43. Hunter
forty-three
hunter
“ARE YOU SURE you don’t want me to come with you to your grandfather’s?” Stevie asks as I lace up my Timberlands.
“I’m sure, princess.”
“But it might help if he hears about Celeste from me,” she insists. She looks so cute and angelic sitting on the bed. I wish I could eat her up. I ate her out this morning on the bathroom counter, but I can’t get enough of her. She’s an addiction, and I love it.
“It’s not your problem. It’s mine. I will take care of it, alright?” I walk towards her and grab her beautiful face in both hands, giving her a deep, dirty kiss. She moans and my cock wakes up. With a lot of effort and willpower, I step away from her.
“I hope Celeste doesn’t hate me for telling you what she told me,” she says, worrying her bottom lip.
“Of course, she won’t,” I assure her. “Don’t worry about anything, okay? Everything is going to be fine.”
She nods, still looking kind of nervous. Then she takes a deep breath. “I know,” she says.
“Good.” I grab her chin and kiss her quickly on the lips.
“I’ll be back soon.” I almost say I love you, but something holds me back.
I’ve been wanting to say it for weeks. Sometimes we both stop and stare at each other and it’s like those three words are bubbling up underneath the surface, desperate to rise and spill out. Then we both look away.
“Good luck,” she says, as I grab my keys and head out.
“Thanks.”
I can’t believe I’m actually on my way to my grandfather’s house. To confront him.
I never thought I’d see the day.
As a boy, I worshipped him. After he told me to forget that I’d seen my father push my mother down the stairs, I had cried for days, hidden under the covers of my bed.
Sometimes I’d cried hidden in the closet.
I remember I had made a sort of small fort in there, complete with a tiny tent and those glow-in-the-dark stars stuck onto the ceiling.
It had served as my safe space for years.
The only distraction I had in those days was hockey.
It’s the only thing that kept me sane. And still does.
I could take my aggression out on my family by playing hard on the ice.
I’m not the most aggressive player out there, but skating hard and battling for the puck, deking people out still helps rein in my anger, and my pain.
I’ll never get over my mother’s death.
The only thing I can do now is prevent Celeste from having a similar fate, and that starts with confronting the Cruise family patriarch.
When Stevie told me last night that Celeste had a bruised eye and was too scared to file for divorce, I felt unusually calm.
It was similar to the feeling I tend to get when we’re losing a hockey game and I know I have to lock in and get my teammates to do the same.
Instead of panicking, I’ll enter a Zen state of mind.
Everything comes into sharper focus and I know exactly what to do.
That’s how I feel as I drive to see my grandfather.
I’m not an eight-year-old boy anymore. I don’t have to hide inside my fort, in the closet.
I don’t have to feel weak or small. I don’t have to feel intimidated like I always have before.
Being with Stevie, and seeing her come into her own strength, has helped me, for lack of a better word, man up and face my fears head-on.
It’s snowing lightly as I reach the gates to my grandfather’s mansion.
He lives in an 18,000 square foot English Manor with formal gardens, a guest house, and a coachman’s cottage.
Built in the 1890s, it sits on three meticulously landscaped acres.
Grandad loves to complain that it’s not big enough for him.
I used to love to run around the grounds.
I made the coachman’s cottage my own little palace where I felt like a king.
Now, my childhood feels so far away, I wonder if it ever even happened.
I park my Bentley directly in front of the entrance on the circular driveway. Grandad’s butler, Norris, opens the door as I climb up the front steps. He takes my coat as he greets me.
“Good evening, Mr. Cruise,” he says. “Your grandfather is in the study.”
“Thank you, Norris.”
I make my way to Grandad’s study and knock three times on the door, as I’ve always done. It’s not exactly a secret knock, but the cadence of it lets him know it’s me.
“Come in,” he says.
I open the door and step inside his sanctuary.
It’s decorated in dark green and brown tones, a very masculine space with high ceilings and books lining the entirety of one wall.
The curtains are drawn back, revealing the snow falling outside.
Flames dance in the fireplace. It’s a cozy scene that’s about to get a lot less cozy when I say what I came here to say.
My grandfather rises from behind his large desk and comes toward me, enveloping me in a hug.
Despite everything, it feels good to hug him back.
It’s an odd feeling, simultaneously loving your family but wishing they were better people.
You don’t want to turn your back on them, but sometimes there doesn’t seem to be any other choice.
“It’s good to see you,” he says. “I’ll admit I was a little bit surprised to hear you wanted to meet.
” He walks toward the couch near the fireplace and takes a seat, gesturing for me to do the same.
I’m glad. I prefer sitting here rather than across from him at his massive desk, where he always reminded me of Don Corleone in The Godfather.
“I know it’s only been a few days since we saw each other on my birthday, but I have –” I take a deep breath. “I have to tell you something.”
Grandad’s shrewd eyes sharpen. He can already tell it’s about something serious. He stays silent, however, knowing that’s the best way to draw anything out of a person. He hasn’t been negotiating deals all his life for nothing. And it works, even when I’m well aware of what he’s doing.
“It’s about Celeste. And Dad.”
Still no reply from him.
I look him square in the eye. “Dad’s been abusing her.”
That statement finally gets a reaction. My grandfather looks away. He clears his throat. “How do you know this?” he asks.
“Celeste told me she wants to get a divorce, but she’s afraid.” I don’t want to mention Stevie’s involvement. She doesn’t need to be brought into my family’s dirty laundry any more than she already has.
“That hardly means—”
“Why would she want a divorce so quickly?” I counter, cutting him off. “Last month, she had a broken arm, and this month, she has a bruised eye.”
Grandad rubs his jaw. “Some people are clumsy.”
I stare at him, not offering a reply this time.
I let the silence stretch. My grandfather gets up and walks toward the sideboard where he keeps his whiskey.
He takes out the good stuff, pouring himself three fingers into a crystal glass.
That’s a lot for him. Years of watching people drink, but not partaking myself, has taught me to read them pretty well from how much alcohol they drink. My grandfather is clearly rattled.
“Hunter,” he says, then stops and takes a big swallow of whiskey.
I still don’t say anything, letting his conscience battle it out.
Some people are clumsy strikes me as such a dumb thing to say. But this is how people think when they don’t want to believe the truth, when they can’t handle it. They will rationalize anything away, so they don’t have to deal with it.
Sometimes I wonder if my grandfather is embarrassed to have a son like my father. A violent alcoholic who killed his first wife. If he is embarrassed or ashamed, he could actually do something about it though.
“Grandad,” I say, finally breaking my silence. “I never took you for a coward.”
His eyebrows shoot up. He wasn’t expecting that. I’ve always been deferential to him, and his disbelief at my words is almost comical.
“I’m not—”
“Why did you let Dad get away with killing Mom?” I ask, my voice so calm it almost shocks me.
My grandfather’s hand shakes, and he puts down the whiskey. He looks very old suddenly as his face crumples. “There was no proof,” he mutters.
“What about me? I was the proof. I saw it happen. But you told me not to say anything. You told the police I was imagining things. You lied. You lied to protect him. Like you’ve always done.”
My grandfather stands there with his head down, one hand curled and resting near his glass of whiskey. He looks elderly and defeated, but I know with sudden clarity that he won’t give me a response. I get up and leave without saying goodbye.