Chapter 22 #2
“You’re not alone!” she cries, an angry vein protruding on her temple. “Look at me, Booker. I’m right bloody here. We’re Harrises! We don’t give you enough space to consider the idea of loneliness. Tanner would probably come over here and spoon you right now if you gave him the green light.”
“Oh sod off,” I groan.
“It’s true.” She pauses and inhales a deep, shaky breath. “Look, we’re all fucked up in our own way after losing Mum. There were some seriously dark years in that house we grew up in. I guess I thought since you were so young, you wouldn’t be as affected by it, but I was wrong.”
“I get it. I’m fucked,” I moan, feeling more sorry for myself than ever.
“You’re not fucked, Booker. But you need to understand that you sensed that loss with Mum when it happened, even though you were little. Because of that, I think you’ve clung to the family extra tight. So much so I think your inner child is afraid of losing anyone ever again.”
“Did you just say inner child?” I ask, my brow furrowing in disbelief.
Vi straightens. “Yes I did. I’ve done some therapy sessions with Hayden, all right? I’ve learned a thing or two.” She leans in again. “I also learned that no matter how motherly I tried to be when we were kids, I was still just a child playing make-believe and you deserved more.”
The break in her voice makes my chest hurt. I reach over and clutch her fists. “You were great, Vi. You are great. You’re the glue that holds us all together. If it wasn’t for you, we’d never see each other. And I’d probably still be living at home, acting like an even bigger whore than Tanner.”
Vi giggles and it brings a much needed smile to my face. “Hayden says I’m too controlling over you guys. That you need to figure out how to make your own mistakes.”
“Oh, bollocks. Hayden just doesn’t understand the Harris way. Your fuck-up is my fuck-up.”
Vi laughs and swipes at a few stray tears that slip out. “He says you guys have a codependency on me to fix all your problems. Can you believe that?”
“That just sounds like psychobabble again.” I wink and take another sip of my coffee.
“Exactly what I think.” She smirks, but then her brows pinch in the middle as she watches me closely. “I’m sorry Poppy isn’t the one for you, Booker.”
Her words dig at a place in my chest, but I brush them off. “Yeah,” I reply casually and set my mug down.
She clicks her cheeks and adds, “But you can’t force love.”
I nod, avoiding her penetrative gaze. “Right.”
“And if you don’t love her, you can’t be with her.” She brings her mug to her mouth and takes a sip.
Frowning at her repetition, I reply, “I know, Vi.”
“Well, she deserves to find happiness, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” My spine straightens with annoyance. “But I don’t think she was unhappy with me.”
Her face scrunches as she ponders for a few seconds. “Even if she wasn’t wanting love from you, it never would have lasted. These things happen for a reason, Booker,” she states simply with a patronising head nod.
My eyes narrow on her. “Why do you think it wouldn’t have lasted?”
Her brows lift. “Well, you’re busy. And so young. And not even close to ready for that kind of responsibility.”
“What responsibility are you referring to exactly?”
“Being a family man,” she says, her voice rising in pitch like this is what she’s been saying all evening.
“We just talked about all the issues you have because of Mum’s death.
You’re clearly not emotionally capable of being in love, let alone being a father.
You need to have an open heart. And if you can’t love Poppy, you won’t be able to love the baby. ”
“What the hell are you going on about?” I snap, shoving back from the table. “You sound completely mental!”
“Well I’m just saying. Loving a baby is hard. They don’t give you much to go on.” Her casual tone is mind-boggling to me.
“I love Rocky,” I state matter-of-factly.
“Well, now maybe. She’s older and she smiles and giggles. That makes it easier. As newborns, they take and take and take.”
“You’ve completely lost it, Vi. I loved Rocky the second she was born.”
She rolls her eyes like I’m a fool. “Booker, I know you. And I know what’s best for you. Take my advice here. You’re better off this way. I’m sure Poppy will let you be a part of the baby’s life in some small way.”
“Fuck that!” I roar, standing up and thrusting a hand through my hair, a rising panic building in my chest. “I don’t want some small way.”
“But it’s what’s best,” she states firmly.
“For whom exactly?” My voice booms.
She shrugs. “For everyone. If you’re not terrified of losing Poppy every day of your life, she’s not the one for you.”
I huff out a laugh and begin pacing. My sister has completely lost it.
She doesn’t know me at all because fear is what’s forced me to keep my distance from Poppy.
