“She saw the blankets on the living room floor,” Barrett says. “She got a pretty good idea of what’s been going on.”
“You could have made something up,” I say, incredulous. “Told her something happened at my apartment and I needed a place to sleep.”
“What’s the point?” Bronson says.
“What’s the point?! It would kill your mother to know what we’ve been doing!”
I’ve been so caught up with my own issues that I never stopped to consider how getting together with the Stone brothers could affect Rachel.
Gossip is a way of life for a lot of people on Four Points, and there’s no way we could carry on a relationship without Rachel finding out. Not that I’d be okay with sneaking around, anyway.
What we’ve been doing is wrong, no matter how right it felt.
“We can’t do this,” I say as I search for my bag and my shirt.
Bronson and Lincoln try to protest but I won’t hear any of it. Barrett tries to stop me, but I push by him. “This isn’t right,” I say, shoving my feet into my shoes. “And it ends now.”
I put my phone in Do Not Disturb mode and ignore the call and text notifications that silently pile up.
I try to do some admin work to keep busy, but when I find I can’t focus, I go for a run. It’s not something I do regularly, but today it feels right, even though I know I won’t be able to outrun my emotions.
I’m filled with shame and anger — anger at myself for provoking my stepbrothers and letting things go too far, and anger at them for making me think a future with them was possible.
If we’d just gotten together one night, no one would have ever needed to know, and no harm would be done. Except I’d know, and even after the first night with them, it was clear that no other men would ever be enough for me.
They’ve ruined me.
Even if I didn’t have history with them, the sex would have been off the charts; the four of them were expert at reading my body and bringing me pleasure. But the connection we share made every look and every touch deeper and more meaningful, adding an extra dimension of intimacy that I’d never before experienced.
I was better off a month ago, when I could almost forget they existed, and when I never expected to see them again. Now I know how things could be … if only.
Several blocks from my apartment, when my pace begins to slow, my anger turns to sadness, and thoughts and memories I usually keep pushed down deep insist on coming to the surface.
Everything would be different if Dad hadn’t died. I don’t know why things between us turned so unpleasant; maybe if I’d gotten to know him better as an adult, the situation could have improved. If he hadn’t died, maybe we could have eventually repaired our relationship.
I’m sad for Rachel, who’s alone now. I know how much that sucks. But Rachel and the Stone brothers wouldn’t even be in my life if my mom hadn’t left all those years ago. What was so bad about being my mom that she couldn’t handle it, or what was so good elsewhere, that she couldn’t choose to stay with me and be my mom?
Something wet drops onto my balled fist as I run, and I realize I’m crying.
I know it’s not good to keep all of this bottled inside me, but who can I talk to? I could call Becca or Christine, but I don’t want to be that person who’s always taking and never giving. They supported me at my dad’s funeral, but when have I ever been there for them?
It’s clear that things need to change in my life, but I don’t even know where to begin.
When I can’t run anymore, I turn around and walk all the way back to my apartment. The tears have dried up. I’m exhausted and mostly numb. It’s the best I’ve felt since I came out of the bathroom at the men’s house this morning, but that’s not saying much.
When I get home, I find that even more messages have piled up on my phone. Apparently, the four of them came over while I was out, and they assumed I was ignoring them when I didn’t answer the door. They’re worried and angry.
I send a group text to all of them: I was out for a walk. I’m sorry I stormed out this morning, but I just couldn’t deal with it. I still don’t want to talk, so please just give me space.
Barrett: Caz, we need to talk about this.
Me: Sometime soon, but not now. I need some time.
Barrett: We’re going to come over.
Me: No, you’re not.
My phone rings with an incoming call from Bronson. I really want to ignore it, but I know they’ll just keep calling and texting, and probably show up at my door.