THE DRIVE HOME feels so much longer than the drive here did.
I spend most of it trying to call Amelia so I can steer her thoughts back on track, to resolve some of the guilt I know she’s drowning in, to remind her the blame doesn’t fall on her alone. After all, I pursued her. At first, I wanted to keep everything a secret too. It’s because of me that Cass found out this way. This mess is as much my fault as it is hers.
I get her voicemail every time.
When I give up—briefly—I slump in the seat of Jackson’s car, ignoring his pointed glances. I don’t want to talk about it; I want to stew in anger. Anger at Cass for how crass he made my relationship sound. For making demands. For looking at me like being in love with his sister was a fucking crime, as though it’s worse than me just fucking her. For leaving Amelia crumpled on the driveway, crushed beyond belief, without so much as a backward glance.
I last half an hour before my twitching fingers reach for my phone again. Relief floods me when my umpteenth attempt at a call finally connects but it quickly turns to disappointment when it’s not Amelia who greets me. “Hey,” Kate whispers.
“Is she okay?”
A brief pause is followed by a sigh. “Not really. She’s kind of out of it.”
“Can I come over?”
“No,” is her immediate, firm answer. “I think she needs a little space. You know what she’s like when she’s upset, I don’t want her lashing out and saying something she regrets.”
Her suggestion makes sense, I know it does, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it. It’s hard to stay away when I know she’s hurting, when every instinct is screaming to ease her pain. “Okay,” I agree reluctantly as, after what feels like forever, our house comes into view, along with a familiar car that makes my temper flare. “We’re home. Cass’ car is here.”
“I’ll let her know.” Another small pause. “You okay?”
“I’m good,” I lie, somewhat unconvincingly but unwilling to divulge right now. “Tell her I love her, okay?”
“I will. Please don’t beat up Cass.”
No promises.
The call drops as Jackson parks in the driveway. We sit in silence for a moment, like we’re mentally preparing for the shitstorm undoubtedly ahead. When I reach for the handle, my friend shoots me a tight-lipped grimace. “You ready for this?”
I respond by getting out of the car and slamming the door loudly behind me.
We find Cass standing in the middle of the living room staring blankly at his phone. There’s a bag at his feet, bigger than the one he brought to Big Bear and stuffed to the brim, his baseball gloves lying on top of it. I’m a little surprised to see him, to be honest; I thought he’d be upstairs stewing in his room.
Or waiting in mine with a gun.
Cass doesn’t look up at us as we walk in, his shoulders tensing the only sign he registers our arrival. “I just got off the phone with my mom.”
Fuck.
Slowly, he lifts his head, jaw ticking. “Imagine my fucking surprise when she tells me she knew about this too.”
“Cass-”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he interrupts with a humorless laugh. “Did you think if you got my family’s approval first I’d be okay with this? Was telling them part of a sick little game or something?”
“We didn’t tell anyone anything.”
“You are so full of shit,” he spits, advancing a threatening step.
A rush of exasperated annoyance straightening my spine. His fucking righteous, holier-than-thou tone is pissing me off. Acting like he knows anything about Amelia and me when he refuses to fucking listen.
“We didn’t tell anyone anything,” I articulate slowly, trying so damn hard to be diplomatic and failing miserably, “because they figured it out by themselves. Ask anyone—we weren’t subtle. Maybe if you weren’t so fucking hellbent on convincing yourself I’m a piece of shit you would’ve figured it out too.”
Another step shortens the distance between us to a couple of feet, close enough for Cass to stab a finger into my chest. “That’s not fair,” he seethes. “I know you, Nick. You fuck around. You don’t take girls seriously, you don’t take anything seriously.”
“I’m serious about her.”
A scornful noise leaves him. “Yeah, hiding her away from everyone seems real serious. You didn’t tell anyone because then it’s easier to fuck her over and pretend she doesn’t exist. Like you always do.”
“I wanted to tell you.” Frustration fuels my yell. “She was the one who wanted to keep it a secret. She was fucking terrified of how you’d react!” Cass jerks his head back as if I’ve punched him, exhibiting the briefest flash of guilt, but I don’t stop. “This, this fucking tantrum, is exactly why she didn’t tell you. She knew you would freak out. She was scared and she was fucking right because look what you did. You wouldn’t even talk to her.” My temper gets the best of me and I shove him harder than I should, adopting as menacing a glare as I can muster. “You say I’m bad for her but I’m not the one who left her fucking sobbing on the driveway.”
Just like her mom did.
