Page 1 of Forbidden You

TWO YEARS AGO

Ialways knew this damn day was lurking, but bloody hell, it still feels like a fucking sucker-punch now that it’s here.

With dreadful steps, I saunter out of the police station with my phone against my temple while a heavy breath leaves my lungs as the dial tone echoes sharply in my ear. The knots in my stomach have me clenching my jaw, and I know there isn’t anything that will make it disappear.

This was always going to happen.

“Hey, buddy.” A little twang of comfort rushes through me when my Uncle Lucas answers the phone, his voice sounding soothing for just a second.

Just keep it together, Mate.

“Hey.” I try to keep a steady voice, but can’t hide the hitch that slips through.

“What’s wrong?”

A grunt comes from deep in my chest as I run a hand through my tousled brown hair, some wax sticking to my fingertips.

I’ve tried to prepare myself for this moment, but it’s one of those things you can never really be ready for. You can see it coming, but it still hits you in the face with a flat palm.

“They found him at Venice Beach.”

“How the hell did he end up there?” Worry replaces the laid-back tone in his voice. “That’s like fifteen miles out.”

“I know.”

“Shit, Bodi.”

“I know.”

Trust me, I know. It’s bad. There’s no more denying the seriousness of his condition. I moved him to LA, hoping this wouldn’t happen for another couple years. Thinking we’d still have time to make some memories for the times we lost over the years, but the judgy look of that cop inside says it all.

It’s not in my control, and I hate every fucking thing about it.

We wallow in silence for a minute, both avoiding bringing up what comes next, which is completely out of my character.

I like to be in control. I’m financially independent, with a successful publishing company, and I’ve got everything figured out around that.

I’ve got my ducks in fucking a row, goddammit.

Except for this part. This is the one part I’m not ready, or capable, to make a decision on.

So, like a child, I wait for the ‘adult’ in my life to start talking, to decide for me, and when he does, I release a sigh of both relief and despair.

“He can’t live by himself anymore, Bodi.”

“I know.” But it still feels like a truck is driving over my chest hearing it outloud.

“We need to find him a home.”

I swallow away the huge lump in my throat, trying to keep it together. My chest slowly moves up and down, taking deep breaths through my nose, exhaling through my mouth.

The little boy inside of me is vigorously shaking his head, flipping my uncle off and shouting‘hell no’, but the sensible grown up I’m supposed to be shuts him up.

“Okay, where? Money isn’t an object.”

“I’m sure we can find a good home somewhere in L.A.”

“No. I want the best in the country. I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care where I need to move to. I just want the best care, specialized in his condition, possible.”

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