My chest aches in a way it never has before. “Maybe I wanted you there early, Mom. Maybe I wanted you to stay after. Maybe I wanted you or Dad to see—” My voice breaks and I fucking hate that it does. “You know what? Fuck it. Just fuck it.”
“He has to come first. He needed his medication and I had to get him back and—”
“I know.” It’s futile. I lost the right to need anything from them the night of the accident.
“We need to keep our voices down. He needs his rest,” she says, trying to usher me out of the room.
“I wanted to see him tonight, Mom. And you and Dad.” I turn to face her in this house that no longer feels like home to me. “I don’t get the time to have with him and you didn’t come early like you said you would. You didn’t let him meet the guys. You didn’t—”
“You just don’t understand how things are, Hunter.” And there it is. My name is spoken with so much derision that I don’t think she hears it anymore.
“Yeah, I do. You see me and you see who he could have been. You look in my eyes and know everything changed—your life, his life, my—”
“You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself,” she bites out, and again, I’m reminded why I kept busy all day with publicity stints for the team. Why I hope every time I come home things might change and then hurt when I realize they never will.
“What about you, Mom? You’ve fired every nurse I’ve hired to come in here and help you out.”
“No one will take care of my son but me.”
“You need to get out more. Go back to teaching or something.” Maybe I say the words I know will cause a fight like every other time so I have a reason to leave. Maybe I poke the sleeping bear so I can find my way out of this house. So I can breathe again.
“We’ve had this discussion a million times. You may have run away . . . but we didn’t.”
“Ran away?” I cough the words out. “Is that what you called it? Pushing me to be everything Jonah was supposed to be? Letting me know every damn chance you had that I would never be him. That I would never be enough.” I clench my fists and resist the urge to punch the wall. “Look at me.” I throw my hands out to my side, my voice rising. “I’m one of the best goddamn NHL players on the ice right now and neither of you can see it. Neither of you can acknowledge I’ve lived up to every one of your fucking goals. And yet, it’s still not enough. It’s still not Jonah.”
“Hunter.” My father’s voice comes as a low warning from the other room. His constant aversion of anything about to show.
“Honey.” My mom repeats the tepid warning in her placating tone. “Don’t upset your father. His heart . . . it’s fragile.”
“It seems everything is fragile in this house,” I grit out, running a hand through my hair and blowing out an unsatisfying sigh.
Nothing fucking changes.
“It’s been a long day,” she murmurs.
“Got it. I know. You’re tired. He’s tired. It’s been a long night, and I should get going because I’m upsetting the balance here.” I walk back toward my brother and look at him one last time before leaving. She turns the lamp off so the light from the open door paints a swath across his cheek.
All I can do is stare at him. At his face that was once the mirror image of mine. At the hands tucked away that I used to play catch with. At the memories I hold closer than anything in the world while hating them all too. At the person I’ve tried the hardest to become.
And wonder, for the millionth time if I’d have been better off being the one in the bed instead of being the one who lives with the guilt for putting him there.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
HUNTER
16 years earlier
EACH NAIL I POUND INTO the fence does nothing to abate my resentment.
You think you deserve to go, Hunter? You think with sprint times like that I’m going to reward you for slacking and let you go?
Another nail.
Jonah has your time beat by a full second. Christ. There’s a reason he’s being scouted by the top schools and clubs in the country and you’re not.
I drop the next nail as I try to hold it in place with hands shaking with anger. When I bend over to pick it up I realize my jaw is sore from clenching it so tightly.
He’s got everything going for him. School. Hockey. That Terry girl. What do you have going for you? What do you do that doesn’t require me asking you to do it twice?
I pound the head of the nail so hard into the shitty shed at old man Watson’s house that the face of the hammer leaves a round circle in the weathered wood.
So no, Hunter. You can’t go to junior prom tonight or whatever the fuck it’s called. You’ll fix Mr. Watson’s shed while he’s out of town. You’ll pick up your mom from work for me since Jonah’s using the other car. Then you’ll meet me at the rink at seven o’clock, and you better be ready to skate. Your whole class will be at the dance, and you’ll be here making up for slacking off. Maybe then . . . you’ll learn your lesson.
I drop my arms to my sides and raise my face to the late afternoon sun, trying to catch my breath that keeps getting robbed by the emotions I don’t want to feel.
Hatred.
Resentment.
Fury.
Fucking jealousy.
It’s not Jonah’s fault he’s perfect. It’s my fault I’m not the fucking golden boy.
He’s the one set up with a full-ride already, Hunter. Full fucking ride to Boston College, one of the best hockey programs in the country. And what are you going to do, huh? Stay here and be a bagger at Stop & Shop? Why can’t you apply yourself and make us proud? You’ll never be Jonah, but you can at least be something.
My hands ball into fists. I fight the urge to punch the stupid wall of the shed, because I’d either break my knuckles or the whole damn thing will collapse, and then I’ll be stuck here for even longer.
My cell rings and I sigh.
“What do you want now?” I snap at Jonah.
“Mom’s getting off work early and she needs you to pick her up,” he says. Laughter in the background has me gritting my teeth. Nothing like a pre-dance beer or two while the girls are at the salon getting ready.
“Get her your fucking self,” I mutter.
“Dude. I can’t.” He laughs at something someone else says. “Please, bro.”
“You’re the reason she doesn’t have her car tonight. You fucking get her,” I say. “I’m the one finishing the shit you didn’t at Watson’s.”
“I’ll finish it tomorrow. Don’t worry about it.”
“Can’t. It’s part of Dad’s punishment for me. You know, picking up your shit while you’re busy being perfect.”
He sighs. I know it’s not his fault. I know he’s stood up for me with Dad more times than he should have. I know he hates the difference in treatment between us just as much as I do.
But it doesn’t change a fucking thing.
He’s perfect, outstanding, everything my dad wanted in a son and hockey player.
I’m mediocre, insignificant, the son my dad has never needed.