Depth of Field (Last Chance Book 1)
Page 3
Because he’d moved away? Lived his own life?
Van’s feet rooted to the floor. His body, which had just felt frozen a moment before scorched with angered-heat. Van turned to her, feeling the tightness in his jaw. “The way you made sacrifices for me?” he asked.
He could have sworn he saw her flinch. Was it guilt, he wondered, or surprise because she didn’t expect him to stand up to her? Because he never would have dared when his father was alive. He’d always gone along with whatever was expected of him, but he wasn’t that person anymore.
“I don’t want to do this with you right now, Max. You don’t understand. I….”
He shook his head, not wanting to hear an excuse. He’d put the past behind him. Van didn’t want to dredge it up any more than she did. “What’s going on, Mother?” he asked.
She sighed and he noticed the curve in her spine for the first time. The bags under her eyes. She never let herself look tired. Always stood up straight because if you commanded respect, you received it. His father had made sure they both lived that way.
She started moving again, making her way into the kitchen. Van followed. The blinds were closed, not letting any natural light into the large space, which wasn’t like her. They’d obviously remodelled since he left. It was upgraded with stainless steel and dark tones that made the space seem even more dreary without natural light.
“There’s coffee. Do you want coffee?” she asked. He noticed her hand shook as she reached for the pot.
“Mom,” he said before reaching out and grabbing her hand. “What’s wrong?” The ache in his chest now was completely different than the one he’d had when he pulled up. Then, it was nothing except the fact that he didn’t want to be here. Now, he was filled with worry.
“I…” she started and then pulled her hand away and wiped the tears he hadn’t noticed were in her eyes. “What is wrong with me? I don’t cry. Why can’t I stop crying?”
Because you lost someone you love. Because you lost the only person you’ve ever really loved, even if it meant choosing him over your own son’s well-being.
“You’re in pain.” But why hadn’t she cared that much about him?
“And showing that to everyone helps me how?” she asked.
Jesus, he’d forgotten what it was like in that house. Forgotten how they steeled their emotions, and put on a façade for the world to see. “It’s not everyone. It’s your son.”
“The son I haven’t seen in twelve years? The son who I don’t even know anymore?”
He couldn’t let himself feel guilt for that. He’d done what he’d had to do. She had made her choices and Van had made his. “What’s wrong?” he asked her again. There had never been a time in his life when he looked at either of his parents to see that they didn’t have the answers. It was who they were. Even when they were completely wrong, they didn’t see it.
“Your father died, Maxwell. That’s what’s wrong.”
He flinched at his real name. And she was right. His father had died and he couldn’t find it in himself to be heartbroken about it.
“I know that.”
“Then why aren’t you acting like it?”
“Did you call me back here to give me a hard time for taking care of myself?” Because that was what he’d done.
“No. I called you back here because I’m your mother, Max, whether you like it or not.”
Why hadn’t she been a mother to him back then? When he’d needed her?
But there was a silent part of him who still wanted her love. He wondered if the two of them could have a relationship. If they could find common ground without his father dictating who they should be.
“I can’t stay in his house,” she said, shaking her head, and he saw the pain in her features. Wondered if she felt any of that pain when he’d left. “Everywhere I look there are memories of him. Of our life together. I can’t do it. Jonathan said I should call you about the house.”
Hot anger shot through him. Jonathan said she should call? She hadn’t wanted to? He’d assumed when she had called for his help with the house and getting things in order, it would have been because she wanted him there, not because Jonathan said to do it. “I don’t want it, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You can say that so easily?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“He was your father. I know he had his problems, but he was your father and he loved you.”
“Christ, Max. What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you so dense?”
Max’s head snapped back at the pop from his dad’s hand.
“You’re too goddamn soft. Keep acting like that and people will think you’re light on your feet. You act like you’re queer. You queer?”
The breath got knocked out of him as he was shoved against the wall. “Christ, I don’t know how I ended up with such a fuckup for a son.”
No, his father hadn’t loved him. That wasn’t love.
“He left you money. He hadn’t seen you in twelve years, and he left you money.” She said it as if that were proof of his love, as if money could make up for how things were.
“I don’t want that either.”
CHAPTER THREE
Van hated sleeping in this house. Hated thinking back to the person he’d been when he’d lived there.
He’d spent most of the night lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wishing he had a paintbrush between his fingers and a canvas in front of him.
When he’d grabbed his bag the day before, he’d left those things in the car. Somehow pulling them out felt more permanent. Felt like he was bringing his new life into his old life, and the thought made him nauseous. He couldn’t handle the thought of blending the two, of dirtying it that way. No, he didn’t think he could ever paint in that house. Not with all the memories there.
He and his mom hadn’t spoken much more, and it had been late afternoon when he’d gotten in. After her mini breakdown, she’d stood, wiped her eyes, and assured him she was fine. That was the mother he was used to, the one with the hard armor he’d been forced to wear for eighteen years as well. Sullivans were strong. Smart. Confident. Wealthy. At least that was the image they were always supposed to project.
