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‘The difference is I didn’t end up in hospital being resuscitated.’ Dillon wipes a hand over his face as he glowers across at Tate. ‘We lost you, Tate, so that judging look is actually me giving a fuck about you. None of us are keen to go through that again with you. You promised you’d talk. You promised you’d follow the rules. Before you opened that bottle you should have called any one of us. So why didn’t you?’
Tate’s gone head-to-head with Dillon too many times over the years, but there’s something about this time that feels different. Dillon takes a step closer to him and Tate instinctively backs away, bumping against the mantlepiece. Usually he’d push back. That’s what they do. Dillon pushes. He pushes. They’re broken up by the others and it’s out of their system. But Tate suddenly can’t get his mouth to work, let alone his limbs to push back.
He looks at Dillon and the image distorts. Instead of his parents’ living room with his friends, he’s in the sparsely furnished room with the man looming over him again. When the shouting starts he hears Dillon’s voice, but then it’s his father. He closes his eyes as the memory and reality merge to well and truly fuck with his head.
‘Tate? Are you even listening?’
He opens his eyes and Dillon is back.
‘Am I boring you?’
Tate doesn’t answer. He can’t answer. He barely breathes as he presses himself against the wall beside the fireplace, trying to make himself as small as possible. His racing heartbeat pounds in his ears, drowning out everything else.
A small part of his brain knows he’s safe and in his parents’ house, but right now that’s not the part the rest of him believes... or trusts. More people come closer, crowding him, making breathing nearly impossible. Nausea and dizziness threaten to bring him to the ground, but he forces himself to remain motionless.
‘Tate?’
He slowly raises his eyes to look at the person in front of him and his stomach drops. His father is looming over him, a cold look in his eyes and blood on his fists. He takes a step closer, and Tate buries his head under his arms.
‘Please don’t. I’m sorry.’
His father’s voice dies away, leaving him listening to his racing heart again. When the expected blow doesn’t come, Tate slowly drops his arms.
His eyes dart from Chloe to Dillon and then to Gregg, Ellen, Bria, and Luke, now standing beside the couch staring over at him.
He focuses on Chloe again, hating the look of pity on her face. ‘Are you okay?’
Tate licks his lips and forces his head to tip in a half convincing nod.
He looks over at Dillon but can’t meet his eyes. Dillon’s face has lost all trace of colour. ‘I’m sorry, Tate. I wasn’t going to hit you.’
Tate shakes his head at Dillon. ‘Ignore me. I’m just tired.’
Nothing like a beyond stupid statement to kill whatever dignity he has left after that display.
‘I’m going to grab a shower.’ Without waiting for an acknowledgment he steps into the annex off the living room and comes to a stop in the middle of the room.
He can’t believe he just zoned out like that in front of everyone. He made his friend think he was scared of him. If Dillon thought he wasn’t dealing with everything, that display would have done nothing to prove him wrong. Fuck knows what he must be thinking.
The door opens and closes behind him.
‘Is Dillon okay?’
‘He’s fine,’ Chloe replies as she steps around to face him. ‘Are you okay?’
He opens his mouth then frowns and closes it again. ‘I... Dillon... I thought he was my father.’ He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. ‘Fuck! I have to apologise.’
She pulls his hands away from his face. ‘Dillon is fine. Lie down on the bed with me for a minute. Please.’ Tate doesn’t have the energy to argue so does as he’s told. He shuffles closer so she can gather him in her arms.
‘I’m just really fucking tired, Chloe.’
She places her hand on the side of his face and he closes his eyes. He’s not talking about needing a few hours of sleep. This goes much deeper. Every single time life goes right for him lately, something rears its ugly head and pulls him back down again.
He’s winning. Whoever is doing this to him is slowly breaking him down. Tate can’t keep doing this. He’s already teetering on the edge. If this dickhead pushes him once more, he seriously doubts he’ll be able to get up again.
He lies against Chloe’s chest, listening to her heartbeat as she runs her fingers through his hair, holding him tight until he finally drifts off to sleep.
