To this day, that's my fucking life motto.
Deciding to call him later, I go to put my phone back into my armband, but it rings before I can get it in place. Since the music isn't playing, the call doesn't go unnoticed.
Seeing it's Emmerson, I decide to answer. Pushing the green phone icon, I hear the line connect in the one bud I left in my ear. Crackling static greets me before it levels out, and I hear him on the other line.
"'Sup, bro."
Stepping onto the treadmill, I snap my phone back into my armband, reprogram the treadmill, replace the other earbud, and start easing into a slow jog once more.
"Please, tell me you didn't know," he says by way of greeting, which takes me completely off guard.
"Know what?" I ask, getting back into my rhythm.
Emmerson is quiet on the other end, probably trying to see if I'm playing around with him. But I'm not. I really have no idea what he's talking about. I know a lot of things. He has to be a bit more specific.
"Oh, fuck. You really don't know, do you?" his voice is nothing more than a rasp, quiet and sad, instantly putting me on edge.
"Know what, motherfucker?" My jaw tics as I have to repeat myself. Emmerson knows I hate when I'm forced to do that.
Finally, he says, "What are you doing right now?"
"Baseball practice. We're training for the season," I reply.
Like I should have to tell him this. He is obsessed with GOU baseball. He knows beforehand what the GOU team is doing, where they're going to be, and who they're playing. If I didn't know any better, I'd say Emmerson is the one who makes the schedule we go by.
"After practice, what are you doing?" he pesters.
Of all the times Emmerson calls to bother me, it has to be now. When I’m going through this shit? I don’t have time for it. Nor do I want to fuck with whatever he has up his sleeve. For all I know, Emmerson could be playing some elaborate prank, and he’s using this tactic to throw me off.
Emmerson has been known to cause a bit of a ruckus, and I’m just not having it. There’s too much going on in my life right now—a lot of questions and not enough answers. I know the easiest way to get those would be to go talk to Owen, but I can’t bring myself to do that yet. I’ve spent the last three years, allowing my hatred to burn freely, and it just doesn’t shut off overnight.
It didn’t with Harloe, either. The only thing that broke me out of that bottomless pit of anger was her almost dying at the hands of Cassandra. By drowning of the toilet, no less. My stubbornness to do what Emmerson begged me to was forcefully pushed to the side at that exact moment. I saw what I didn’t want to see and the reason I still felt anything toward her.
I still love that girl with every fiber of my being.
Even with the way she did me, I found myself wanting—needing—to forgive her. Bunch of bullshit, but I couldn’t help it. Every time she looks at me. Every time she says my name with that sensual husk rattling her voice, I fall prey to it.
And now, Harloe has turned my entire life on its head. Saying she never cheated on me with Owen. That they never got together. I’ve barely been able to focus on my classes due to her allegations that he’s lying. Why would he lie about fucking my girlfriend? What would he have to gain?
Nothing. That’s the point. Owen would gain absolutely nothing from admitting to tarnishing our relationship.
But her eyes …
The way she sounded completely aghast at just the thought …
I’m so fucking confused. Goddammit, I don’t know what to believe anymore.
All I know is … he was supposed to be my brother, my blood. The family was always before everything with us!
All the while, my brother expects me to sweep it under the rug. And every time I tell him to get fucked, he has the gall to appear like I offended him. Like, I should forgive him for his sins because he’s my brother.
No, it doesn’t fucking work like that.
You can’t expect someone with pieces of themselves missing to make you whole again.
How can you do family like that, man? How can you rip apart their very existence, then expect to come back asking them to put it behind them like it never happened? How can he expect everything to go back to normal?
What is normal? I haven’t felt a semblance of normal for the past three years. Not until Harloe walked back on campus and the very sight of her fucking shocked me straight.
Now, I’m stuck trying to catch my breath, and I’m here to say just the thought of doing that is hard. It’s hard because it’s something I’ve long since forgotten how to do.
"Getting my dick sucked," I reply sarcastically, trying my best to suppress the burning rage. I need to run, get it all out of my system. That’s the only way I’ll be able to function. "Dammit, man, what do you want?"
He's acting weird, and that's saying something. Besides baseball, girls, and weed, Emmerson doesn't really care about too many things. Truly.
Mom and Dad tried to get him to care about which college he wants to apply to next year, and the fucker sat there like they were both idiots. Emmerson just doesn't care unless it interests him. So, whatever has him in a fit must be some epic.
"In a half hour, go to Buck's Barbecue. Someone will be there who has to talk to you." Before I can reply, he hangs up, leaving me completely flabbergasted.
Glancing down at the screen of my phone, I nurse a coke while I wait for this elusive someone to show up. Emmerson said a half hour, and it's been close to nearly an hour. And to think, I left practice early for this bullshit. Coach is going to have my ass come Wednesday.
Swiping my finger across the screen, I tap out a quick text to Emmer.
Me: I'm going to kick your ass next time I see you. Fucker isn't here.
Within seconds, the three bubbles pop up next to his name, signaling he's about to reply.
Emmerson: Suck it. Trust me, bro. You'll want to hear what he has to say.
Me: Who is it? Plus, how do you know my business?
Emmerson: Walls are thin, bro.
Putting my hand over my mouth, I rub at the scruff of hair lining my jawline. His cryptic words stay with me, long after the light on my cell phone goes dark. It isn't until an imposing force comes to stand beside the table that I look up.
Confusion rocks me in my seat. "Duncan? Well, fuck, I haven't seen you in ages."
I make to stand up, but his stony expression has me pausing with my ass halfway off the seat. He looks pissed. And if you know Duncan Rose, anything that means angry is most definitely not in his vocabulary.
He's a laid back, carefree kind of guy. That's one of the reasons we were all friends in high school. Of course, Duncan was closer to Owen than he ever was with me, but that's beside the point. We all hung out.
When he makes no move to sit down or even say a word, just keeps staring at me like I'm an insect under his shoe he'd like nothing better than to squash, I can't hold my tongue anymore.
"What do you want?"
He cocks a brow as if I should already know. “You have the gall to ask me what I want?"
I get the feeling that's a redundant question, but can't help from replying. This whole situation just got really freaking weird. "That'd be nice, yeah."