he’s drunk. I curse my mom, again, for being stupid enough to stay the night at Wes’ because it means I’m the only one around to deal with his dumb ass.
The pounding persists so I grab my phone off the night stand and look at the time: 1:48. I’ve been asleep for less than two hours. I tear my comforter off and stomp down the hall, pissed off that he’s waking me from my sleep and taking away the few hours I have where I’m not miserable. I whip open the door then gasp and cover my mouth in shock. It’s not Nash standing there.
It’s Brandon. And his entire face looks mangled – there is a cut above his eyebrow that looks like it needs stitches, a dark bruise runs under his eye. His nose is swollen. His bottom lip is split. “What the hell happened to you?”
Even through the mess I can see the anger in his eyes and the tenseness in his jaw. He steps into the house, his hands tight fists at his side. “Why?” he asks me with pain in his voice. He keeps stepping towards me and I keep stepping backwards. “Why the hell would you do that to me?” He’s so close now I can smell the liquor on his breath.
“I’m sorry,” I plead, partially out of anguish and regret and partially out of fear.
“You’re sorry? That’s what you’re gonna tell me- you’re sorry?”
He has me backed into the wall of the hallway now, his face tilted down to meet mine. He’s so close all I can see are his brown eyes that have darkened and no longer look warm and friendly. “Yes. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to tell you.” I push my hands into his chest to try and move him but he grabs on hard to my wrists. “Let go of me, Brandon.” I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins and my eyes turning just as severe as his.
“You ruined my fucking life, you know that? We lost the game tonight because you turned all of them against me and we couldn’t pull our shit together. And Roger was so pissed, not only did he kick me out of his house but he beat my fucking ass in front of my entire family before he did it. So, Tatum, tell me something else, something better than you’re fucking sorry because I need to understand.”
My heart is breaking for him and at the same time my body is filling with rage. “You walked out of my life. Again. Nash was the one who fucked up yet you stood by his side even though you knew what he had done and you cut me out of your life for no fucking reason. Just like you did to me the last time I let you in. How can you do that to me? How can you keep doing that to me?” I’m screaming now, but he hasn’t backed off of me and he’s not saying anything, just staring at me with his tortured eyes.
“I loved you, Brandon. You were my entire life. You were the only good thing I had when we were growing up. You were the only one willing to put me first and I fucking loved you. Do you understand that? I loved you. But you left me. You stopped talking to me, you didn’t even tell me why. You broke my fucking heart. You made me bitter and angry. You changed me into someone I didn’t want to be. And I didn’t have a choice. So I’m sorry if you are having the worst day of your life but I had the worst year of my life because of what you did to me.” I’m shaking with anger and tears are streaming down my face. “Say something.” I tell him.
“Why did you choose him? Why was it always him?” he seethes. “Why does he get away with treating you like shit and I, the guy who worshiped the ground you walked on, am always the one you end up hurting? He never deserved you. He never loved you the way I did. But you chose him. You always fucking choose him. He’s never sacrificed anything for you yet you love him unconditionally.”
“I never chose him. I always loved you more than I loved him. What you needed from me was just me- being with me, talking to me, hanging out with me- it was all you ever needed from me. But Nash, he always wanted more. And I gave him what he wanted because it was what I knew. It was what I knew guys expected and I knew I had an obligation to give it to them if it’s what they wanted. And it was what Nash wanted. I hated myself for it. I hated him for it. I hated my mom for it and I needed you. All I wanted was you and you weren’t there. For the first time in my life, when I needed you most, you weren’t there.”
Brandon drops his head and lets go of my wrists. I immediately slide down the wall until I’m crouched on the carpet, crying and shaking. He falls to his knees in front of me. His chest heaving. His eyes clenched tightly. A tear escaping anyway. “What am I doing, Tatum?” he asks, his eyes opening, his head rising. “What are we doing?”
I shake my head. I don’t have an answer to that.
“What if I had never seen the two of you on the couch? How would our lives have turned out?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
“If I hadn’t left you, if I would have told you how I felt about you, would you have chosen me over him?”
I know how I felt before he left me. I don’t know if telling him the truth is the right thing to do but I do it anyway. “Yes.”
“I was the reason you seclude yourself from everyone. Who would you be if I hadn’t done that?”
“That’s a pointless question.”
“You would have been happy. I would have made sure you were happy. You would have known that you deserved better than Nash.”
