20. TATE #3
The reason so embarrassing, I barely want to admit it to myself.
I had to see what his final words to me would be.
And what did I hope for? A posthumous “I’m proud of you, son?
” Fuck that noise. But I’d worked so hard to be a version of him.
A better one. Definitely no pride in sight.
What I got was a brown leather cuff, the fucking knife he made me wound myself with, a mystery key, and a glass eye. Blue.
I know the eye. It came from my doll. It’s sick, but it’s also curious.
I was so obsessed, reclaiming even a piece of that doll feels like reclaiming a piece of me.
The leather cuff belonged to our father—mine and Luke’s.
It’s inlaid with swirling designs and a bold letter V in the center of a square.
I begged Jasper for the cuff, and he always said no.
Including it with the box doesn’t mean he gave in.
It could be for Luke’s benefit—he knew I wanted it—or it could simply mean he wanted to pass it down.
But why not give it to Luke if that was the case?
Whatever. I’m glad I have it. Glad to have the creepy little eye, too. Even that damn knife for reasons I can’t explain.
Is this just a psychopath’s toy chest? Uncle Jasper knew all my odd proclivities. He used them against me. Maybe this is a reminder of what I really am, so I’ll never forget that while the rest of the world will never know. This could be him reminding me that he knew.
But the key doesn’t fit that message. It’s an old skeleton key. Gold. Two toothy prongs on one end, a loop on the other. No idea what the fuck it’s for. It could be just to fuck with me. It’s kind of an old-timey thing. Maybe I should give it to Luke to give to McKinnon?
My brother barrels through the office door. “I’ve been calling your name. I found something for McKinnon, and I’m more than ready to get the fuck outta here.”
He calls his boyfriend McKinnon, too. Also calls him princess. I know way too much about my brother’s relationship.
He stops short when he sets eyes on me. What does he see? My layers are peeled back. Putting the usual Coach Tate filter in place isn’t possible right now. I can’t even look at him, half embarrassed by the pile of what will look like junk to Luke, and half lost.
Luke picks up the cuff. “He didn’t leave you anything; he’s a bastard, but you’re getting your half, Tate. You don’t have to worry.”
“I wasn’t worried about that. I was nothing to him. Didn’t want to be.” And that’s true, which makes the suffocating heaviness all the more confusing.
He sets the cuff down. “How’s Ryan?”
Why the fuck is he asking about Ryan right now? I scrub a hand over my face. My hand claws at my chest as if it’s searching for something that isn’t there.
“He’s measuring his dick in a locker room,” I blurt out.
Luke frowns. “I hate locker rooms. I’d spank Ace if he did that.”
I swallow. “We don’t, um, we don’t do that.” My brother and McKinnon have a kink relationship of some kind. I don’t ask. Or judge. I set my head on the desk.
“It’s still inappropriate. He’s married.”
“Tell him that. He doesn’t listen to me.”
My head spins with everything. I need to get out of here. All I want is Ryan. Touching Ryan might alleviate whatever the fuck’s going on for me.
Or make it worse.
Whatever. I’m willing to risk that, but not Ryan. It’s better I stay away.
Eventually, there’s a sigh. A warm hand combs through my hair, and I wince at the contact.
My own brother can’t touch me without my body internally flinching.
How fucked up and broken am I? I don’t let it show on the outside.
One of the many things Luke can never know.
It would break him. Instead, I let the tingling dread wash over me, barely tolerating touches that should be comfort.
“I know what you’ve said before—you own him, and that’s it. But are you sure you don’t love him?”
No. I’m callous and unemotional, my brain screams. That’s what’s made sense for me. Couldn’t even muster a tear when Mom died, just rage. Now, I don’t know—all because of Ryan.
“You didn’t ask, but I’ll tell you what I think. Older brother privilege,” he says when my head snaps up. “Love can’t be controlled, so you never let it catch up with you. You went into hiding from it, but maybe it finally found you.”
If he weren’t so fucking proud of his diagnosis, I’d scoff.
I wish it were that simple. But Luke doesn’t know what I really am, and I’m not going to rain on his parade.
If he wants to think that I outrun love as some kind of a coping mechanism, he can.
“I’m ready to go. Unlike you, I have work to get back to. ”
“Yeah, I’m ready, too—oh my god, is that an antique key? That’s perfect! McKinnon will love that.”
He moves to grab my key, but I swipe it before he can. “I don’t think so, this is mine. You got everything else.”
“And you’d think I’d have found something better than some old quill. There’s probably better stuff in an attic somewhere, but that could take days to go through. Please? Please, please, please, please?”
“You’re pathetic. Fine. Take the key, which could lead to a vault of untold treasures. Leave me with the junk.”
“That isn’t junk, Tate,” he says, pointing at the cuff. “And see what you did? You gave me the key. You love me.”
He heads out the door, and I gather my shit. I get an idea. I know exactly what I’m doing with this cuff.
It’s about time I had something to make me feel good.