Chapter Seventeen – Torin
I’ve seen my share of things during my time in the Army — broken bones, blood, bullet holes, and dead bodies. But vomit? Fuck no. That’s definitely where I draw the line. No thanks.
As Fawn is puking up her guts in Dylan’s bedroom, I remain firmly planted at the kitchen island, nursing a beer, any distraction that will block out the sounds of the puking down the hall.
Man, I’m a grown-ass adult. Pull yourself together.
One deep breath, and my mind is already running laps. So, I focus on my phone and as I do, the date changes. It’s midnight.
Fuck.
My stomach sinks faster than it did listening to Fawn puking.
My least favorite day of the year. The one I wish I could erase from existence.
Tension moves through me, muscle by muscle. It’s the same drill every year; something just clicks, and I clam up.
My beer creaks as I squeeze it tightly in one hand.
The other clutches my phone as if it were the cause of all my misfortunes.
Suddenly, the kitchen is too quiet. I never thought I would wish for the sound of Fawn’s puking back, but it’s better than this overwhelming silence washing over me and making my skin crawl.
With caution, I place the phone on the counter. And then I bring my fist down without giving myself a chance to reconsider. Like the mess in my chest, a web of broken glass splinters out in all directions from beneath my knuckles.
My jaw sets hard and a deep breath follows. The pain in my heart is far worse than the sting in my hand. The phone can at least be swapped out. Certain things just can’t. I learned that the hard way.
“Dude, she’s out like a light,” Dylan says as he walks up to the kitchen island — not at all keyed into the fact that my mind is elsewhere.
Whatever just happened gets crammed down so fast as I straighten up. A shiver runs through my fingers as I turn my phone over, like that will conceal the reality. Dylan looks at me for half a second too long. “You alright there, bud?”
He may play the golden retriever, but the guy isn’t fucking dumb; he senses the changes in the air.
“Yeah.” The word leaves my lips too abruptly, and we both know it.
Before he can push the issue, I quickly change the subject. “So, how’s the little lightweight doing?”
Thankfully, he drops it and smirks. “She’s making a mess on my pillow with her drool.”
“You’re definitely on clean-up duty in the morning then,” I mumble it into my beer, attempting not to imagine the bucket.
“She sure can throw up a lot, considering how small she is.” Dylan opens a water bottle and takes a lengthy gulp.
“I’m surprised you’re not grabbing a beer.”
“Nah,” he replies, shrugging and rubbing his neck. “Someone’s gotta be the grown-up, watch her.”
I almost spit out my beer. “You? Grown-up? Since when?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Ahh, I would, but dislocated my thumb.” I laugh. “So you’re sleeping on the couch tonight then?”
“Yup, and I know my neck is gonna be hating me tomorrow.”
“I ain’t letting you share a bed with me. Forget it. You fart like a dog. Plus, I’d probably wake up to you spooning me.”
“Ahh, don’t you like a little cuddle, grumpy ass,” Dylan teases.
We both chuckle as he drags a stool to sit across from me. The silence hangs in the air for a beat, a nice one, before he has to wreck it.
“So . . .” he drawls, a little too happy about it. “She totally thinks we’re both hot stuff.”
I knew this was coming. It was only a matter of time.
I blink hard. “Oh, come on.”
“Seriously!” He puffs out his chest like he’s just scored a winning goal. “She kept saying it. And hey, can you blame her? I mean, look at us.”
“She’s just drunk. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
He wiggles his bottle at me. “Yeah, but you secretly loved hearing it.”
My brow arches in response. “Loved hearing she thinks you’re hot, you mean?”
“No, you miserable fucker. She thinks you’re hot too. Dirty little neck kisser.”
The reminder is enough to make my cock twitch. I haven’t had this feeling in ages.
I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “I only did that to get her ex to piss off. End of story.”
“Okay—” Dylan says, a smirk playing on his lips like he doesn’t buy any of it. “And I danced to Shakira topless ’cause I totally hate being noticed.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up. You eat attention up.”
He holds up a finger. “Bingo. So maybe you’re just itching for Fawn.”
My hand finds a foam coaster and I send it flying at him.
Again, we both laugh, but the sound dies away.
The only sound left is the hum of the fridge that’s grounding.
Dylan spins the cap on his water bottle, as if the mysteries of the world are contained within it.
He’s got that look on his face, the one that says his brain’s working overtime.
Same here.
Damn. Am I actually itching for Fawn?
I haven’t felt this way for ages. I made sure I never put myself in positions where I would feel this way.
But tonight, with that coy smile and the way she held on like I was her only anchor — something hit me. Something I’m just not ready to deal with right now, at least I don’t think.
But then, there’s the fact that she confessed to internet-stalking us. It makes me feel less guilty about internet-stalking her.
My phone is in my hand before I notice flipping it, while my thoughts run laps I can’t keep up with.
Dylan’s eyes pop. “Holy crap. What happened to your phone?”