Fear is what made me keep her at arm’s-length our whole lives.
Fear is all I’ve been living with the past two months with Poppy.
Fear of her leaving. Fear of losing her.
Fear of never seeing her again. And now, all my worst fears have come true.
“I’m not listening to this anymore, Vi.” I pause and press my hands on the table, piercing Vi with a seriousness that she cannot ignore like she can a na?ve baby brother.
“You’ve helped me a lot and I appreciate it more than you know, but you’re completely wrong about this.
I’m going to love this baby fiercely because I’ve never been more terrified of losing someone than I am of losing Poppy.
I’m so bloody afraid, I’ve never let myself admit that I’m in lov—” An intense pressure rises up in my chest as I realise what I was about say.
I pull in shaky breaths as the words hang on the tip of my tongue, ready to fall out like lyrics to my favourite song.
I look straight at Vi and say, “I love her.”
I clench my jaw and wait for the doom to come, but it doesn’t. Lightness comes instead. An airy, walking on water weightlessness that I feel all through my body.
“Bloody hell, Vi. I love Poppy.” I exhale heavily. “Fuck me, it feels brilliant to say! I love her…I think I’ve loved her my whole life. Like it’s always been there, but I’ve denied it.” I hardly recognise my voice, but it feels fucking fantastic to hear.
Vi smiles and tilts her head. “You love Poppy?” She has a coy bounce to her voice.
“I…do. She’s my world and I love her.” I rake my hand through my hair and look around the room manically. “I need to tell her. Right now.” I push my sleeves up and bound for the door, ready to break into Andrew’s flat and choke him until he talks. “That frustrating Scot better sing like a canary.”
“Booker!” Vi shouts, a weightiness to her tone that pulls me up short. I look back and she’s standing at the table, a proud gleam in her eyes. “You can’t just tell her and expect her to believe you. You need to do a lot bloody more than say the words.”
I frown, pondering her words for a minute. She’s right. Poppy has always had a flare for the theatrics. If she were in my shoes, she’d probably hire a marching band or a dance company. Hell, she’d probably write a song and sing it to me.
But I don’t want to do something Poppy would do. I want to do something I would do. Something that reminds her of why she fell in love with me to begin with. “I think I have an idea.”
“I could really use my best friend right now,” I croak into my pillow as I lie down for a nap in my childhood bed and beg myself not to start crying again.
Napping has become my new favourite thing. Napping means a break from the crying. Napping means a break from the panicking. A break from the moping.
Napping means remembering the feel of Booker’s warmth pressed against my backside.
I guess even napping has its moments of treachery.
That’s the crap part about your best friend being the man you love.
When you lose him, it’s a double punch in the gut.
It’s like retching and having diarrhea at the same time.
As if getting sick isn’t pathetic enough, now you have to sit on a toilet while doing it because you’re pissing out your arse as well.
Really, is there anything else that can make you feel so pitiful?
The doorbell rings downstairs, ripping me out of my colourfully descriptive pity party.
My heart leaps into my throat as I slide out of bed and look out the window for Booker’s truck.
I’ve been waiting for him to show up since the moment I came to my parents’ house last week.
Hiding here has been easy since my parents are away on holiday for their thirtieth wedding anniversary—a blessing and a curse, really.
A blessing because I’m alone, a curse because this house is full of Booker Harris memories.
Even sleepover memories, back when things weren’t so complicated between us.
I make my way down the long flight of stairs and tiptoe up to the front door. Peering through the peephole, I exhale with relief when I see Andrew standing on the other side.
“Oh good, it’s only you,” I say as the door swings open and I swipe the tear residue off my face.
“Nice tae see ye, too,” he grumbles and strides in like he’s been here a hundred times even though this is only his first. “Ye think I’d receive a more welcoming greeting considering I’ve driven all the way oot tae Chigwell.
” His nose wrinkles and he whispers, “I can actually smell the Botox in this neighbourhood. Is yer mum one of them?”
“No, she’s not. And you don’t have to whisper. She and my dad are in the Canary Islands for their anniversary. But you should still stop being so judgemental.” I look down at his empty hands. “Where are my things?”
He lets out a haughty laugh. “Still at Booker’s.”
“He wasn’t home?”
“Oh, he wis home all right.” He looks around the house and says, “I need a drink.”
Frowning, I follow him into the kitchen where he hoists himself up on the counter. “A nice red will do.”
