Page 48 of For The Weekend
She’s charmed me after all.
Before Andi pivots away from us, she shoots Griffin a look and whispers something that sounds like “Be nice, Captain,” but I can’t be sure because I’m too busy witnessing my soldier brother transform into a puppy dog at her orders.
Know that feeling too.
“Come on,” he says, waving me to follow him to the living room with big comfy couches and lots of framed photos everywhere of the twins—Logan and Grace—or the four of them all together. We take a seat on opposite ends of the sofa, neither one of us relaxing back, and it’s a long time before we speak.
At the same time.
“So why did you come here?”
“I need to talk to you.”
Then we both stop and grunt in amusement. My brother lifts his hand, silently directing me to go first, so I rub my palms on my pants and start again.
“I need to talk to you. Get your perspective.”
He nods once, his gaze steady. It’s intimidating how he can stare for so long without blinking. I don’t know if it’s a SEALs thing or a Griffin thing, but it freaks me out, and I set my focus on the fireplace across from us. The television above is playing football highlights on mute, Camden Long catching a pass. “How do you know you’re doing the right thing?”
“I don’t understand the question,” he says, and I absently remove my cell phone from my pocket, clicking on the call log and then showing him that I spoke with Amy.
I’d told all my siblings about Amy and what had happened when they came to my house that first day. Expectedly, Griffin didn’t have much to say, the tension around him palpable. He didn’t need to speak. I knew he was disappointed in me, in my choices, the situation.
But that’s why I’m here now. Because he always does the right thing, and if there is anyone I can ask about my choices, it’s him.
“Am I doing the right thing by keeping Mazie away from Amy? I think I am, but then I have a conversation with her, and I second-guess myself. All of it. Am I doing any of this right? Being here? Buying the house? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I don’t know what’s right. If I ever did.”
It’s a long time before I can meet his gaze, my throat thick, my stomach tight as I wait for him to answer. He doesn’t, and I swallow down my nerves. As much as I’d like to ignore the lingering need for his approval, I can’t. I’m forty years old and a fuckup. I need him, the one who always does what’s right, to tell me it’ll be okay.
But he doesn’t.
What he does do is shift, leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees and clasp his hands together. He takes a deep breath and then another. I think a whole minute passes before he speaks.
“You’ve gotten yourself into a lot of messy situations, and I think we all have a right to be upset with you about that. How you basically removed yourself from our family for a long time. It was fucked up.”
I swallow the reflexive need to defend myself. Because he has every right to feel whatever it is he feels, and it’s true. I’ve made a lot of fucked-up decisions.
He goes on, “But I understand the innate desire to run away from hard times. Because I did it too. You did it with drugs. I did it with the military. Mine may have been the acceptable choice to society, but I still chose to bury everything. I just did it in a uniform.”
Then he angles his head to me, eyes on mine. Unblinking. “Part of the reason I was always so angry with you actually had nothing to do with you. I was angry at myself. Because that thing in me, telling me to run as far away as possible, to hide all the pain and bullshit we had to deal with, I knew that thing was in you too. But I didn’t want to face it. I didn’t want to admit that I was afraid, and if I allowed you that space to be afraid, that meant I’d have to face it myself.”
I’m not sure how to feel about this confession. From the most stand-up guy I know. A literal hero. Admitting his fears.
His Adam’s apple bobs a few times before he continues. “I am a fixer, and I couldn’t fix you. I couldn’t even fix myself. So I took my anger out on you, and I’m sorry. You needed my support, and I didn’t always give it to you.”
To say I am floored would be an understatement, but he doesn’t let me respond. He holds up his palm. “And I don’t want to hear another goddamn apology from you, all right?You’re here, and you’re trying to do better. That’s apology enough. So, to answer your question about if you’re doing the right thing… I don’t know.” He rubs his palm over his mouth a few times. “I don’t know what the right thing is.”
But that can’t be correct. That’s why I came here, to him. Because he should know. He’s a retired Navy SEAL and works as a fire captain. He’s noble and virtuous and Captain fucking America. But he doesn’t know what the right thing is?
I shake my head. “That’s it? You don’t have any advice?”
He sits back, tossing a glance in the direction of the kitchen, where we can hear Andi singing softly, running water, and clanging dishes. “I might have acted like an asshole to you about your past, but I don’t have all the answers. Life isn’t objective. While I might have made different decisions than you, had different outcomes, I told you…it came from the same place. Some people will say drug addiction is bad. Others will say what I did in the military is worse.”
He settles his gaze back on me, and even though I doubt he’ll ever tell me anything about what he’s got locked up tight inside him, I suspect he fights his own demons. On that level, we understand each other. He lifts a shoulder, telling me, “All I know is that I would rather die before I let anything bad happen to my family. That’s how I make my decisions—with my kids and Andi at the forefront of every choice. Would it cause them pain? Or bring them happiness? Everything else…it’s all white noise.”
I suppose on that spectrum, I am doing the right thing. Because Mazie has never been happier, and being around Amy right now would only bring her pain.
Griffin claps his hand on my back. “You’re doing good, kid. Keep it up.”
