8. Booker
Booker
I find myself sitting in a booth at Ale Mary’s with Colt and Gally, sipping on a beer I don’t particularly want, watching Drew, and some of the other guys flirt at the bar.
“What’s Stella doing tonight,” I ask, making conversation as I try to ignore the irrational urge I have to search Maya’s profile and scroll through her photos again like a stalker.
She just had to come up and talk to me in the library. I caught a whiff of her vanilla scent, met those warm brown eyes, and turned into the biggest raging douche-bag to ever grace Saint Augustine’s campus.
I don’t understand; the majority of my life, I’ve prided myself on being stoic. Impassive. Strong. And then she appears and a switch is flipped and she makes me feel.
Anger. Desperation. Longing. Lust.
God, I fucking hate it.
“Packing.” Colt’s voice brings me back to the present.
“I invited her to come hang out, but she’s heading home to Georgia for Thanksgiving, so she decided to pass.
” Colt smiles subconsciously as he talks, letting the entire table know how smitten he is with his girlfriend.
“What about you? You heading out for the break, Book?”
Nodding, I take another swig of my drink. “Yeah, I’m flying out tomorrow, too.”
“Sky’s making me go up to her grandparent’s place in Maine with her for break. I mean, I love her, but listening to her granddad talk about whale watching for five days straight? No, thanks,” Gally adds, making us laugh.
Drew’s body thumps down in the seat beside me, pushing me into Colt.
“Yo, Book. I was talking to that girl over there,” he says, pointing with his bottle toward a group of about six women, all of whom wave at him from across the room. He waves in return, temporarily forgetting that he didn’t finish his sentence.
“Drew. Speak. Words,” I prompt, nudging him with my knee, pulling his attention back.
“Right, sorry. I was talking to the girl in the yellow. See her? She’s hot as fuck. But she said she won’t go home with me unless she knows her friend is safe. Basically, I need you to take the friend.” His eyes are glazed over, and he’s swaying slightly as he attempts to hold my gaze.
A smirk forms on my lips, amused by his drunken idiocy. “Which friend, Drewski? There’s like five other girls over there. I’m not taking five girls home with me.”
“Uhhh—” Drew turns and squints over at the group of women one more time. “I don’t remember. Hang on.”
He gets up and heads back over to the group, and at least three pairs of arms reach out to touch him or hug him.
“Good, God, that man’s a mess,” Gally comments, shaking his head with a laugh.
After about ten minutes, Drew returns. “Okay. The one in the yellow is who was going to come home with me. Now the one in the pink is coming, too. I need you to take the one in the white.
Colt snorts as I rub my face in exacerbation. “What, you can’t handle all three?” I joke.
“Well, she doesn’t want me; says she isn’t into blonds, but it’s okay, I’m not offended. Actually, I might be a little offended. But she likes the looks of you, and I like the looks of her two friends, so all is forgiven. What do you say?”
Despite what people think of me, I don’t do hook-ups very often, but maybe this is just what I need to get Maya off my mind once and for all.
Gesturing for him to get out of the booth and lead the way, he pumps his fist with an excited “Best wingman ever!”
I’m reminded of why I don’t do hook-ups almost immediately after Drew introduces me to the girl in the white top, Olivia.
“Hi! You’re Ross Booker’s son, right? I’m a huge fan,” she exclaims, latching herself to my arm. Taking another sip from my drink, I try not to roll my eyes.
“Thanks,” I reply awkwardly.
“What was it like growing up with a celebrity as a parent? I can’t imagine!” Olivia prattles on and on about the hypothetical joys of being raised by a celebrity, and I tune her out in the hope of preserving my sanity.
She seems like a nice girl, but bringing up my father is an immediate turn off every time.
After suffering the conversation a little longer, I—as politely as I can—escape back to the booth with Colt and Gally, abandoning my position as wingman.
“What happened?” Colt asks, laughing at the expression on my face.
“Can’t do it, man. Can’t make myself get with a girl who brings up my dad before anything else.” Colt chuckles again, and Gally grimaces.
“You didn’t even talk to her long. She could be the love of your life,” Colt continues teasing.
“Nah, Crosby, don’t you know? Booker’s too emotionally unavailable to fall in love. Probably doesn’t even believe in it,” Gally adds, and I flip him off from across the table.
“I’m not emotionally unavailable, assholes. But the love of my life sure as hell isn’t going to be a Ross Booker fan,” I insist, taking a drink to hide the vulnerability in my voice.
“God, could you imagine? Every time you sleep together, you’d be wondering if she was thinking about your dad.” Gally fakes a gag and a shutter, and Colt scrunches his nose in disgust at the image.
He pats me on the shoulder in mock solidarity. “Yeah, buddy, on second thought, she’s definitely not the love of your life.”
No, she definitely is not.
The following morning, I wake up with dread in the pit of my stomach.
I hit the gym, play my guitar, go to the store, do everything I can to stall going to the airport. I booked a flight back to California for late Wednesday night of Thanksgiving break. My father has a show planned the Saturday after, so I can make an appearance without missing a game.
My father’s threats are very real; I grew up learning the hard way that he never bluffs. After the last phone call I had with him, I knew I needed to suck it up and come back soon.
When I was nine and came to live with him, he made a big fuss about being seen in public with me. We’d go out to eat, shopping for new school clothes, take day trips to Disneyland or the beach.
The paparazzi raved over what a saint Ross Booker was, taking in and loving his little boy. They spun stories about how my mother was horrible, that she kept me from him, that she had a drug problem, and that’s how she died.
Lie after lie after lie, dragging my mother’s name into the dirt to make Ross look like America’s Best Father.
He legally changed my name. He put me in music lessons. And, behind closed doors, he took out every ounce of frustration, anger, and indignation on my nine-year-old body.
The only thing I had for myself was hockey. Tom planted the seed, and I couldn’t let go. I clung to the game like a life raft.
Every time I cried, I got hit.
Every time I threatened to tell someone, I got hit.
Ross ensured no one would believe me. He had a team of lawyers with thirsty pockets. He could get whatever he wanted with his name alone.
But he let me play hockey, reasoning that it would at least be a good explanation for all the bruises peppering my body, on the off chance anyone ever noticed.
It’s past midnight when Ross’s driver picks me up from LAX after my flight lands, taking me to my father’s mansion. When I walk in, the smell of weed and liquor and sex assaults my nose. I make my way up the stairs, locking the door to my room, and avoiding interacting with anyone in this house.
I fall asleep with my headphones on, blaring music, drowning out the sounds of debauchery coming from down the hall.