I roll my eyes and pull the cork out of the open bottle on the counter, giving it a sniff to make sure it hasn’t gone bad since my parents have left because I sure as hell wasn’t the one to open it. I pour the dark liquid into a wine glass and hand it over. “What happened?”
Andrew opens the collar of his shirt and rubs around the front of his neck. “Is it still red?”
I frown and look closer at the area he’s touching. “No. It looks normal.”
He huffs and takes a drink. “The wanker is lucky I dinnae press charges.”
“For what?” I ask, my brow crinkling.
“Booker assaulted me!”
“Assaulted you?” I ask, disbelief in my voice.
Andrew’s brown eyes widen. “He lunged at me and grabbed me around here.” He yanks the collar of his shirt and demonstrates. “Practically held me over the stairwell, threatening tae drop me tae my death.”
“Oh my God, Andrew!” I exclaim in horror. “I’m so sorr—”
“Okay, maybe no the death part,” he interrupts before I have a chance to finish my apology for sending him there. “But he did put his bloody hands on me.”
“Booker did?” I ask, still needing confirmation.
“Aye.”
“Not one of his brothers?” I can’t help but recall the time Gareth attacked one of Vi’s ex-boyfriends in a Chigwell pub and had the police called on him. Paparazzi showed up and everything. It was a nightmare.
“It wis Booker and he wis by himself,” Andrew confirms with a sip. “Who knows how violent he would have gotten if he had his pack of hot brothers there tae back him up.”
I wrap my arms around my body. “I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. Booker is normally a pacifist. He’s protective to be sure, but he’s not violent. God, what’s gotten into him?”
“You,” Andrew grunts and downs the rest of his wine. “It’s fine, though. I’m quite sure I could have battered him. I wis just being a gentlemen because the lad is clearly tormented.”
“Tormented how?” I ask, my mind all over the place.
“For fuck’s sake, Poppet, dae I need tae draw ye pictures? The man is in love with ye…Keep up!”
I lean back against the counter, shaking my head adamantly. “You’re wrong. He is not in love with me. At all. And he’s not a fighter. None of this sounds like the Booker I know.”
“Well, he clearly cares aboot ye enough tae throw me oot of his flat and tell me tae get stuffed.”
I shake my head again and deny everything Andrew is insinuating. “This changes nothing. Even if he is feeling something for me, it’s not enough.”
“No enough for what? No enough tae be the father of yer child? Poppy, I’m sorry tae tell ye this, but unless ye’ve been sleeping around, the jig is up.
” He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales heavily.
“I’m sorry tae be harsh, but what’s yer plan here?
Have me move ye oot of his flat entirely so ye never have tae see him again?
Ye have tae talk tae him at some point. He’s the father. ”
“You don’t think I know that?” I snap. “I’m still figuring it all out,” I stammer.
“Well it might be easier tae figure oot if ye quit hiding oot and start accepting his calls.”
My eyes widen. “I can’t possibly face him yet.”
“Why no?”
“Because I love him too much!” I howl and cover my face with my hands, my voice rising to that nutter pitch that comes out when I want to cry.
I shove my hands through my hair and look at Andrew accusingly.
“Because Booker makes me feel anchored and right in the world. And if he comes to me and asks me to marry him, I will crumble and say yes.”
“What’s so wrong aboot that?” Andrew asks, his face screwed up in confusion.
“He doesn’t love me. He’s only my friend, so he cares enough to do the decent thing, but nothing more. Booker isn’t tormented because he’s in love with me. He’s tormented because he doesn’t want to lose me. But I’d rather lose him than go back to being friends.”
“Surely being friends is better than nothing,” Andrew argues.
“It’s not,” I sniff. “I’ve seen behind the curtain now.
I know what we could be together. Anything less than all in will eat away at my soul and make me hurt in places I didn’t even know I could hurt.
” I shrug my shoulders and add, “I want more. I want…real love. This baby deserves that.” My voice cracks at the end because I realise I’m not only making this decision for myself anymore.
“So, what will ye dae?” Andrew’s voice sounds grave. “Ye cannae avoid him forever.”
“I know,” I nod and swipe at a stray tear. “I’m just avoiding him until I’m strong enough to say no to him.”
“Poppet,” Andrew says, his brows knitting together as he watches me. “Are ye one hundred percent sure yer no just protecting yerself. I’ve seen the way Booker looks at ye.”
I shake my head. “Don’t give me a reason to hope, Andrew. I can’t bear it.”