Page 28 of Boyfriend
Nine
Smells Like Woodsy Goodness
Abbi
I’m standing outside the building when the shouting starts. I’d been about to answer a phone call from my stepfather. He probably wants to wish me a Merry Christmas.
But I silence my phone instead, and listen as the awful sound of glass breaking pierces the silence.
Uh-oh. Poor Lauren. Poor Weston, too. This is exactly what he’d been hoping to avoid. I don’t move from my spot on the inn’s back porch, because the Griggs family doesn’t need one more person gawking at them right now.
But a moment later, Weston’s father emerges out of the back door, too.
I’m so stunned that for a beat I just stare at him, open-mouthed. “How could you?” I whisper.
Oops. I shouldn’t get involved. I know this. But I’m just so mortified for his family. I turn away because I can’t stand to give him any more of the attention he craves.
It’s not like I don’t understand that he’s hurting. It’s just that I know how to suffer in silence, like a grown-up. A skill he obviously never learned.
We ignore each other for a couple of very long seconds. I finger my phone in my pocket, and wonder what I could do to help Weston right now.
Meanwhile, the person who should have been helping Weston is pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lighting up.
I hate cigarettes. Just like I hate overgrown man-babies.
“Welcome to the family,” Mickey grunts. “Things are pretty hairy with the Griggs clan these days.”
Oh really? You don’t say. But that’s all on him. It must be hard work to maintain this level of animosity for—what did Weston say?—three years?
I should just keep my thoughts to myself, I tell myself.
But Weston is hurting because of this man. The whole family is hurting.
Maybe I can’t let it go. Some people just need a shake.
“It’s hairy because you make it that way,” I point out before I can think better of it. “This whole situation sucks for you. I get that. But you’d better get a grip on yourself already.”
He pulls a cigarette from the pack. “You’re young, honey. Talk to me in thirty years.”
My blood pressure leaps up. God, how I hate men who talk down to women. “First of all, I’m not your honey. And there are worse things in life than divorce.”
“Sure.” He flicks a lighter. “You probably know all about heartbreak and disappointment at the tender age of twenty.”
“Hey!” Now my anger is driving this bus. “I only look young. Three years ago my only parent was driving my dog to the vet, when they both died in a car crash.”
Mr. Griggs jerks backward, like he’s been slapped. “Jesus Christ. That’s terrible.”
“Yeah, I know. But don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t need your pity. But for the love of God, stop giving your kids so much drama. You’re not dead.” I grab the cigarette out of his hand and throw it into the snow. “Not yet, anyway. So stop throwing yourself a damn funeral.”
He drops his head. “Shit.”
“Just stop,” I repeat, because I’m on a roll, and some people can’t take a clue until you shove it in their faces. “Get a goddamn hobby. Get a dog. Join Tinder and find some action. But stop wallowing in self-pity. It’s not a good look on you.”
That’s when the slow clap starts. I whirl around and find Weston standing in the snow beyond the circle of light from the porch. His brother is with him, too, and Stevie also starts to clap.
Oh boy. I really didn’t mean to lose my temper like that. My face heats like a flame as the Griggs boys finish their ironic applause.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “It’s none of my business.”
