“Says you, Lightweight Lawson,” I retort, turning away from her. I get bored of Rachael so easily. All she ever does is shake her head at me and comment on everything I do. What is up with everyone in my damn life trying to control me?
“That’s different,” she says. She takes several more steps into the room, standing directly in front of me so that I have no option but to look back up at her, even though I’m not interested in what she has to say. “I get drunkbecauseI’m a lightweight. You get drunk because youwantto.”
I sigh and keep my expression blank. “Are you done with your lecture?”
“Not really.” Taking a swig of her own drink, she sits down on the arm of the couch next to me and crosses one leg over the other. “I’m just letting you and that ego of yours”—she taps her index finger against my forehead—“know that you won’t be any less cool if you have a limit. It’s okay to turn down a drink.” She drops her gaze to the empty bottles of beer on the floor around us, and she frowns. “I think you’ve had a lot already.”
“Whatever, Rachael.” I nudge her away, pushing her off the couch, and she doesn’t put up much of a fight. I hope she’s happy now that she’s done her good deed for the day. She doesn’t say anything more, only sips at her drink as she turns and walks away. I listen to the sound of her footsteps on the stairs until they disappear, and then I drink from my own beer again.
I wait around for another half hour, texting Dean and Jake to see if they’re at the party yet or not, before I finally crack and lose my patience. I have been waiting two entire damn hours for the girls to get ready, and it’s becoming a joke. I finish off the beer in my hand, my seventh, then get to my feet. A wave of dizziness hits me, but I force my way through it and head for the stairs. If the girls aren’t ready, then screw it. I’ll go without them.
I push open the door to Tiffani’s room, and it smells of burned hair and perfume. The music is loud and pumping, and it feels stuffy in here. But, thankfully, the girls are all dressed and have their hair and makeup done. “Alright, can we head over there now?” I ask, stepping into the room and leaning against the doorframe. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Eden as she emerges from the bathroom.
She looks different. She looks like…them. Like Tiffani, like Rachael, like Meghan. Like a girl who is trying way too hard to impress. She’s wearing one of Tiffani’s tiny black dresses, and the only reason I know it belongs to Tiffani is because I remember tearing it off her a month ago. It’s tight and it’s short. I try not to look, even though I want to. But that would be weird.Stepsister, I think. It’s still an alien concept to me.
“Dean and Jake are already there,” I add quickly, trying to focus on something else.
“Do I look good?” Tiffani asks, not exactly answering my question. She twirls around in a circle, showing herself off, but she looks exactly the same as she always does. Way too overdressed in too few clothes, on the brink of suffocation, and slightly tacky.
“Baby, you look fine,” I tell her. Again, it’s what she wants to hear. I finish off the beer in my hand and set it on her dresser, then move closer to her. I’m aware that Eden is watching, so I grab Tiffani’s waist.“Real hot.” And then I kiss her, right there and then, because if there’s anything Tiffani loves more than herself, it’s having me kiss her while we have an audience. But I’m not doing it for her. No, I’m doing it to show Eden more of me. More of Tyler Bruce.
I want her to believe that I’m an asshole. A jerk. A moron.
13
Five Years Earlier
Friday night baseball games have become almost a tradition in our family. We like the Dodgers, and Dad has been taking me to games ever since I was young. And then Jamie came too when he was old enough, and then Chase, and now Mom wraps up early at the office on Fridays, so she comes along too. Every time the Dodgers play a home game on a Friday night, us Graysons are there.
That’s why we’re here now, at Dodger Stadium among the buzz of noise. Because it’s Friday night, and the Dodgers are playing at home against the Diamondbacks. Empty seats around the stadium are slowly filling up as the stragglers roll in, the commentator’s voice echoes out over the field, the evening sun is low. The game has just started.
