Page 111 of Don't Take the Girl
LONDON
"London, do you mind getting the door?" my father calls out from the kitchen. "I'm elbow-deep in chicken wings."
"Yeah, Dad, I'll get it," I call out from my bedroom, where I've been staring at Laney's window for the past two hours, waiting to see if she'll open the curtains.
I can't believe I ever told her to close them. I pinch the bridge of my nose in annoyance at how I've so carelessly let my fear steer my path. I asked her to close her drapes when we were teens so I wouldn't have to watch her exist without me, when all along she was waiting for me to give her a sign—give her a reason. She never listened to me; they stayed open. And deep down, I loved it because I still got to see her. Now they're closed, and I hate it.
"London," my dad calls my name again when the doorbell rings for a second time.
"I'm coming," I say, padding down the hall, upset I have to leave her window and miss her finding the last gift I left on her windowsill. Her curtains might be closed, but it hasn't stopped her from collecting her snacks and everything she asks for. Even if she didn't ask it of me, I make sure it shows up.
I know I messed up. I intentionally messed up, and that is the worst kind of mess-up. There's a special kind of betrayal indeliberate harm, in looking at someone you love and deciding to wound them because you've convinced yourself it's somehow necessary. It doesn't matter that I told myself it was the lesser evil. It doesn't matter that I was trying to protect her. In that moment, I became the mastermind of her pain, and that truth cuts deeper than any consequence I'll face.
The door is closing for what feels like the last time, and I'm terrified, not just of losing her, but of who I became in that moment of choosing cruelty over courage. She has every right to walk away. She has every right to decide I'm not worth the risk of trusting again. I've earned whatever judgment she sees fit, whatever distance she needs to heal from what I've done.
But even in this darkness, even as I accept the weight of my choices, I refuse to surrender. My love for her isn't conditional on her forgiveness. It exists in her absence, in the quiet moments where all that's left are the memories of who we were together. She is my home. She's where I learned what it means to be fully seen and entirely accepted. I love her in the light of our best days and in the shadows of our worst. I love her enough to let her go if that's what she needs, but I also love her enough to fight for us when she can't find the strength.
This is a storm, but they don't always come to break us. Sometimes, they are there to test us so they can reveal us. And maybe, if we can survive what we're learning about ourselves in the wreckage, we'll emerge not just intact but transformed. Stronger, not because we avoided the break, but because we chose to heal together despite it.
The doorbell rings one more time right before I reach for it. "Lon?—"
"I got it," I yell only to slam it shut when I see who is on the other side: Trigg. "Solicitor," I call out.
He rings the doorbell again. "London." My dad appears in the doorway separating the living room from the kitchen with his hands covered in seasoning and chicken guts. "Just buy a damn pizza. The new select youth baseball team is relentless."
I stand frozen in my spot. It's not a baseball player on the other side of the door. It's his brother's son, who also happens to be my brother. His eyebrows rise as though he's waiting for me to open the door. Fuck my life. "Sure, I'll buy a pizza," I say, grabbing the doorknob and squeezing out before he can see who's on the other side.
"What do you want? My dad is inside," I hiss as soon as the door clicks closed behind me.
"You've been ignoring me all week," Trigg states, his voice maddeningly calm, like standing on my front porch, announcing our family secret to the neighborhood, is the least of his worries.
"I'm aware." The words come out sharp. "You gave me no choice. You're staying with Laney." I step farther onto the porch, the old boards groaning under my feet like they're protesting this conversation as much as I am.
"So?" he questions, and the genuine confusion in his voice makes me want to shake him.
"So, you don't think my dad would notice a resemblance if he saw you?" My voice cracks slightly on the last word. "We look like fucking brothers, Trigg. Because we are. And yeah, I'm a little pissed that you're there and not me." The admission tastes bitter, but it's been eating at me all week. Watching from the sidelines while he gets to be close to her, while he gets to be the one she turns to, hasn't been easy to stomach.
His expression shifts, and for a split second, hurt flickers across his face before he masks it. "You actually think I would try to take your girl?"
"No," I say after a beat. "I know you don't have a death wish." I cross my arms tighter across my chest, a futile attempt to hold myself together. "But it doesn't mean I like it. It doesn't mean I like watching you be everything I can't be for her right now."
"Well, actually, that's why I'm here. I wanted to know if you wanted to grab a beer and talk before we have dinner tonight." He shifts his weight against the railing. There's something almostapologetic in his posture, like he knows he's about to drop a bomb and is bracing for the explosion.
"What do you mean have dinner tonight?" I furrow my brow incredulously. "We are not having dinner."
"Yes, we are. Your father invited us over for burgers and wings." The casualness in his voice makes me want to punch something.
"That's not going to happen," I say, each word deliberate and final.
"It's happening, and you're going to let it happen because Laney is coming. She's making apple pie." There's a practiced ease in how he delivers this, like he's been rehearsing the exact words that would make it impossible for me to say no.
"Laney is coming," I repeat slowly. My heart does something stupid and gets hopeful, betraying every rational thought in my head. Maybe she'll end this silence. Maybe seeing me here, in my space, will remind her of what we had. "She agreed to come to dinner at my house tonight?"
"Yes, dinner was her idea. Your father insisted on hosting."
"And you didn't object?" I exhale annoyance through gritted teeth, the sound harsh in the evening air. "Now I have to play the role of asshole again with the girl I love because dinner cannot happen. You can't be here. We have the same damn jawline." My hand instinctively goes to my own jaw, tracing the angular line that marks us both as family. "My dad will notice, and?—"
"I know," he cuts me off, and for the first time since he's arrived, his shoulders sag with the weight of what we're dealing with. "I'll take full responsibility if this all blows up, but to be honest, I wasn't a fan of the original plan either."
