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“That was my bad. I thought I was helping.” He cringes. “Guess I wasn’t.”
“What are you talking about?” I frown. “What was your bad?”
“I sort of, uh…told Watson to come hit on you.” He swallows, looking guilty. “I’ve seen the way Brody is with you. How he looks at you, even when you’re not paying attention.” He shrugs. “Dude’s in love. And I thought that maybe, just maybe, if he saw another man hitting on you, he’d pull his head out of his ass and fight.”
I stand there, shocked by the fact that Cam Hardy—playboy turned stepdad and best boyfriend—orchestrated that entire thing tonight.
I lean against the counter. “He doesn’t love me. Not the way I want him to anyway.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. I know him. He’s just scared.” He stuffs his hand in his pocket. “Don’t give up on him, Bria. Not just yet anyway. No one has ever stuck by his side. He just needs time to understand that not every person is going to leave him.” He nods, giving me a tight-lipped smile. “Have a nice night.”
Turning, he walks away from me and out the door. And if I didn’t think it was possible to be in a worse mood than I had already been…I was wrong.
22
Brody
Leaving the arena, I jog to my truck and fire it up, cranking the heat as soon as it rumbles to life. It’s just the beginning of November, and for some reason, God decided to make this week unseasonably cold. Not just cold, but windy too. I like having the ability to go out to my truck in a T-shirt if I feel like it. Not to wear a damn hoodie and still be freezing my ballbag off, wondering if my dick has shrunk inside of my body and created a vagina.
After Halloween passes, next up is Thanksgiving, which inevitably leads to Christmas. Campus becomes this cheerful community, where the streetlights are decorated with twinkly lights and all that happy horseshit. The music playing in the restaurants and bar turns to holiday tunes, and I can’t fucking stand it. And maybe that’s why, as fall comes to an end and winter grows closer, I get into a funk. Because to be honest, I fucking hate holidays. Everything about them.
Maybe it goes back to that one time when I was eight years old.
It was Christmas break. A break that my father didn’t know about because he didn’t even know what month it was. Much less week. I’d wake up at the same time I normally did, and I’d leave for the entire day. He hated me being at home even if it was just at night. I knew he wouldn’t want to look at my face all day too. So, I pretended like I was going to school every day, like I usually did.
We didn’t have a tree or stockings. But for some reason, I still loved looking at other people’s decorations. So, during the days, I’d catch a bus downtown just to see all the Christmas lights. Though I always had my doubts about Santa and his white beard being real, I hoped that maybe, just maybe, he normally missed my house because my dad was bad enough for the both of us, which deemed us both unworthy.
One day, a few days before Christmas, I saw a sign at the local library. Santa was in there. And the best part was, kids could sit on his lap and tell him what they wanted for Christmas.
I waited in line by myself for over an hour. And when it was finally my turn, unlike the other kids, I didn’t have a parent there to snap a picture of me on his lap. But that was okay because I didn’t need a stupid photo of us anyway. And when I climbed up onto his lap, I suddenly had no idea what to ask for. Because everything seemed so useless in the grand scheme of things. What I wanted was for my dad to stop drinking. Or maybe just a little of what I saw all the kids in my class had. Traditions. Family get-togethers. Shit like that. So, instead of a toy, I asked Santa for a Christmas tree of my own. One I could stare at while I drifted off to sleep. One that might remind my father that it was that time of year.
Christmas came, and when I woke up that morning…there was no tree. My dad was passed out in the recliner, and I knew right then that it was all just a crock of shit.
But still, I didn’t plan on ruining anyone else’s belief in Santa. Not until fucking Bentley Grove made fun of my worn-out sneakers at recess. Laughing that my house was so nasty that even Santa wouldn’t show up there to drop off new clothes. And in that moment…I lost it. After punching him in the face, I looked around at each and every one of the spoiled motherfuckers in my class. And I told them the truth. That Santa Claus wasn’t real. That he was a big, fat sham. Literally. A fat dude with a white beard and a huge-ass belly. That there was no magic in the world. No Santa, tooth fairy, Easter bunny, or any other shit like that. I mean, really, who thinks of this crap?
I remember the teacher’s expression as she widened her eyes to the size of dinner plates in warning. Her face was bright red as she scrambled to cover up the mess I’d just made.
It felt good. For about five minutes anyway. And then I just felt bad.
So, now, I hate this time of the year. Always have. Probably always will.
It’s not helping my mood that it’s been weeks since I’ve spoken to Bria. She’s come to a few games and taken pictures, and I try my best not to look her way. But she’s distracting as hell. And I sort of regret hooking her up with that picture gig to begin with.
I always wonder how she’s doing or if she’s hanging out with another man.God, I hope not. It’s selfish, I know. But then again, no one would ever be good enough for her. I’m certainly not.
I spend all of my free time working out because, honestly, I can’t stand being home. When I’m at the gym, pushing my mind and body to the max, I don’t have time to think of anything else.
In the shower, I fuck my hand to thoughts of her. And in my dreams, there she is, waiting to haunt me. She’s everywhere. All the time. And it’s tiring.
Bria
Grief is weird. Some days, you’re feeling better. The sun shines down on your soul and makes you feel lighter. You breathe easier. Walk with a pep in your step. And smile and actually mean it. Others, every single part of your heart and soul aches, and doing something as small as eating or drinking seems impossible. Your stomach feels like it’s tied in a knot, and your heart races even though you’re not doing anything strenuous.
Today is the latter of the two. Which shouldn’t be all that surprising because it’s also my dad’s birthday. I wanted to go home to be with my mom for it, but she booked a last-minute cruise with a few friends she’d made through a grief group. Pretty sure they are both widows, like her. A friendship built on death could be considered a little morbid perhaps. But it’s good for my mom nonetheless.
She almost didn’t go on this trip because of the fact that it fell on this very day. She was afraid Kye and I would need her. We both promised her we’d be fine. And maybe he is. After all, he has Winter. But me? I’m hurting.
Sometimes, I feel strong. Other times, I feel like the entire world is doomed and I’ll never feel normal again. I beat myself up for being so weak during these times. But then I remind myself that tomorrow is a new day and I can be brave then.
