8. Fight
FIGHT
Fisher pushed his legs through another lap around the track, relishing the burn that stole his breath. He hated running. And he especially hated running alone, but given the fact that Drie was no longer speaking to him, he didn’t have much else to do.
He wasn’t interested in going out if she wasn’t there to keep him company.
He couldn’t sit at home and watch television without feeling like he was cheating.
And attempting to sleep was pointless because he knew he’d simply lie awake, replaying the last two encounters he’d had with her and the long list of regrets that lay like a stone in his gut.
Fisher knew he shouldn’t have entered a relationship with her so quickly after his previous one had imploded, but like a bad cliché, from the moment he’d met her, he’d been lost. Her very presence was a hit of dopamine, and he’d craved more.
But even if his mistakes meant that he’d lost her completely, Fisher’s primary regret was that he’d let it go on for too long, so scared of telling her the truth that he’d created his own self-fulfilling prophecy: allowing the relationship to reach a point where they’d lost sight of the path back.
He had not only ruined their relationship, but he’d fucked their friendship so severely that he couldn’t see how a future was possible any longer.
The idea of such a reality was so bleak, so intolerable a prospect, that he couldn’t sit still.
So, the alternative was to work. And then to run. And when he was finally tired enough to fall out on the track’s asphalt, he’d walk to their park and take up residence on his side of the swings. Waiting and hoping.
When the stars above mocked his loneliness with their boundless perpetuity, he was forced to accept the simple truth of the matter.
She wasn’t coming. Only then would he trudge the way back to his apartment and collapse into bed for another night of unsettled sleep and scattered dreams that he never remembered fully—just brief snatches of crystal-blue eyes or a solitary black bird flying free, high above his head.
A bone-deep yearning would rise within, urging him to call out to it, to stretch out an arm in a hopeless wave, but then it would be gone, so far beyond his reach that the notion alone was laughable.
It was from one of those nightmares that he woke to the ringing of his phone, his arm already outstretched as he snatched the device from his bedside table, his eyes blurry as he hoped for the impossible.
Until his sister’s contact image met him, and the spark of life he’d felt was doused in an instant.
“Hello,” Fisher answered, his voice gritty with sleep as he checked the time on his watch. He didn’t have to be at the library for another hour.
“You sound like shit,” Brea said, never one to beat around the bush. “Are you sick?”
His chest clenched. Drie had asked him that same thing, a week prior, when he’d finally tracked her down in the shitty little annex library that she was only using in an effort to avoid him—a fact he’d steadfastly chosen to ignore when he bulldozed his way in and confronted her over the hurt he’d caused, making the entire situation a million times worse.
“I’m fine,” he lied. “What’s up?”
Brea hummed, disbelief clear in her tone.
“So Mom asked me to call. She’s hosting family dinner tomorrow night and wants you to bring the girlfriend.
” Fisher’s eyes slid shut as Brea continued.
“She said to tell you that you can’t hide her from us forever and that if she has to, she’ll drive down there herself to find the girl.
And Fish, I may come with her. This is crazy.
Why are you so hell-bent on keeping her from meeting us?
Is she, like, famous, or something? A criminal? May—”
“No,” he gritted, his tone sharp.
“In that case, there’s no reason not to bring her.
” She paused, her voice gentling a degree as she added, “I thought you were just trying not to run into Rena, but Mom thinks you’re avoiding us because of something I said, and, well…
” She paused, dragging in a breath and letting the second half of her sentence escape with an exhale, “I’msorryforwhatIsaid. ”
Fisher pulled the phone from his ear, blinking at the contact, just to confirm that it was, in fact, his sister he was speaking to.
In all the years of their childhood, he’d received maybe—maybe—five apologies.
And those were only delivered under the strict orders of their mother, with a dangerous ultimatum hanging over her head like a threatening guillotine of noncompliance.
But he knew there was no possibility that their mother had managed to coerce an apology out of adult Brea. Besides…there was something in her tone, something real, that drove home how serious she was. It didn’t matter, however, as he remembered what it was she was asking for.
“I’m not bringing her.”
“Why the hell not?” Brea snapped, all semblance of civility gone in an instant. “I can be nice. I’m a pleasant person. I’m a fucking delight, Fisher.”
He scoffed, rolling his eyes as he ran a hand over his face. “It’s not about you, Brea.”