Cass lunges, fist swinging in a sloppy arc toward my face, and I resist the urge to sigh as I catch it easily. Using his momentum against him, I slam him into the wall, my forearm locked across his throat so he doesn’t try that shit again. “Fucking calm down.”
If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under but I don’t relent. “I get that I don’t have the best track record with women, okay, but I love Amelia. Frankly, I don’t give a shit if you don’t believe me. It doesn’t change anything. But for her sake, please let us fucking explain.”
“I told you not to fuck up her being back in my life,” Cass spits in reply.
“I know.” It was the first thing he said to me the day they reunited, when we discovered the girl from the diner the boys relentlessly teased me about and his sister were one and the same. I promised I wouldn’t then, and I promise the same now.
Except now, Cass doesn’t believe me. “When you break her heart,” when, not if, “she’ll run again. And I’ll never fucking forgive you.”
I could tell him that’s not going to happen. I could tell him that she’s so much fucking more than someone I love. But he doesn’t want to hear that. He won’t hear it, not in this angry state of betrayal. While he’s like this, I don’t think there’s anything I can do to convince him.
I let him go. I back up, watching as he shakes himself off, as his expression shifts to something cold and impassive. He doesn’t say another word as he snatches up his bag and storms to the door, knocking his shoulder against mine violently on his way past.
“Cass,” I call out just before he disappears out the door. “I’m not the one messing with her being in your life right now.”
The only response he spares is a hard look and a slamming door.
Two days pass and I’m losing my damn mind.
Two days of not speaking to her. Of only getting updates through Luna or Kate, most of them bleak and alluding to her being glued to her phone trying to get a hold of Cass, and not doing much else. I physically fucking ache with worry but there’s fuck all I can do. Like Kate said, if I go there now, if I insert myself into the situation and push too hard, the chances are, it will all go up in flames.
None of us have heard from Cass. Not for lack of trying; his phone must be on the brink of death with the endless messages rolling in but he ignores every attempt at communication. All we know is that he’s been staying at one of his teammate’s apartments—Luna used that knowledge for evil; she stormed the place in a fury, threatening to castrate the man if he didn’t pick up his phone. Luckily for him, Cass wasn’t there to face her wrath but fuck, I hope he got the message.
I hope he gets my messages. I’m typing out the umpteenth plea for him to at least call Amelia when someone jabs their fingers into my side, and the sweet, dark coffee I’m absently sipping on almost goes flying everywhere. Smacking away Ben’s poking hands, I meet his scowl with one of my own. “What?”
“This is pathetic.” He nods at the thread of unanswered messages to Cass. “You really think a thousand messages a day are gonna make him want to speak to us?”
I shrug. Probably not but what’s the alternative? Ignoring him and hoping absence makes the heart grow fonder? Fat fucking chance.
Drumming on the kitchen counter, Ben announces, “We’re going out.” Before I can protest, he slaps a hand over my mouth. “Nope. No arguments. Your moping is making me nauseous and the vibe in here is depressing. We need to go out.”
I’m not keen. I let Ben know I’m not keen. I put up argument after argument, protest after protest, and somehow I still end up in Greenies, sandwiched between Ben and Jackson like I’m a damn flight risk, knocking back rum like my life depends on it.
The kid is fucking persuasive.
Nursing some fruity cocktail, he chatters about everything and anything yet somehow steers clear of any subject that could lead back to the two people we’re trying and failing not to think about. A fucking hard feat considering I’ve got a one-track mind that constantly loops back around to my girl. Especially when I’m drunk. Double especially when I’m drinking rum.
Fuck, I bet she’s forgetting to eat.
Whipping out my phone, clumsy thumbs pull up that Chinese place she likes. It might not be wise for me to personally bring her a shit ton of food, but a delivery man can.
“So, like, I was- Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Ben groans, snatching my phone away and clucking his tongue disapprovingly, but his glare melts into a simper when he does a double-take at the screen. “As adorable as this is,” he half coos, half scolds, “the objective of tonight was to get our minds off certain people.”
“Shut up.” I snatch my phone back, elbowing Jackson when he makes a teasing, crooning noise. “She doesn’t eat when she’s stressed.”
The briefest flash of a sympathetic smile is all I get before my phone is re-confiscated, another drink taking its place.
And another not long after. And another. After that, I lose track, but I know that by the time we stumble outside, we’re unashamedly drunk. Like stumbling around, snickering at everything trashed—Ben trips over the curb and we bust a gut laughing for ten minutes.
The brisk night air is only slightly sobering, waking me up enough so that when someone bumps into me, I manage to string together a somewhat coherent apology.
An apology I immediately retract when I take the note of who it’s aimed at.
Speak—or think—of the Devil and he shall fucking come.
