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twenty-five
greyson
Breathe, just breathe.
My nostrils flare as I inhale, the warm summer air heavy in my throat, thick in my lungs. Her dress sways and floats around her legs as they carry her to her car—away from me.
Relieved I said it all, my body goes limp from expelling years of feelings for her and sags against the wall. How good it felt to finally tell her the truth. But I’m now at war, my head pounding and rebelling, and I squeeze my eyes to keep the tears at bay.
Did I do the right thing? I bleat in pain as my fist thumps off the bricks. What about Theo? How is this going to affect him now that she knows and what if everything goes to shit?
Swiping my hands across my jeans, I breathe in and out as a lone tear breaches and spills over my lashes.
The only one who knows me, who gets me, who understands me on a level no one else besides my twin ever will, someone who believes in me, deems me worthy, as a dad, as a man… shut me out.
The salty tear lingers in the corner of my mouth before I lick it away. In her defense, I went out on a huge limb, but damnit, I had to. She came alive under my touch, her lips sweet and supple, her heart hammering in time with mine. Friendship be damned. I wanted her, and if I never got to taste her again, I’d take whatever she gave me. I’m selfish, but she’s meant for me. Her mind, her soul, her body. Without her, I’m not complete.
The night settles, unaware of what transpired. A family exits the restaurant, their laughter and conversation muted as they walk by me. The song of the crickets and frogs swells, and the buzz of a nearby streetlamp clicking on, joins the symphony.
Rigid against the now cooling brick wall, the one I caged her to, I bow my head as I scrape my boots through the tiny rocks on the sidewalk. As scared as I am, I’m still glad I got it out. My declaration of love is alive in the universe, let loose to her ears, and hopefully echoing in her heart.
Kellen showed his cards tonight and while I’m grateful he’s out of the picture, I hated seeing Scarlett so confused and let down. The men in her life, aside from Theo and me, have left her. Some unwillingly, like her father, others because they’re idiots. Her hesitancy, while a punch to the gut, is understandable. I can hardly blame her for stepping back, taking time, even if she took some of my hope with her.
Lifting myself from the wall, I trudge to my truck, body dragging with anxiety. What if she can’t do it—explore this with me? It’s a big possibility. All the advice from my friends and family could be all for nothing. I could’ve just gambled away the only person I want by my side for the rest of my life.
* * *
Droppingmy boots by the door, I pad along the wooden flooring to my bedroom closet. I pause in front of it, squaring my shoulders before I pull it open, and reach up to the top shelf to bring down a small box. I pry off the lid and spread the pictures out on my comforter.
Mom and Dad smile up at me from across the decades. Scarlett’s speech about me recovering from alcoholism brought up the nostalgia for when life wasn’t so hard. And when my old man was alive, he was vibrant and an immense influence in my life—good and bad.
Alistair Lee lived and breathed Lee Corp in Manhattan when Preston and I were just boys. I pick up the picture of me and P, age four, sitting on his desk overlooking the city. His arms were slung over both our shoulders as he stood behind us. He was a hard-nosed man, business-oriented to a fault, picking up where my grandfather left off, ruling the real estate kingdom with iron fists. We knew, though, that he loved us. He always had time for me, would visit as often as work allowed him too, and was the best grandpa to Theo. But he was a drinker as well. More subtle and not quite as publicly as me, but it called to him as it called to me.
He’s been gone for five years and every so often, the pang of losing him resurfaces.
Digging into the bottom of the box, I find it. Smooth, metal, heavy—full. Sweet poison that once falsely cured my woes, making me forget life and its expectations. I weigh it in my palm—dense and loaded with broken promises to myself. To Theo. To Scarlett.
How easy it would be to twist the top off. To tilt the flask into my mouth and let the sweet caramel, aged oak, and honey liquid slide down and drown the ache swarming through my veins. To revive that inner voice, telling me one drink won’t kill me.
But the pain—the struggle—is vital for living, vital for transformation and growth. To suffer is to acknowledge the problem and to fix it.
In the words of my former counselor, “We don’t need to assign every feeling a meaning. We can see it, observe it, then let it go.” I’ve learned to discard the systems that don’t matter and hold tight to the ones that do.
Scarlett matters.
Theo matters.
The me who lived with a myopic viewpoint, glazed and dazed from alcohol, matters and is no longer a hostage.
Every step to the kitchen sink gets lighter and lighter as determination to not be that guy anymore imbues me to dump out the darkness, let it swirl and disappear. The flask tumbles from my fingers, crashing into the trash, a symbol that not all is lost.
Realizing being alone tonight is not good no matter how empty my house is of booze, I decide to head to the stables to whom I know will still there.
* * *
“I’m not payingyou to sit around, old man.” The joke slides easily from my mouth as I stride into the barn to the rancher kicking back on an overturned bucket. I grab an identical one and plop down beside him with a sigh.
With the end of the day chores done, the barn wood gleams under the bright lights hanging from the hay-filled rafters. Dirt floors swept, feed buckets full, and water troughs clear, these horses live a life of luxury under the gentle hands of their rancher. As if they heard me, the horses titter and let loose quiet huffing breaths.
