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Not to mention my own parents, who keep asking why the fuck I’m not attending school. I kind of told Dad about him, but I still didn’t mention he’s Landon’s twin. I’d rather he meet him directly instead of getting the idea that he’s like his psycho brother.
Astrid will definitely miss me, as she told me this morning. We formed a bond, and I’m telling you, that amazing woman will be my mother-in-law one day. My future father-in-law, however, likes to play hard to get. Now I know where his son got the trait from. But I think even his grumpy self will miss me.
Bran had no chance with me and neither will he.
Since Astrid and I are basically best friends now, I tried probing to find out if she knew about Bran’s cuts, but I don’t think so. Again, they’re really great parents, so I doubt they would’ve left him to his own devices if they’d discovered his nasty habits.
It makes sense that they haven’t. He wears a watch at all times and the most annoying part is that he has steel control over which emotions he shows. When I first got to know him, I often thought he was ice-cold, when, in fact, he was just exceptionally good at sealing everything inside.
I can tell that even his parents struggle to get him to open up. Hell, the only reason I found out about the cuts was through a coincidence, andafterI drove him into a panic attack.
His mom and dad definitely donotlike to push him. Which might not be the best strategy to deal with someone as closed off and inward-oriented as my lotus flower.
But that’s fine. I can be the villain and push him. I have to, because I’ve been reading about people who cut themselves and the mental ramifications, and it’s never a good idea to leave them alone.
It doesn’t get better as he likes to say. It’s not an addiction that he can withdraw from without addressing the reason he does it in the first place.
The general consensus in the forums full of people who cut themselves is that they need to purge the pain. One guy said that when he sees the blood pour out of him, he can finally exhale a breath of relief.
My stomach twisted at that image because I could picture Bran doing the same. In that damned closed bathroom. Battling against his demons and bleeding out.
Fucking alone.
That won’t be happening anymore.
As soon as we go back to the island, we have to address the mental cancer that’s eating at his head.
His presence stopped me from going on suicidal missions, so I refuse to let him self-destruct.
Maybe it’s because I’m more attuned to him than should be healthy, but he hasn’t been himself today. It started this morning, but after we went out, he relaxed for a bit. However, he became uptight during dinner.
Minimum words. Monosyllabic replies. A noticeable absence of the usual joking around with his dad. The worst part is that he kept his distance from me—something he hasn’t done over the course of the period I’ve spent at his childhood home.
The only variable that changed compared to previous dinners was Astrid’s agent, Grace. A middle-aged blonde woman with a fake laugh and ridiculous consumption of wine.
Astrid said they had a bit of a misunderstanding because she wanted Bran to sign with her, but he chose the agent Landon introduced him to.
I remember how happy he sounded when he talked about that over text. He was basically buzzing at how his brother recognized his talent and introduced him tohisagent.
According to Astrid, that agent has nowhere near Grace’s talent, but she respects Bran’s decision even though she doesn’t understand it.
After dinner, I help Bran carry the dishes to the kitchen. He turns to leave, but I grab his wrist, stopping him by the counter.
He looks up at me, appearing exhausted, probably because of staying up late and trying to wake up early. This morning, I insisted we stay in bed and not go for a run at an ungodly hour. He’s done that a few times at the penthouse, and I had thought it would help him feel more relaxed today, but it’s only made him more agitated.
It doesn’t show in his movements or his expression, but his eyes tell a different story.
Seeing the emptiness in them is no different than having a knife plunged deep into my gut.
I stroke the back of his hand. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You were uncomfortable in there, baby. If you don’t like the woman because of the pressure or whatever, just refuse to have dinner with her anymore. I’m sure your parents will understand.”
“She’s Mom’s agent and practically family at this point.”
“Family doesn’t get a free pass for everything. I don’t visit with members of my family who piss me off. Namely, my homophobe uncle who told me it’s okay to fuck guys as long as I marry a woman and give him Russian nephews.”
