37. Preston
PRESTON
All those emotions drained me.
Yikes.
Someone come numb my brain.
But also, not really. The hours I spent talking to Dad about everything and nothing, jumping from one topic to another like a hyper monkey, were everything I didn’t know I needed.
The entire time I yapped, Dad just listened. Yes, there were a couple of huffs and Be serious, Prestons, but, mostly, he listened.
And I’ve never felt so close to my dad as I did at that moment.
We had a talk with my nemesis, Dr. Fenwick, and agreed to meet more regularly once I’m physically better.
Just kidding, he’s not my nemesis. Dr. Fenwick can be all right, I guess. I modeled Dr. Duret after him and Mom in my mind, a half-professional, half-mother figure.
He said it was my hallucinations acting up again, and they’ll probably continue to do so. It’s how my brain is wired, after all. What we can do is make sure I’m more self-aware of the signs, so I don’t let my imagination blur reality.
Dr. Fenwick mentioned that the next time I see Dr. Duret or Lenin, I should scream bloody murder. He didn’t say those exact words, but he said I should talk to him immediately or tell Dad.
We ended up talking about trauma—my favorite bedtime story, apparently.
And by “talking,” I mean Dr. Fenwick said a bunch of things that made uncomfortable sense while I pretended not to have an existential crisis. He told me something I never really let myself consider.
“Listen, Preston. When you get hurt young, before your brain has fully developed, the damage doesn’t just sit there like a bruise.
It builds foundations. It sneaks into the wiring.
It molds itself around the abuse because that’s the only blueprint it has.
It shapes who you become because you don’t get the opportunity of growing without it. ”
So basically, I didn’t grow into whoever Preston Armstrong was supposed to be.
I grew into whatever my trauma sculpted with its filthy little hands.
I didn’t get normal developmental stages; I got survival instincts in funhouse-mirror shapes.
My personality became a patchwork of coping mechanisms no one warned me were optional.
And the worst part? I’ll never know who the untraumatized version of me was supposed to look like.
Maybe he would’ve been softer. Maybe he would’ve been boring.
Maybe he would’ve been a nerd, who knows?
But that boy is gone, and I can’t resurrect him.
And that’s the miserable, liberating truth.
I can’t go back in time and pull my younger self out of that house, or out of that room, or away from those cigarette-coated hands.
I can’t edit the past the way I rewrite my own lies.
All I can do—and this is the part Dr. Fenwick insists is possible—is learn how to live with the version of me that survived.
Stop letting fifteen-year-old wounds sit in the driver’s seat while I pretend it’s all just static and bad vibes.
The trauma isn’t going to vanish into thin air. It’s not going to wake up one day and decide to stop haunting me because I’ve “grown” or whatever self-help nonsense people write on Pinterest boards.
But it also doesn’t have to run the whole damn show anymore.
Maybe, for the first time in my life, I get to decide who I am.
Not the past.
Not the fear.
Not the ghost version of me who thought pain was the only language he’d ever speak.
Just…me.
Whatever that ends up being.
I have to stay in the hospital for a few more days for supervision by Julian—honestly, fuck that guy, but also, maybe thank him for saving my life. As expected from my bro’s bro.
The whole time, Dad’s been here, accompanying me, and it’s felt nice. Bit awkward at times, but definitely nice.
Safe.
For once, I don’t feel like he’ll up and leave, and I’ll be all alone.
Today, he brought Miley to visit me, and she cried like hell, hugging me tight and burying her face in my chest.
My poor Miles of Trouble thought she’d never see me again, and she couldn’t believe it.
She climbs onto my lap and gives me boxes of pastries to cheer me up, then she ends up devouring half of them herself.
“When are we going to see Marcus again, Pressie?” she asks like a little idiot right as Dad is sitting in a chair right across from us, peeling some apples.
Yes, apparently, Dad peels apples for me now.
I’m still thinking this isn’t real.
And I don’t want to ruin it with the “Hey, Dad, so I’m kind of into a guy now, thanks for listening. Also, can we add your acceptance to our twelve-step program with Dr. Fenwick while we’re at it? Many thanks.”
Yeah, no. I’d rather not ruin it.
“Yo, Mimi, whatever are you talking about?” I laugh it off, stuffing her face full of madeleines.
She chews them in record time and opens her big mouth again. “Marcus, Pressie. He said he’ll skate with me again, remember?”
Dad’s eyebrows are at his hairline now.
Little shit Miley.