I’m sitting forward on the edge of my seat, my hands interlocked between my knees. The Diamondbacks are batting, so my focus slips and I glance sideways at Jamie. He’s on the edge of his seat too, his eyes wide as he stares down at the field, invested in the game. I lean forward, looking beyond him to Chase. We’re up in the top deck, and he’s too short to see over the people in the row in front, so he’s on his feet, watching the game on the big screen instead. He’s wearing a Dodgers cap that’stoo big for his head, so it keeps falling down over his eyes. I sigh and look past him too, over to Mom and Dad. They’re talking among themselves, and Mom is leaning in close against him, her head resting on his shoulder. She’s wearing a cap too. Dad’s arm is around her, and they both laugh, their smiles genuine, their eyes locked on one another. I like it when they’re happy. I like that theymakeeach other happy.
“Oh, Chase!” Mom laughs. She sits up and nudges Dad’s arm off her. Placing her hands on Chase’s shoulders, she gently pulls him closer to her and swipes his cap, then she places it on his head backward instead. “I think your dad should buy you a smaller size on our way out.”
“That’s right, buddy,” Dad says, leaning forward to look at Chase past Mom. He grins wide, and he and Chase bump fists in agreement. His gaze flickers up to meet mine, and his smile widens as he glances between Jamie and me. “Are you guys hungry?”
Jamie tears his attention away from the field and looks at Dad, confused. “But it’s still the first inning,” he states. We usually wait until the third before we get hot dogs—another of our traditions.
“By the time I get to the front of the line, itwillbe the third inning!” Mom says, getting to her feet. She grabs her purse from the floor. “Hot dogs coming right up!” She squeezes around Dad, but before she leaves, he reaches up for the bill of her cap and pulls her down toward him, kissing her. Then, she shuffles off along the row.
“Tyler,” Dad says. He fixes his gaze on me and nods after her. “Help your mom.”
Quickly, I stand up and push my way past Jamie and Chase, then practically climb over Dad’s long legs. He watches me closely, his mouth still showing a hint of a smile. He’s relaxed tonight. He usually is on a Friday. I awkwardly sidestep my way down our row and then race to catch up with Mom further back inside the stadium. There’sfood and merchandise stalls every few hundred yards, and the lines are long and weaving. “Oh, Tyler,” Mom says as I approach her at the back of one of the food stall lines. She looks down at me, unaware that I’ve been following. “You’re missing the game!”
“It’s okay,” I say with a small shrug. “Dad asked me to help. The Diamondbacks are batting anyway.” I don’t even want to think about the look Dad would have given me if I’d said no to him, if I’d whined and told him I wanted to stay and watch the game. He’s been in a good mood today and he’s been smiling a lot, but I don’t want to test him. Dad never stays in a good mood for too long, at least not with me.
“Hmm,” Mom says teasingly, pursing her lips as she pretends to think. She smiles wide at me, her blue eyes sparkling. Why don’t I look like her? “Who raised you to be such a good kid?”
“You did,” I answer. I smile back up at her, but it’s sort of fake. Dad raised me too, and I’m notallowedto be anything less than good. Iama good kid, but only because I’m too scared not to be. That’s why I always try to remember my manners, always work hard in school, always do my best to stay out of trouble. Sometimes, even that isn’t enough.
Mom laughs and runs her hand through my hair, playfully ruffling it before she rests her arm over my shoulders. We move forward in line. “Ketchup, no mustard, right?”
I nod and she turns her attention to the food stall as we slowly progress toward it. She doesn’t notice that I’m staring at her, watching her calm features and wondering if she would ever believe me. I want her to know the truth. I want her to know that I’m scared, that I don’t know what Dad will do next to hurt me, but I don’t know how to tell her. She loves him. Would she still love him if she knew? Dad would never forgive me if I ruined all of that. And Mom… I want her toknow so that she can help me, so that maybe she could ask Dad to stop. But I also don’t want to see her sad. I like it when she smiles. I like it when she’s happy. I like it when they both are.
That’s why I’ve never told her. That’s why I never will. I can’t. I’m terrified to, because I don’t know what will happen if I do. Would Mom still loveme?
“Hold this for your dad,” Mom says, and she slides a cold cup of beer into my hand. I blink fast, realizing that we’re suddenly at the front of the line and Mom has already ordered our food. Did I zone out again? I need to stop doing that. “Keep it down low.”
