“Yeah.” Davis raises his brows. “Mom wants us to hang out together.”
Hunter collects the remote and switches on the television. It’s a trick, my brain screams at me.
They seem nice all of a sudden. And they want to play video games. I could suggest N64 and go really classic with Mario Kart.
It sounds almost like fun, which is why I move towards the couch.
“Where are all the football games?” Davis asks, fiddling with a wooden box of Xbox games beneath the coffee table. I’m about to crouch and help him—wrong move.
Hands grab me around the waist and throw me to the couch. Laughter pierces my fucking ears, and weight crushes my back.
Hunter sits on me. I grit my teeth and try to rise, but Hunter is really heavy. He braces a hand on the back of my head, pushing my face into the slit of the cushion. It smells like moldy cheese, and my lip brushes something harry or furry or whatever the hell…
All I hear is laughter.
I try to push him, and he catches my arm with his other hand and stretches my limb hard across my shoulders. Imprisoning me.
“Get off!” My voice is muffled and lost in the cushion.
Hunter pushes my head more forcefully, extending my neck. God, my neck hurts. I try to kick out, and Hunter goads me, “So now you want to fight? Or are you still going to run away like a little bitch?”
“Fuck you!” I yell, my face hot.
“What was that?” he sneers and purposefully sits on my head now. “I can’t hear you, Garrison. Speak up.”
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe. I choke for air. Stop. Stop.
Stop!
My pulse thrashes off course, and if I can just…not panic, for one second. I try to tame my fear. I’m okay. I’m okay. My heart rate slows a tiny fraction.
I gasp into the cushion. A little air fills my lungs. I think I can breathe.
“Are you playing video games now?” My mom’s voice nears the living room, and Hunter slides off my back. I immediately lift my head and then sit up, gasping for more air.
“Yeah.” Davis squats beside me and rubs my head playfully. Like we’re best friends.
My mom smiles from the archway and gives me a look like see, Garrison, they’d even be willing to play video games with you.
I shut down again, numb inside.
She says that she’ll be visiting Rachel’s mom a few streets over and to call if we need anything.
With that, she leaves.
And Hunter wrenches me onto my stomach again. Shit.
“Get off, dude,” I snap, shoving and kicking him as hard as I can. Hunter curses at me all the while, calling me names, shouting his usual commentary about me needing to grow up. Fight back. Be a man.
I almost roll onto the floor, but Davis grabs me by the neck. So painful that I concede like a wounded animal. Hunter pushes me again, my stomach thudding to the cushions, and then he plops hard on my back.
I wince.
“Move over.” Davis passes Hunter a game controller, and he makes room. Davis sits on my upper back, his controller in hand. Their weight crushes me.
In more ways than one.
21
garrison abbey
Merry Christmas :) Meet up later to exchange gifts?
I send Willow a Twitter message and descend my staircase. Already dressed, I’m scheduled for an afternoon shift at Superheroes & Scones, and I’m dying to get there. Holiday traffic has been crazy, but on Christmas Day, I actually expect it to be slow.
Either way, I’m ready for the distraction.
A second later, a notification buzzes my phone.
@willowaIIflower: Tonight?
It’s a date. I almost hit send, but I shake my head and delete those words and retype: perfect.
We’re not a couple. We’re still just friends, and honestly, I can’t lose Willow to anything else. I’m already cursed and shit at most things, including relationships. But—I don’t know. Sometimes, I think about kissing Willow.
What it would feel like. Where I’d put my hands. How I’d make her comfortable. What she’d be thinking—since it’d be her first.
Her lips look soft.
Shit. Stop thinking about that stuff. Just friends.
Sometimes I even wonder if we could be more. After Christmas, this next stretch of high school will be our last. We’re seniors, and she’s getting more comfortable at Dalton. The timing seems better than it was.
Each step down the stairs, I feel more strongly about this. About her.
“Garrison, honey, can you come here?” my mom calls from the formal dining room.
I dip into the kitchen and pass through another archway that leads to the dining room. My mom, in a form-fitting red dress, sits next to my dad at a glossy oak table, decorated with a red winterberry centerpiece and Christmas garland.
I rarely see my dad. If he’s not working, then he’s at home with his face in an iPad or computer. Checking stocks, making business plans—or maybe he just surfs the internet. I wouldn’t know, would I?