Chapter 34 #2
He settles into an oversized chair, upholstered in deep emerald velvet, and I take the identical one next to it, across from a roaring fireplace. I’m relieved when the woman brings us the coffee and disappears, because middle aged servers always make me think of my mom.
“We pay her very well,” Will laughs, taking a sip of the frothy drink. “And Georgia makes the best coffee. Literally poached her from a coffee shop. Well, Pops did. He’s picky about his caffeine.”
I swallow past the discomfort, but believe him. A wage is a wage. “You’ve been okay?”
“Me?” he asks like the question’s out of left field, and my eyes flare in confusion before he laughs. “Yeah. I’m fine,” he shrugs, taking another sip before focusing on the fire.
“Will?” His brows raise as he flicks his gaze towards me. “It’s just me. You can tell me if you’ve been…”
“If I’ve been what?” he says, irritated. “I don’t really know what everyone expects of me right now. Just plaster a smile on my face and move the fuck on?”
“Woah.” I throw my hands up, readjusting my focus on him.
The fire plays in his grey green gaze. “I’d be concerned if that’s what you were doing.
But if you said ‘hey Andy, I actually feel like someone ran over my guts twenty times,’ I’d say that makes sense.
” Will didn’t know me when Luis died, so he doesn’t know that I did hold it together.
That I moved on because Carmen needed to heal more than I did.
I know there are fracture wounds, though; that because I didn’t do it the right way, I’m constantly afraid of what will happen if I lose anyone else.
There’s this naivety you have before loss that convinces you you’d survive it if it happened—I don’t know if I would now.
I didn’t do it right the first time and now look at me.
Will didn’t do it at all, which feels like a work around. He’s only really diving into the wreck of Lily’s loss for the first time.
“Well, that’s how I feel,” he says, his jaw twitching as he pulls in a deep breath.
“I feel okay sometimes. Like Gen’s show.
I almost went.” His voice dips when he says her name, like it’s trying to skip across the open wound.
“I thought I was okay to go. But I wasn’t.
And that wouldn’t have been fair to her, you know?
She’s happy, and shit. Isn’t she?” He looks up at me, and all I can bear to do is nod.
“Of course she is. Good,” he says, jaw twitching.
He loved Gen. Loves her, probably. God, he is an emotional ravine, and here I am, knowing what I know now about my dad and Dan and…Lily. Fuck.
“And Lily?” I have to ask, because Ian’s suspicion has made everything about her death feel that much heavier. Because I know he really loved her, and I can’t imagine Sloane not existing at all.
But I can’t actually have Sloane, I realize, throat bobbing as I wait for Will to tell me something, anything to distract from reality outside of this brownstone.
Lying to her, after everything, at this point—I can’t.
It’s so fucking heavy, and there’s this small voice that is telling me I should’ve known I couldn’t have her.
She will exist, though. Just not with me. I don’t even want to think about the alternative, but Will’s had to live with that feeling everyday, so I concentrate on him. “Tell me you’ve been talking to someone about that because I can’t imagine it, Will. I don’t know how you were okay after that.”
“Well I wasn’t, was I?” he shrugs, his jaw working as he gazes back into the fire. “I have a therapist that Pops insisted I see.”
“Not your parents?” I think about what Sloane said about his mother, a subject we’ve skirted around since I’ve known him. Will’s gaze slides to mine, a cynical smirk curving on his face.
“You’ve never met my mom, have you?” His laugh is bitter. “I’m incredibly inconvenient to her. And Dan thinks I just need to get back to playing ball.”
The fire crackles as we let the silence stretch.
There are times when I think the universe is conspiring for me, but it’s never in the way I want.
I want things to work in the light, to land like a feather perfectly in place.
Not like this, with a thud and creak, falling in front of me with a slap.
Meeting Sloane felt like the former. Meeting my father was, in hindsight, the latter.
“And you think that’s a…bad idea?” I probe, gently, like I’m a fucking surgeon.
“Go back to Astor where he can pull my strings and control me even more? I’m in this pile of shit to begin with because I trusted him.
” He leans back against the arm chair, knocking his head back and I watch him.
His jaw works before he takes a breath and sits up.
“He encouraged me to move on. Downplayed everything. And I was so desperate not to feel like…”
“Like you feel now?”
He looks at me, grimacing. “Yeah,” he laughs. “My therapist says you can’t outrun the pain. Drinking stops working when you stop doing it. And then it’s just you and all your shit.”
The notion is haunting, but somewhere, in my marrow, I know it’s true. That energy is neither created nor destroyed; that these things we do and say and keep can only be transformed into something new. Outrunning them isn’t an option, as much as we might try.
But Will is running. Staying away from Astor is running.
It’s a coping mechanism he’s employing out of fear, not strength, and maybe coming back could be good for him.
The realization is a relief, but then it’s sour milk in my fucking throat because I’m someone who does this. Twists things for my benefit.
“Then come back,” I tell him, beyond the sick sliding down my neck. But really: he either runs or he doesn’t. I either run or I don’t. These are the beds we’ve made, whether he realizes it or not. “Don’t let Dan manipulate you into not doing what you love. Screw Dan Chapman. Screw feeling ashamed—”
“You don’t get it,” he huffs out. “They all hate me. And they should. I’m self-destructive. I need to…fix myself. Rehabilitate myself, if that’s even possible.”
“And that’s what you’re doing here? In this townhome designed for a geriatric patient?” I eye wheelchair lift. He probably spends his days peacefully dictating his grandfather’s daily diary and going for serene walks, and I’m asking him to watch Grant and Gen go at each other at Vida's.
“The home is accessible,” Will corrects me, and I can’t help but roll my eyes, feeling grateful for his humor.
“Seriously, man. How much more healing can you do being so isolated?”
He swallows, his hands gripping each other. “You know, I’m not drinking. Or any of that.”
“Oh. Shit.” I blink, taking him in again.
The sallowness has all but disappeared. The bags under his eyes are gone.
There hasn’t been a single weekend since we met where I didn’t see him with a hangover.
But that’s not uncommon in and of itself.
Still, I regret not noticing. I should’ve noticed. “Shit that’s…big, Will. I’m sorry—”
He shakes his head, smiling genuinely. “Stop. I’m not drinking, for now. I feel better. It kind of fucking sucks being in pain all the time,” he briefly chuckles. “But at Astor…I just, I don’t know.”
“That’s fair. But we can do other things,” I reassure him, just as the heavy front door opens, a bell jingling.
“We?” Will’s brow lifts in doubt, a grin growing on his face as he stands. “Look what the cat dragged in,” he laughs, and I stand to see Ben all bundled up in his winter coat. “Gonna convince me to come back, too?”
“Me?” Ben's voice booms, shocked amusement filling the room. “No way. I don’t want you back. Do you know how much easier my life is without sharing the captain spot?”
Will turns toward me, hope glittering in the back of his gaze. “Sold.” He strides toward his brother, grinning as he knocks shoulders with him. “Don’t tempt me with a good time, Benjamin.”
“Wait—really? Are you sure that’s—” Ben starts to say, caution settling between his brows.
“Smart? No,” he sighs, sending me a genuine smile that I work hard to reciprocate despite the guilt settling in my stomach. “But I can’t live the rest of my life in spite of Dan.”
Something proud and a little smug crosses Ben’s expression as his lips tug up in a smile. “Okay,” he says, rough–housing my shoulder. “Okay.”