“Look who it is,” the bane of my fucking existence sneers with an obnoxious whistling.
It takes every ounce of self-restraint I possess not to wrap my hands around Dylan’s puny neck and squeeze. “Fuck off.”
He doesn’t. Proving his severe lack of intelligence, he encroaches on me, a heavy slap landing on my shoulder. “How’s my girl treating you? You get bored of her yet?”
“Shut the fuck up.” Edging around him, I try so hard to be the bigger person. To walk away before I snap and flatten the dickhead like he deserves. Only the ghost of Amelia’s pleas from the worst night of my life ringing in my ears allows any semblance of level-headedness. Please don’t do anything reckless.
Dylan, unsurprisingly, has zero interest in being the better man. His survival instincts must be broken because, ignoring the downright murderous intent behind my glare, he gets in my face again, smirking evilly. “I think I’ll pay her a visit again soon,” he muses, eyes gleaming with a purely disguised threat. “Didn’t get the chance to finish our chat last time.”
He’s baiting me, we all know it, and it’s fucking working, but before I can fall for it completely, a hand lands on my shoulder. “He’s not worth it,” Jackson mutters in my ear.
I agree, like I agreed with Amelia when she said the same thing, but fuck, I don’t care. He deserves it. I fucking deserve it, to pummel the shit out of the guy who hurt the woman I love. And I’m about to when Dylan’s savage leer shifts to the one person currently keeping his face intact.
“Maybe I’ll go see Luna too.” Jackson tenses as Dylan licks his lips, throwing his head back and groaning dramatically. “Fuck, you have no idea how many times I thought of her when I was fucking-”
A sickening, satisfying crack rings in the air as a fist cuts off whatever disgusting thing Dylan was about to spout. He tumbles back with the force of the punch but Jackson doesn’t let him go far, catching him by the collar and yanking him forward, furious in a way I’ve never seen. “Watch your fucking mouth.”
With a harsh shove, Dylan stumbles away, wiping his bleeding nose on the back of his sleeve—God, I hope it’s broken. Regaining his footing, he stares disbelievingly at the blood on his shirt before his narrowed gaze flicks up to us. “You’re gonna regret that.”
Oh, I highly fucking doubt it.
In the blink of an eye, all hell breaks loose.
One look from their fucking caveman leader and Dylan’s witless henchmen spring forward, swinging blindly at us.
Their lack of coordination—as well as their clueless willingness to jump into a fight with someone who spends every fucking day practicing beating the shit out of people and someone else who looks ready to rip heads from bodies—makes me fucking cackle. Fools.
Even floating on a rum-flavored cloud, it’s easy to sidestep them, to flatten them in a matter of goddamn minutes. For fuck’s sake, I don’t even try; one of them trips over my foot. So quickly, everything dissolves into a mess of flying fists and pained wails, none of which come from me. I only wince slightly when my knuckles connect to a cheekbone and split, and when my casualty drops to the floor, I give him an extra enthusiastic kick in the gut for trouble caused. A second later, I’m throwing back an elbow because another dickhead—I swear to God, they multiply like cockroaches—tries to catch me in a headlock. It’s that bastard Will, I realize, when he sinks down next to his little friend, and I find a particularly immense amount of sick pleasure in his yelp when my boot connects with his pelvis. Easy work.
At the sound of a yelp, I spin around just as Ben cracks Dylan—held upright by Jackson—across the face. Bending at the waist, Ben whines loudly, shaking out his hand wildly. “Ow. That fucking hurt.”
Dylan groans, agreeing with him apparently.
At the pathetic sound, Ben’s grimace quickly turns to a delighted grin, the same one Jackson and I are wearing. The three of us exchange a look, the same sentiment running through each of our minds—fucking finally.
With one last dig to the back, Jackson lets Dylan go, shoving him to join the tangled, moaning heap on the ground. I think that last punch might’ve killed off his last few surviving brain cells because, roaring almost comically, he lunges for Jackson in an attempt to tackle him to the ground.
“Nice fucking try.” Snickering, I intercept him halfway with a fist to the stomach, his pained hiss of breath the best sound I’ve ever heard. Holding him by the scruff of his neck, I lower my mouth to his ear. “Touch my girl again and I’ll fucking kill you. Although,” I jerk my head toward Jackson, “when we tell his girl what you said about her, she might beat me to it. Hope you aren’t too attached to your balls.”
For good measure, said-balls become well acquainted with my knee. Dylan collapses to the ground, the dulcet tones of his whimpers fucking music to my ears as they mix with Ben’s triumphant hoots.
Karma, bitch.
