Page 14 of Hold Us Close
“I know. I know you don’t. You’ve done well for yourself despite…me. I owe you answers, son—er, Landen. Ask away.”
He’s placating me with this passive aggressive tone that makes me want to murder him with my bare hands. This is why I need him to tell me. Because I can’t keep turning into him every time I get upset.
I suck in another lungful of air and fire my questions at him. “Why? Just tell me why you hated me so much. Why everything I did, everything I said, everything I was, made you so fucking angry all the time.”
I hate how weak my voice sounds. Red rage looms on the horizon. I hold it off as long as I can.
“I didn’t hate you,” he says quietly. “I hated what you represented. What you reminded me of.”
His words confuse me. I don’t know what I expected to hear, but that wasn’t it. “I was a fucking kid. What the hell could I have possiblyrepresented?”
Another deep sigh from his end. “It’s been a tough few years for me. Your girlfriend’s aunt almost had me decommissioned. Things with your mother are finally—”
“What the hell are you talking about? I don’t give a damn how hard the past few years have been for you.” I have no idea what he’s talking about with Layla’s aunt, but I can’t bring myself to ask. I don’t want to know about his life. “Please tell me you’re not looking for my sympathy. My whole life was hard because of you.”
“Your mother is just now speaking to me again. If I tell you this…if I tell you the truth, a truth that isn’t mine to tell, she might never forgive me.”
Screw this. He wasn’t worried about her forgiving him for the way he treated me my entire life. But now it’s suddenly of monumental consequence. “Whatever. You know what? Never mind. I should’ve known better than to expect anything from you.” Tears of rage well in my eyes, and I’m just about to hang up or pitch my phone off the balcony when he speaks up.
“Landen, wait. You’re right. I can’t erase the past, but this…this I can do.”
“Do what?”
“Tell you the truth.”
I don’t say anything because I’m pretty sure it’s just going to be bullshit. But I wait for whatever it is, everything inside of me boiling to the surface as I do.
“The truth is,” he begins, pausing just enough to piss me off further. “The truth is you aren’t my son.”
Iwake to sunlight streaming in through the blinds. Memories of the night before come back slowly and I savor them. Landen’s sharp, clean scent stirs as I rouse the blankets around me. Smiling, I disentangle myself from the sheets and make my way to the bathroom.
I smile at my reflection in the mirror. Things aren’t perfect, but I feel like we made real progress. Landen and I are “us” again. For the first time in a week, I feel like I can breathe. No secrets, no more separate beds.
My still sleep-heavy brain vaguely recalls a mentioning of omelets. After debating showering for five minutes, I decide omelets come first. Wrapping my robe around me, I head into the living room. Muffled shouts are coming from somewhere but I don’t see Landen. Until I do.
He’s on the phone on the balcony, waving his arms wildly. Panic sends all of my physiological responses into overdrive. Oh God. Something’s happened and it’s bad.
My heart thrums hard against my ribs, sending blood rushing to my head. If he got let go from the team and he’s screaming at his coach like that, his entire career will be over. Without thinking, my body propels itself forward and slides the glass door to the side. I step out onto the warm concrete and reach for him.
“Landen,” I say softly, approaching him from the back and reaching for him. Either I startled him or he’s just heard something awful because his arm flies up and the back of his hand connects with my mouth.
For a moment, I’m confused. A far away ringing sound grows louder and I blink until I can see straight.
“Oh God. Shit. Layla.” Landen whirls around and takes me in with wild eyes. He was already angry and now he’s panicking. His phone clatters to the ground as he reaches for me. “Baby, I’m so sorry. You’re bleeding.”
“I’m okay,” I reassure him. But I might not be. My upper lip feels five inches thicker and the faint metallic taste of blood touches my tongue.
“The hell you are,” he says, lifting me in his arms and carrying me into the kitchen. He sets me down on the counter like I’m made of glass. I watch helplessly as he grabs a dishtowel and runs it under the sink faucet.
Wincing in pain as he presses the damp towel to my mouth, I try again to mumble that I’m fine. But Landen is a man on fire. Once I’ve taken the wet rag in my hands, he practically leaps over the breakfast bar to get to the freezer. In a blink, he’s tucking ice into the dishtowel and placing it gently against my lips.
“Who were you talking to?”
“No one,” he says evenly, avoiding my eyes by staring at my wounded lip. “No one important,” he finishes. So much for no more secrets.
“I’m really okay. Promise,” I tell him. But with the ice on my mouth, it comes out more like, “I’m ribby okay. Probbise.” Tilting my head upwards with the intention of reassuring him, my eyes meet his and I’m terrified of what I see in them. Pure, unaltered self-loathing. His expression resembles one of actual physical pain. I wrap my legs around him and pull him closer to me. “Hey, look at me. I’m okay.”
I put my hand over his and tug until he lowers the makeshift ice pack. Immediately I wish I hadn’t. His already turbulent gaze widens and clouds over.