My throat clears itself. “Just dropped the damn thing like a complete dumbass.”
“When?”
His brows knit like he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. That’s when his eyes wander and lock onto my hand.
His whole face changes. “Torin. Your knuckles . . . They’re bleeding, dude.”
Crap, I didn’t even notice. The cuts have a tiny bit of blood already leaking out, smearing across my skin.
“Ahh, they’re just cuts from the rink,” I lie, leaning back on the stool, trying to play it cool, trying to sound like I wasn’t falling apart inside.
Dylan’s not buying it, not even close. He squints, his eyes darting from my knuckles to my messed-up phone then locking back on mine. “I’m not buying that fucking bullshit for a second. What’s up?”
A grunt comes out before anything else. I chase it with a long swig of beer.
“Torin, talk to me . . .”
“It’s the 15th—” My voice trails off.
Dylan’s brows life, the confusion landing on his face. I take a shaky inhale, wishing he would just get it, so I don’t have to spell it out. “It’s the anniversary of my father’s death.”
Something flickers in his eyes as they snap wide. “Shit,” he mutters, running his hands through his hair. “Man . . . I totally forgot. I’m sorry.”
My throat works against it, and a burn follows. “I’ll never forgive myself, Dylan. He died because of me.”
“Don’t say that.” His tone is gentle and even. “Nothing could’ve stopped that heart attack.”
“I caused it.”
“No way,” Dylan shoots back. “You didn’t.”
I don’t crack, especially not in front of anyone. Never have.
“The last thing I did was punch him. That’s what he took to his grave, knowing his own son loathed him.”
This is real. Messy. It feels like something inside me is cracking open, something that’s been locked away.
Dylan doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at me, his eyes filled with a sad understanding, like he’s sharing the load — not trying to solve my problems, not feeding me empty words.
“You were angry, Torin.” There’s a tremor in Dylan’s voice. It’s clear he’s scared of setting me off. “You came back from a war and found your girlfriend with someone else. You had an entire life mapped out with this woman.”
“I should’ve been furious with her!” I finally snap.
Anger squeezes my chest tight. “Not at my father. Not at the man who pushed me into the Army, thinking it would make me into something . . . someone. I shouldn’t have fucking blamed him for what she did.
” The words just pour out, laced with bitterness.
Before I can move, Dylan puts his hand on my back. It’s not a pat or some pity move — just a solid, steadying touch right between my shoulder blades.
“Torin, you were lost. You were hurting. And come on, you had seen your fellow soldiers die at war. For fuck’s sake, you were in your early twenties, man. You did what you could with a broken heart.” His voice breaks as he finishes. “It was never your fault.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, and the next breath doesn’t come clean. A piece of me, maybe the very piece I’ve struggled to hide, wants so badly to believe him.
After all this time, it still knocks the wind out of me, like a sucker punch.
I will never forget that night. I returned home early — fifteen days of leave.
I planned this whole surprise for my partner, Tilly.
I showed up at her apartment, but when the door swung open, it wasn’t her.
It was some random fucking dude. No shirt, no shoes, giving me this who the fuck are you? stare.
And then, there was Tilly . . .
She popped up behind him, her mouth twisted in that guilty way. It looked like she’d already practiced the speech she was about to give. “Torin, I’m sorry. I needed someone here.”
I’ll never forget walking home, so angry, full of adrenaline that my hands were shaking. I got it into my head it was all my father’s fault for making me sign up.
My father was sitting at the table, and I’ll never forget how happy he looked that I was home, safe.
But I punched him. My own fucking father. Nailed him square in the face.
He sat there stunned, didn’t try to hit me back. He just gave me this look, like he totally got it, like he knew exactly what was going on inside my head.
I left the family home and never returned. Three days later, he died of a heart attack.
So, this date is fucking awful. I will never be able to forgive myself.
I’m so overcome by the memory, the back of my neck is burning, as it always does when I’m trying not to lose it. My fingers twitch, first to the left, then to the right, as if they’re aching for something to break, something to strike.
Dylan somehow manages to snap me out of the spiral. “Got any smokes?”
Caught completely off guard, I stare. “Since when do you smoke?”
“I don’t, but I got you out of your head there.”
I let out a breath that’s kind of a laugh and kind of a sigh, then rub my hand over my face. “Thanks, Dylan. Really. You and Coach were there for me when things were super dark.”
He gives my arm a little nudge. “I’m always here for you, dude, like you’ve always been there for me.”
I can’t help it; a tiny sentimental smile creeps onto my face. Suddenly, Fawn’s retching cuts through the quiet. I jump, surprised. Fuck, I’d almost forgotten she was here.
“Ugh, guess I should go hold her hair back,” Dylan says with a super dramatic sigh. He drags himself toward the bedroom.
A big part of me feels like I should help, but the second I catch a whiff of her puke, I’m puking with her, and Dylan will be babysitting both of us.
I’ll help her get back on her feet tomorrow. Yeah, I can totally handle that.