“You should hug him like you hugged me and maybe buy him a gift.” She pats my cheek. “He was so sad at your funeral when you died.”
“Wait…” I gulp. “Marcus was at the funeral?”
“He was.” Dad pauses peeling the apples. “He demanded that Andrew provide him access to the service.”
Marcus did that? He always said he hated asking his dad for anything.
Now, I want to see what type of expression he wore at the funeral.
Was he really sad?
Why would he be sad when he already said goodbye?
Now that I’m not drowning in delusions, I’m pretty sure I hallucinated him when I was shot. My brain’s last attempt to give me something nice after he sabotaged my entire relationship with Marcus—many thanks for that, asshole.
Anyway, now that I’m thinking logically, there’s no way Marcus would’ve been there at the time, no matter how much I would’ve loved it.
Dad straightens. “I asked Marcus about the nature of your relationship.”
I gulp. Well, shit.
“What did he say?”
“That you are…” He clears his throat. “His man. Or he was yours? Not sure. He also said if you were alive, he’d take you and leave.”
My lips part, my heart hammering in a low thud.
“He said that?” I ask in a faint voice, my heart stuttering.
“Yes, among other things.” Dad narrows his eyes, placing the plate of apples in front of me. “Is it true, Preston?”
You know what? Fuck this. I want Dad to know.
Here goes nothing, I guess.
I nod once, biting my lower lip. “It’s not that I wanted to be with a man, and I fought it every step of the way, but all my attempts were futile. He’s the only person who makes me feel safe enough to be myself around him. I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“You know…the Vencor thing.”
“If Andrew and I can’t protect you through that, then how are we your fathers?”
Wait. Dad is…okay with it? “Won’t it hurt you in the long run?”
“Possibly, but I promised you, didn’t I? I won’t allow anyone to harm you again.”
“Who are you and what have you done with my dad? Just kidding. Thanks, really. I don’t think it’ll be necessary, though.”
“Why not?”
I stab the fork into a piece of apple. “He already let me go.”
He did, right? Doesn’t matter if I had a tiny bit of hope that he’d pity me once he reads the letter.
Yes, I’m that desperate.
After that convo with Dad, I went to surprise the team at a pick-me-up party thrown by Violet and Denver.
I tried to play it cool with the ghost jokes, but I guess I underestimated just how much they care about me.
Let’s just say Kane and Jude had their jaws on the floor. I really don’t like that they thought I was dead. The three of us have been like family since that infamous murder in the boarding school, and family doesn’t just leave without saying goodbye.
I’ll make it up to them by getting better and brightening their lives until we’re eighty.
After the five of us went to Violet’s apartment, I tried explaining that it was all Dad’s fault—he’ll take one for the team.
But then they told me something.
Something that made me leave Violet’s apartment in the middle of the night after everyone fell asleep. I had Hayes drive me to the house I never thought I’d ever go back to again.
Here’s the thing—I thought Kane and Jude killed Granny, but that’s not true.
It was Marcus.
He killed her to avenge me.
He murdered someone in cold blood for me—like he said he would.
And he didn’t only kill her, but also the hit man who shot me and a few other guys who helped.
Marcus killed for the first time.
For me.
Also, according to Kane, Marcus was there during the shooting and at the hospital when they announced my “death.” I didn’t hallucinate it.
Marcus did hold me in his arms as I was fighting whether or not to surrender to my demons.
That means I have a tiny chance, right? I mean, he better take me.
Hopefully.
I’ll beg if I have to.
Almost dying has given me a different perspective—all the time I was hiding and running should’ve been spent doing what I love.
Namely, hugging and kissing and touching Marcus.
I should’ve just been with him as much as possible when I could, when that’s what I always wanted to do. It’s probably been going on longer than before we started our little arrangement.
Maybe since the rivalry began?
Since college?
I’m not sure when, exactly, but that sensation of being drawn to him, annoyed by him, and feeling threatened by him wasn’t only rivalry.
For a long time, I couldn’t explain the sensation of being around him or the pull I felt toward him, but now, I can.
I think I had a crush on Marcus.
It started during our first college game, I think. By the end of it, he crashed me to the ice, and his heavy body was all over me as he reached a hand toward me.
He had this dark, hooded look in his eyes, and I remember panicking like crazy.
He’s going to eat me alive, I thought.
And I couldn’t move. All I could do was watch, waiting with bated breath, my heart on the verge of beating out of my chest.
All the sounds around us disappeared as his eyes metaphorically pulled my skin open and toyed with my deplorable insides—