I grinned because I had said that. “Yup.”
“She deserved that,” he offered. A warmth settled comfortably in my chest. I liked that he said that because he was right.
“Yeah, she did.”
“So the plan is to design clothes?”
“Yes. I had a brief stint at wanting to be a botanist,” I offered.
“A botanist. Why?”
“Because it’s a cool word,” I said then asked, “What about you? You still want the cottage on the beach?”
I didn’t miss the knot at his jaw or the whitening of his knuckles that held the steering wheel. “Not sure, but getting the hell out of here…fuck yeah.”
I wanted to ask about his dad, his home life, but it wasn’t my business. As much as we still felt like us, we weren’t those kids anymore. I was right next to him, but I felt the wall between us, one of his making.
We pulled up in front of my house. I made no move to climb out. He didn’t either. “Are you good?” he asked, after a few minutes of silence.
“Yeah.” I was surprised when the next words came out of my mouth, almost as surprised as him. “I’d be a hell of a lot better if my best friend hadn’t pushed me from his life. If I hadn’t been forced to watch as I was replaced with that douchebag, Declan. My world is very small; you were a big fucking part of it, so losing you was absolutely felt. Still is, every damn day.”
I didn’t wait for a response, he wasn’t going to give, and climbed from the car, grabbed my stuff and closed the door. “Thanks for the ride.”
His car was still at the curb when I reached my room, and later, when Dad came home, he brought in the bluebells he found on the front step. Brock’s calling card. It had been so long since he’d left them for me. I kept them, even when they died. I pressed them into the pages of a book.
Chapter Four
Brock
I lay inbed, but I had trouble sleeping. It had been impulse, pulling over earlier when I saw Cedar struggling with her bags. I shouldn’t have, I knew that, but I’d do it again. From the beginning, she was the one person who I could be completely at ease with, the one person who held no judgment. She was the only person I wanted to spend time with, the only person I wanted to let in and that was why I had to let her go. Hearing she missed me, I wondered if she knew how much I missed her, every fucking day.
Distracted with thoughts of Cedar, I was caught unaware. I jumped from bed when my door slammed open. My dad filled the space. I was older, bigger, and stronger and still my stomach twisted. Even from my distance, I could smell the alcohol on his breath. Kenneth Callahan was miserable. He tried finding happiness with his trophy wife, then with his obligatory kid, then when that failed, he tried to buy it with a big house, fancy cars, even whores. Nothing worked because he was empty inside, so he filled that emptiness with alcohol. The more he drank, the more abusive he got. I’d come to read his moods well. Usually it was just verbal, which cut even deeper than the times he got physical. Never in the face, he was too smart for that, evidence of problems at home. No, when he hit, he went for the ribs or the back of the legs, anywhere that was covered by clothing. Tonight, he was feeling physical.
The thing about abusers, they’re relentless. I was bigger now, could fend him off, but fighting him off never lasted. He just kept coming, needing to fill the void, needing to get off on the pain…the need to feel something. I’d learned to just take it, to let him get in a few hits before I pushed him away. It worked, at least for now. It wouldn’t always. Like an addict, he’d need more.
Mom knew what he was doing. She never intervened. Not even when I was little. She was just grateful I was there to take it, that it wasn’t directed at her. It was why I could walk away from them and not look back. They weren’t my parents; they were just the sperm and egg donors.
He pulled his belt off, as he crossed the room to me. I braced. I didn’t cry out when the metal buckle connected with my back. I didn’t let the tears gathering behind my eyes fall. I controlled my breathing, listened to his own grow labored. When his arm went back for the sixth time, I grabbed the belt and yanked it from his hand. I wanted to turn it on him, wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine. It took everything I had not to, but what stopped me was I didn’t want to become him.
A few tense minutes passed, before he grabbed his belt and walked from the room. I didn’t move to close my door, lock it like I wanted to. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he got to me. My hands fisted as I battled the rage, battled the need to follow after him and break him, like he was trying to do to me. Instead, I drew in a few deep breaths, waited until I heard the television, then I crossed the room, closed and locked my door.
My body ached. There’d be bruises tomorrow, but no one would see. I’d carry the pain and the shame just like I always did. What got me through was that, one day, I’d face my father. Man to coward. One day, I wouldn’t hold back like I did now. One day, it would be me who stirred fear. Me who made him cower. I fucking couldn’t wait for that day.
My thoughts turned to Cedar and her untouched innocence that for a guy like me was a drug. I could feast on that, on her, drain her dry, and in the process, I’d destroy her. I’d take all she had to give and give her nothing in return. It was why I’d pulled back, to shield her beauty from my ugly. It was why I was going to pull back again. I climbed into bed, careful to avoid putting pressure on my back. I hadn’t cried when he beat me, but thinking about Cedar, the look on her face when I went back to ignoring her, while her painful words from earlier still rang in my head had the tears falling.
I sat inthe back of the class during independent study. Cedar was up front. She wasn’t sketching; she just sat there, looking down at her desk. She didn’t get in my face, didn’t call me a dick. She just accepted me stepping back again, and I knew she did because she had tried when we were fifteen. She had done everything to get through to me. Camped out in my backyard, called me every ten minutes. She’d even snuck into my room one night, her plan to force me to talk. We didn’t talk. I held her, like you would a lifeline, because that was what she was to me. I watched slowly as my best friend’s heart broke, watched as her big green eyes filled with confusion, anger and then pain. She fought daily for a solid six months, tried for a year to reach me and then she gave up.
It was hard having what you wanted most in reaching distance and knowing you couldn’t have it. There was no future for us. I knew that, deep down, I had always known it, but it didn’t stop me from wanting her. Even for just a little while.
After school, I pulled into my driveway to see my dad’s car. He was never home this early, hell, he was never home. Entering the house, I followed the sound of voices to the kitchen. When I entered, he turned to me and smiled. I hadn’t seen my dad smile; shit, I didn’t know when the last time was he smiled. And this coming on the back of last night, it was fair to say I was having a what the fuck moment. Mom was there, starting early on her bottle of wine. I couldn’t say I blamed her.
He walked over, lifted his hand, and I flinched. He grabbed my shoulder and squeezed it. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Tell him what? What the fuck was going on?
He laughed, he fucking laughed. “Alright, I won’t push.” He squeezed my shoulder again before he dropped his hand. “Have you applied early for Yale? Unnecessary that you have to apply at all, being a legacy and us being who we are.” He walked to the fridge, pulled it open and grabbed a bottle of water.
“No.” The plan since I was born was I’d go to Yale, like him, and take over his firm. I wasn’t asked, it was assumed. That didn’t work for me.