They sure didn’t run away from home as fast as they could and work as a waiter while putting themselves through art school. They didn’t paint pictures and take photographs of naked men, bodies locking together in the most intimate way. They didn’t lick the sweat off another man’s skin, or take another man into their body, or love the feel of a cock in their mouth, either.
When his body got too restless to stay in bed any longer, he pushed out of it. He was in his old room, only it wasn’t the same. His parents weren’t the kind of sentimental people who kept his things for him and he was fine with that. Nothing he’d had back then had truly been Van anyway. They’d been who he was supposed to be. Who his father wanted him to be. The boy next door with the perfect grades, who loved sports and girls. The American fucking dream.
He made his way down the hallway and toward his mom’s room. The door was cracked open. She lay on her side, eyes closed, facing him.
It was early…early enough that he had a good excuse not to wake her, when he just wasn’t prepared to dive into anything with her yet. He still didn’t totally understand why she’d called him back, besides the fact that Jonathan said she should—oh and money he didn’t give a rat’s ass about. She could have told him about it over the phone, and he could have rejected it from home, just like he would have if she had been able to get ahold of him in time for his father’s service. He sure as hell wouldn’t have come for that.
Van went back to his room, changed clothes, brushed his teeth, and then scribbled a quick note about going to grab breakfast.
Van’s car nearly drove itself to Lucky Rose. It was down Main Street about a block from the movie theater that only played one movie at a time. He hadn’t realized where he was going until he pulled into the parking lot and parked.
Motherfucker.
It was where he’d always gone with his friends.
He’d spent hours there with Jonathan and their other friends, eating French fries, milkshakes, and sneaking Jack into their Cokes before taking off to go make out with whatever girls they had with them at the time.
He almost put the car in reverse and drove away…but fuck that. There was no chance he could spend the next few days in Last Chance and not run into anyone he knew anyway, so Van got out of the car and went inside.
They’d remodeled since he was a kid. Everything still had the soft, rose-pink accents, but the tables were newer and there was now a bar along the front.
“Just one?” the hostess asked. She was young, it was probably her first job. They’d always been good about that at Lucky Rose.
“Yep. Just one.”
“Do you want to sit at the bar?”
“I’d rather a table, if you don’t mind.”
She nodded and led Van to a small, two-person table that sat directly across from the bar. He ordered a coffee and before she even had the chance to return with it, the bell over the door sounded.
The second he looked up, he was eye-to-eye with his former best friend.
“Max!” Jonathan grinned as he walked over. He wore slacks and a white button-up, without a tie.
“Hey, man. How’s it going?” Van pushed to his feet as Jonathan pulled him into a hug. It was slightly awkward, standing there with Jonathan again. The other man reminded him of the person he used to try to be, the one his father tried to force him to be. Acid burned through his gut at the thought.
“Good. Great. I can’t believe it’s been twelve years. Christ, your mom didn’t even know how to get a hold of you at first.”
Van just nodded because he wasn’t going to go there with Jonathan. He’d done what he’d done for a reason. “I’m here now,” Van replied as the waitress approached with his coffee.
“Would you like one too, Jonathan?” she asked. He looked at Van as if to ask if it was okay. Van gave a nod and they both sat down.
“Are you ready for your order?”
“I’ll take an egg white omelet, light cheese, and turkey sausage,” Jonathan replied. The waitress looked at Van next.
He sure as shit wasn’t eating like Jonathan. “I’ll take a grasshopper milkshake and a breakfast burrito.”
He handed the menu to her and Jonathan chuckled.
“You always used to try and eat like shit.”
But he hadn’t gotten away with it most of the time. Not if it was baseball or football season, when his dad thought he needed to be in the best shape.
They spoke for a couple minutes and Van learned Jonathan’s wife was a real estate agent—the best one in Last Chance—and that he was an attorney. That part Van had known. There was no way Jonathan couldn’t be. It’s what his father was and what Jonathan wanted, as well.
They had three girls but Jonathan wanted to try again because damn it, he wanted his son.
Van bit back a groan at that.
He wondered if Jonathan would ask what he did. How he would respond when Van told him he created homoerotic art. Because he wouldn’t skirt around what he did or who he was.
Jonathan apparently wasn’t interested though because he went straight into, “My deepest condolences on your dad. He was a good man.”
Van’s molars ground together. It wasn’t that he was glad his father was dead. He didn’t wish that on anyone, but he didn’t need condolences. And his father hadn’t been a good man.
“I know it was important to your mom that you come back. You’re all she has and she wants a relationship with you.”
Did she? She hadn’t said it that way to Van. But there was hope there, living inside him. Hope that they could work on their relationship. That without his father there, she could love him the way he was, even though she’d never protected him. “I hope we’re able to work through some things,” Van replied, even though Jonathan wouldn’t know what those things were.
The bell over the door rang again but Van didn’t turn to look.
“Hey, Shane! How’s it going?” a voice popped up.
“Saw that Camaro outside your shop!” someone else said and Van froze. Couldn’t move.