“He was good to me, Brandon. He’s always been there for me.”
“No, Tatum. No he wasn’t. You know what his drunk, stupid ass told me tonight? That he’s happy. He’s happy that you let him go completely and that he’s finally free. He told me that he was holding onto you so that you would never be mine but he doesn’t care anymore.”
“He says stupid shit tha
t he doesn’t mean when he’s drunk.”
“I think the only time he actually says what he really means is when he’s drunk.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him, closing my eyes and laying my head against the wall. “What I had with him is over and it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“What about us, Tatum?”
“What about us?”
“Are we over?”
I open my eyes and look at his serious face. “You’re the one who’s always called the shots with us. It’s never been up to me. So why don’t you answer that question.”
“No. I don’t want us to be over.”
I stare at him and wonder why the hell I’m glad he’s here. Why, no matter what we’ve been through, having him near me always makes me feel like everything is okay. “I told myself on Tuesday that I would never trust you again. That, no matter what, I would never let you back into my life.”
“I’m sorry that I made you feel that way. I’m not even gonna say that I fucked up and it was a mistake because I know you’ve heard that enough lately. I feel like I’ve lost just about everything but when I’m with you I feel like none of it matters. If I could just have you back in my life it would all be worth it.” He leans forward and runs his long fingers through my hair then cups the side of my face. It feels so good- the unforgotten feel of his touch on my skin- that I sigh. His fingers slowly make their way down my neck and slide behind my head.
I look at his beaten face; his dark, sad eyes; his perfect, parted lips and something breaks loose in me. Some kind of barrier that I placed between us long ago. Suddenly, I’m filled with desire for him. A desire that I’m not familiar with. One that makes me crave all kinds of things simultaneously: the emotional intimacy that we once shared, the deep connection that I’ve only ever felt with him, the happiness that he gives me that I used to live for. And the need to make all of those connections tangible.
He pulls me off of the wall and so close to him that I can feel his breath on my lips and taste it in my mouth. I ease my way onto my knees and he grabs on hard to my waist with his free hand, pulling me so tightly to his body that I can feel him pressing into my stomach. When his lips finally cover mine it feels so damn rewarding and delicious I cry into his mouth. He pauses and lets his heavy breaths fall into my mouth. When he starts kissing me again he is no longer sweet and gentle, but frantic and desperate.
My fingers sink into his thick hair and I let him consume me. I let my desire for him run wild and it only crosses my mind for a split second how surreal it is that the man that is making me feel down right feral is Brandon.
He sits back on his heels and lowers me onto his lap. His hands are sure and confident as he guides my body with them. I tug on his shirt, and he leans back so I can pull it over his head. I glance down at his heaving chest, his skin is golden and flawless. His muscles are tight and clear cut. I lean down and kiss his skin and he lets out a deep, quiet moan. “Tatum,” he groans, his deep voice dripping with desire.
I stare at him and I know. I know that it’s us, that this is the moment I’ve been waiting for. The moment when I could finally start. I hold onto him for dear life and grasp onto his lips with mine, both of us crying for each other as our tongues taste eachotehr an our bodies cling to eachotehr however they can. My nails and finger tips roam around the terrain of his upper body, soaking in every ledge and indent.
He moans into my mouth as he slowly slides his hands up my stomach, pushing my tank top up as he goes. My body shivers at the feel of his fingers on my skin. He pulls my naked stomach to his and the heat of his body shoots through me and I want more. I want every inch of his skin pressed into every inch of mine. His fingers unclasp my bra and he runs them under the strap from back to front, freeing my skin from it, until his palms are running over my breast and his fingers are cupping me. It feels so good and my desire for him is so painful that I release a cry into his mouth and dig my fingers into his back.
I want him. I want all of him. More than I’ve ever wanted anything.
When I realize this, when I realize how far I’m willing to go with him reality, and an image of Summer, covers me. I pull out of his mouth, resting my forehead on his, trying to catch my breath. His hands gently return to my back and he pulls me tightly to him, my head shifting to rest on his shoulder. I hold him just as tightly as he’s holding me. And it feels almost as good as it did when he was ravaging my body. Being held by him. Having his strong arms wrapped around me. I relish it while I have it because I know I can’t ever have it again.
29
When I wake up, fully clothed, with my head resting on Brandon’s shoulder, my arm flung over his naked stomach, it doesn’t feel as strange as it should. It almost feels natural. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s slept in this bed with me. I used to wake up like this when we were kids.