“Then it’s Rena? She’s not even in town this weekend, I swear.
It’s just us. Mom, Dad, Tristan. Well, and Connor and the kids.
And probably Sawyer. Shep had some business event he had to go to, of course.
And I’d bet Thatch shows up last-minute.
Oh, and I think Mom said Uncle Mark may be bringing the boys. You know how—”
“We broke up,” he interrupted, stopping her before she could run through the entire list of their cousins, who would all, more likely than not, make an appearance.
“Why?” she asked, her tone so incredulous that his hackles rose in response.
“Why are you surprised?” He volleyed back, enjoying the anger that flooded his system in the wake of her question, overshadowing the hopelessness that followed him around like a personal little cloud, drowning him in its dreariness.
“You were the one who said it was ridiculous, weren’t you?
The one who said it didn’t sound very serious.
That she was just emotional support. That she’d get tired of me.
That she’d not wait forever.” Fisher scoffed, his vision reddening as he lurched from the bed, tunneling a hand through his hair as he began to pace.
“You should be pleased to know it’s over.
To know you were right. Where’s my I told you so, Brea? Huh?”
“I didn’t mean—I was just—”
“Wanting me to break up with her?” he supplied. “Well, you got your wish. She’s done with me now. Happy?”
“No, I just thought—”
“What? What did you think?” he shouted, wanting her to rage back at him. To make him feel something other than the endless guilt and heartbreak and regret tearing him apart from the inside out.
“I thought you were embarrassed of me,” she yelled. The words sucked the wind from his sails, drawing him up short, his eyes wide and unseeing as he stared through the wall.
“What?”
“I’m your twin, Fish, and I’ve seen you, like, twice this year.
It’s almost September. You met this girl, and you just went and disappeared off the face of the earth.
You don’t talk about her. You don’t bring her home.
I don’t even know her name. What was I supposed to think?
I didn’t want you with somebody who’s going to take you out of my life permanently.
Is that so fucking bad? Why couldn’t I meet her? ”
“That’s not…” Fisher groaned at the poorly disguised hurt in her question, wondering if there would ever be a limit to his screw-ups. “I could never be embarrassed of you, Brea. How could I? You’ve always been the better twin.”
“Damn straight,” his sister agreed, both of them careful to ignore the sniffle she attempted to muffle. “Then why?”
He sighed. “Does it matter? It’s over.”
Brea hummed again in that obnoxious way she did when she had thoughts. “It does matter. I want to know, damn it. It’s been driving me crazy for months.”
“I didn’t love her.” He grunted, the words acidic on his tongue. “Not in the way she deserved. And so I avoided you all because you would’ve known, right off the bat. You would’ve called me out on it, and then she would’ve left me.”
“I don’t, uh—I don’t understand that,” she said after a beat, the words slow and stretched.
“What do you not understand?” Fisher asked as he dropped back down to sit on the bed, hanging his head as he waited.
“Why—Um, I don’t even know how to ask this. How…” She paused. “Okay, uh—why, then, are you upset?”
“What do you mean, why am I upset? I just went through a breakup.”
“But you just said you didn’t love her…”
“And?”
“Well.” She huffed. “If you didn’t love her, dipshit, then why the hell do you care about losing her?”
“I—’Cause—” he stammered. “She’s my best friend!”
“Then apologize.”
“I tried.”
“Then try harder. Love is to fight,” she said, repeating their dad’s favorite quote, handed down from his father before him.
It had taken on a life of its own over the years, serving as a sort of motto for the family.
But like all Bree things, it wasn’t applicable to his relationship.
Fisher had tried to fight. He wanted to fight, but he didn’t know how.
“It’s not that simple.”
“Hmmm,” Brea hummed, making him clench his jaw in aggravation.
“And what about the dinner tomorrow?” She pivoted, nearly giving him whiplash.
“I’m still not coming.” Fisher cringed at the tangible disappointment he could very nearly taste over the line.
“I’m—Brea, I’m sorry I haven’t been around more.
I wasn’t avoiding you. And I promise I’ll visit soon.
It’s just—it’s all really fresh, and I need a little time to get over this, alright? To get my head on straight.”
The silence lingered. “You’ll stay in touch, though? No more ghosting?”
“No more ghosting,” he promised. “Love you, Brea Bree.”
“Love you, too, Fish.”