Christ, was it Shane Wallace? The Shane Wallace he’d tormented, much like his own father had tormented him? The quiet, scrawny kid who kept to himself?
Van’s gut cramped up at the thought of how they’d treated Shane.
“Hey, man. How’s it going? Just picking up some muffins for the shop.”
The voice was rough, deep. Nothing like the voice of the Shane he remembered. Van couldn’t stop himself from looking back anymore and…damn, Shane Wallace had grown up—cut muscles, tousled, dark hair, and an easy smile that would knock anyone on their ass. A smile that had never been that effortless, that settled, when they’d been kids.
Jonathan saw him staring. “He’s found his way, all right, I guess. Made a name for himself. Still takes care of his mama. We’re still not too fond of each other, if you know what I mean.” Jonathan chuckled but Van wasn’t sure what was so funny. That they’d been horrible to Shane, so he and Shane still had their issues?
Shane grabbed a box from over the bar, laughed some more as a few people spoke with him and patted him on the back. His eyes scanned in Van’s direction. As soon as they zeroed in on Van, every fucking thing in Shane’s expression changed. He went cold. Closed up. Looked at Van with the kind of hate in his eyes Van hadn’t seen in a long time. The kind of hate he deserved.
Shane’s eyes went from Jonathan to him and back to Jonathan again, just as Van’s tablemate turned around.
Jonathan gave him a small wave and then chuckled again, before Shane gave Van one last death stare, and turned away.
Van knew he should move, get up and say something; because if there was anyone who ever deserved an apology from Van, it was the man standing at the counter.
When Shane got to the door he turned, taking one more look at Van and walked out.
As Jonathan began rambling again about his mom, his wife, and hey, we should get together sometime, Van’s mind stayed with the boy who’d been more like Van than he’d ever known. With the only man he’d thought about over the years and wished he could see again, because nothing in his whole fucking life ever made him feel the shame he did when he thought about how he’d treated Shane Wallace.
CHAPTER FOUR
He’d overthrown. He couldn’t fucking believe he’d overthrown. There’d been no way Mathews could have caught the ball. He’d been open, right in front of the goal line. If Max had thrown accurately, if he was a better athlete, Mathews would have caught it and they would have won the championship.
“Fuck,” he cursed before he kicked the book on his bedroom floor, which flew up and hit the wall. Why the hell did he have to screw up so badly? He’d messed it up for everyone. He’d lost the championship for his team.
Max tensed up when he heard footsteps from the hallway. There was no doubt in his mind who it was. His father had been in the locker room after the game. In front of the others, he’d told Max it wasn’t his fault just like everyone else on the team had, despite the tears in their eyes and the edge in their voices. He’d told Max they had a good season. He’d done his best. Blah-fucking-blah. All the shit Max knew he didn’t feel. He was Maxwell Sullivan. He was expected to be perfect. Anything less than wasn’t acceptable.
Max sat on the edge of his bed and waited. When the door opened, he looked up, looked his father in the eyes because that was what was expected of him. He shouldn’t shy away. A man always looked another man in the eyes. You were weak if you didn’t. What he saw was hardness in his dad’s eyes.
“That was an easy throw, Maxwell. Your defense did their job; they blocked for you. Your running back did his job; he got open. You’re the only one who didn’t do his job.”
“It was an accident,” Max replied. “I screwed up. I don’t know why I overthrew.”
He flinched at his father’s words and looked down.
“See, like that. Looking away because you can’t handle it.”
Max winced when he felt his father’s hands tighten in his hair. He jerked Max’s head up so he was forced to look at him, his grip getting tighter and the sting to Max’s head sharper. “Don’t look away. You fucked up the season for your team. All that work for nothing. One throw. One throw and we would have won. Don’t turn away from seeing what you did. Own it.”
“Yes, sir,” Max replied fighting the tears that wanted to leak from his eyes. Fighting the urge to wince again in pain.
“You’re supposed to be a leader. Your peers need to be able to look at you to lead. I know you think I’m being hard on you, but you’ll appreciate it one day. You’re destined for greatness, Maxwell, it’s about time you stopped acting so goddamned weak and proved it.” He pushed Max’s head as he let go of his hair. His fingers twitched with the need to rub the spot where his dad had pulled, but he didn’t dare. “Now, get dressed and go out with your friends. Everyone will expect you to be out tonight. We’ll finish discussing this later.” Without another word, he turned and walked from the room.
Only it wouldn’t just be a discussion. Max knew better than that.
He steeled his emotions, pushed to his feet, got changed, and headed down the stairs. He wouldn’t cry. Wouldn’t give in to the tightness in his chest. Wouldn’t let himself be what his dad hated. He’d be strong. He’d be good. He’d show his father he wasn’t weak.
He jumped into his Mustang and drove straight to Lucky Rose where the whole team would be. His hands hurt, he gripped the steering wheel so tight. His foot pressed more and more on the accelerator and he watched the number rise…sixty, sixty-five, seventy, seventy-five….