It doesn’t necessarily feel wrong either. The emotion driven loss of control we experienced last night was definitely wrong. But when it was over and we somehow ended up in this bed just talking, we both agreed it wasn’t going to happen again.
If it wasn’t for that moment then I could probably convince myself that it’s okay to lay here wrapped up in my friend’s arms, but all things considered, any form of touching between us is now inappropriate.
Reluctantly, I roll off of him and onto my back.
“Why’d you do that,” he mumbles. “You were so warm.” He keeps his eyes closed, curls up onto his side and pulls my comforter over his shoulder.
“Oh my God, Brandon. You look like shit,” I tell him, gently running my finger over the cut on his eyebrow.
“Oww. Jesus, Tatum,” he says, his eyes opening as he pulls his face away from my touch.
“I barely touched you.” I prop myself up on my elbow so I can get a better look at him. “Hold still so I can look at it,” I tell him, bringing my fingers back to his skin and stretching it so I can see how deep his gash is. He lets out a long string of obscenities but holds still for me. “I think you need stitches.”
“It’s fine,” he tells me.
“You would think that after the amount of injuries you have to see on that field you would have gotten over your fear of Doctor’s offices.”
“I’m not afraid of Doctor’s offices. I’m deathly afraid of needles.”
“The one they use for stitching up skin is tiny, like a fishing hook.”
“God, shut up, Tatum. You’re gonna make me puke.”
I laugh at the way his skin goes white. “How are you feeling by the way? It’s probably been a while since you’ve been hung over.”
“I’m not hung over.”
“Please. You were hammered last night.”
“I had a shot of whiskey to try and numb the pain in my face. I wish I had been drunk. It would give me an excuse to justify what happened between us last night.”
“Nothing happened between us.”
“Exactly.” He smirks at me. “Nothing happened. It must have just been a really fucking hot dream I had about you,” he says, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me back down to my pillow - his eyes and his lips only inches away from mine now. His expression turns from playful to serious and I don’t know what that means, but it scares me. The desire that instantly springs to life inside of me scares me.
I roll out of his arm and climb out of my bed. “I’m gonna go see if I can find some thread and a needle so I can fix you up.”
“That’s not funny,” he tells me.
I pause to smile at him before leaving my room and closing the door behind me.
I head to the bathroom and pull out the first aid kit, all the while trying to suppress my conflicted feelings about Brandon. I head out to the kitchen to grab a bag of peas for his eye and nose, although it’s probably too late to do anything about the swelling.
My mom is at the kitchen table drinking coffee in the same clothes she had on yesterday. “Did you just get home?” I ask her.
“Maybe,” she tells me
with a mischievous smile.
“I don’t want to hear about it,” I tell her, closing the freezer. “Brandon might be staying here for a couple of nights,” I mention as I walk out of the kitchen.
I hear her chair scraping across the floor. “Brandon, as in Brandon Eastman?”
“Don’t get all excited, Mom. His dad beat the shit out of him and kicked him out of the house. He needs a place to crash. That’s all.”
“If you say so.”
When I head back into the room, Brandon has his phone up to his ear and is telling someone, “I’ll think about it but really, it’s the last thing I want to do.…Yeah, okay. Thanks Coach. Maybe I’ll see you tonight.” He throws his phone on my nightstand and eyes the emergency kit in my hand.
“You’re out of luck. Turns out none of the Austin ladies sew.”
“No shit, huh? So what’s in there?”
“I don’t know. Just lay back and shut up,” I tell him as I climb back onto my bed, kneeling beside him and opening it up. “I’m gonna have to clean it, it’s gonna hurt like a bitch,” I warn him as I tear open an antiseptic wipe.
“Just get it over with.”
He grabs on hard to my thigh as I clean the wound above his eye and then the one on his lip.
“Oh my God,” he garbles. “Are you trying to poison me?”
“It’s not gonna hurt you.”
“Am I done now?”
“Almost. This shouldn’t hurt.” I pinch the gash over his eye open and squirt some skin glue on the edges before pushing it back together and holding it.
“You are such a damn liar.”
“Open this please,” I tell him passing over the small butterfly bandages.
He does what I say and I get the cut held together securely. “There,” I tell him. “I just saved your beautiful face from an atrocious scar and prevented infection.”
“Thanks, Tatum. What would I do without you?”
A God in Carver (Carver High #1) Page 20
