8.
Where Tyson Attends
the Most Awkward Party Ever
“MY GOD,” Corey breathes as we pull up to the Green Monstrosity. “Photos do not do justice to this house. This… this is beyond epic.”
It is. It always has been. The Green Monstrosity is way past epic. A two-story piece of offensive architecture that rises out of the suburbs like a big fuck you to the rest of the neighborhood. It’s weird, really, the feeling that hits me when I see it again for the first time in close to four years. It is epic yes, the green so grotesque it should be illegal, but it’s still just a house like any other. It has walls and a roof and a yard.
So why then, when we pull up next to it, the driveway already full of cars I don’t recognize, does a lump form in my throat? Why is it that I can feel heat prick my eyes? It’s just a house. That’s all it is.
But that’s a lie. It’s more than that. The Green Monstrosity was the first time since I could remember that I knew that maybe, just maybe, things would be okay for Bear and me. We said good-bye to the hole-in-the-wall apartments with the gross carpets and the peeling walls. We said good-bye to a life where we existed merely by floating along. We said good-bye to the life where I wasn’t sure we’d make it, though I tried to put on a brave face, at least as much as a nine-year-old ecoterrorist-in-training could do. I was just a little guy, but I would have torn the world apart with my bare hands for my brother if called upon to do it.
It’s just a house, yes, but it’s also more than that. It’s a sign that things could get better.
“Please tell me you’re never going to paint over that,” Corey says. “Seriously. It’s like the Jolly Green Giant masturbated all over your house.”
“And there’s an image that will never leave my head,” Bear says.
“Would his semen be green?” Otter wonders out loud. “That seems like it could be true. And very gross.”
“It’d probably taste like peas and carrots too,” Corey says.
“At least it’d be good for you,” I say. “Maybe that’s what the mashed peas baby food is.”
“That is foul and offensive,” Corey says. “Most likely correct as well.”
“Thank God this is already starting,” Bear says. “We’ve been home for a minute and we’re already discussing the Jolly Green Giant jacking off for baby food. For once in our lives, could we please have a normal conversation before we enter a social gathering?”
“Bear’s just upset because now that’s all he’s going to think about,” Otter explains to Corey. “It’ll probably make him feel a tad bit aroused.”
“Gross!” I groan. “I do not want to think about Bear getting turned on because of the Jolly Green Giant. Or for anything. You guys keep your weird role playing to yourselves.”
“We don’t role-play Jolly Green Giant!” Bear says, sounding insulted. “Canned-food-mascot sex is not one of my kinks.”
“You have kinks?” Corey asked, ears perking up. “Dish. Now.”
“Never in your dreams,” Bear assures him.
“You can tell me,” Corey says. “I’d listen.”
“That’s my brother,” I say as I smack him. “And my Otter, who is my sort of dad-brother. That is not okay.”
“We could get, like, a green body suit,” Otter tells Bear. “And tape green leaves and asparagus to you or something. That’d be kinda hot.”
“This is why I have to go to therapy,” I say to Corey. “Because of stuff like this. It happens all the time.”
“You want to tape asparagus to me?” Bear asks. “I could probably get into that.”
“It’s good to know that even old people can get funky,” Corey tells me. “Gives me hope when I’m their age in like forty years.”
“That was probably not the best thing you could have said,” I say as Bear starts to sputter indignantly.
“Old? I will punch your kidney right out of your body, you little—”
“He won’t really,” I say. “He just likes to sound tough. He couldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Isn’t it normally wouldn’t hurt a fly?”
“Normally. But this is Bear. He couldn’t even do that.”
“Once again,” Otter says, “I don’t quite know how we got to this point.”
“That seems to be a common occurrence with you guys,” Corey says. “I can’t wait until we go to dinner. I’ve heard Bear gets loaded on wine and cries, and then the whole thing dissolves into a big case of what-the-fuckery where everyone talks at once, and it usually ends in overshared feelings and hugging.”
“That was one time!”
“What about the Kid’s high school graduation dinner?” Otter asks.
“And when you got that teaching contract?” I ask.
“And when the New Yorker bought that photo of that homeless encampment I took?” Otter says.
“And when I made the dean’s list my first year?” I say. My first and only time.
“I might have a drinking problem,” Bear mutters.
“And an emotional-style vomiting problem,” Otter says.
“And a verbal diarrhea problem,” I say.
“It was the Green Monstrosity,” Corey says, trying to reign us all in. “That’s how we got here.”
Bear shrugs. “We talked about repainting it, especially when the paint started to peel on the siding. Couldn’t bring myself to do it. Didn’t feel right.”
“It took the Home Depot paint guy at least three weeks to match it,” Otter says. “I’m pretty sure he had to go to the Russian black market to find the components to get the color right.”
Bear rolled his eyes. “It’s wasn’t that hard. He just wanted you to keep coming in so he could flirt with you.”
“You were just projecting your insecurities on him, dear. He wasn’t flirting with me.”
“Oh really? Was I? So I suppose it totally matters to paint color when he asked you how much you worked out and that he thought you were just so vascular. He laughed like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman at every single thing you said!”
“I’m funny,” Otter says. “And vascular.”
“You’re not that funny. And when your veins stick out, it’s gross.”
“That’s not what you said last night.”
Bear grins and rolls his eyes.
“Last night?” I say in horror. “In the hotel? We were sharing the same room!”
Bear shrugs. “That’s why the bathrooms have locks.”
“Home Depot guy definitely wanted your penis,” Corey says.
“Here we are,” I mutter. “Back to the penises. I’m never going to get out of therapy. I’ll be in my nineties and still haunted by the memories of Bear and Otter as sexual beings.”
“Way sexual,” Bear says.
“Super sexual,” Otter agrees. “Asparagus and all.”
“I hate you all.”
“Teenage angst is hysterical,” Bear says.
“Such a little drama queen,” Otter says.
“They’re funny,” Corey tells me. “You’re very lucky.”
“Go fuck yourself, sunshine,” I reply.
“Hey!” a voice shouts from outside the car.
We all look.
Creed Thompson stands at the door. What can only be described as a miniature version of him stands next to him, imitating the crossed-arm pose of his father. One looks intimidating as all hell. The other is Creed.
“You guys just going to sit there all day?” he yells at us.
“Yeah, all day, you guys?” JJ shouts in echo.
Others begin to pile up behind them: Anna. Stephanie and Ian Grant, her mom and dad. Alice and Jerry Thompson, Otter and Creed’s parents.
I begin to wonder why it took me so long to come back.
The rain stops as I open the car door.
I WALK through the front door, and this is what I see:
Stairs, leading up to the second floor. For a long time after his accident, Bear and I hovered around Otter every time he attempted to climb them, even though he weighed more than both of us combined. We always thought we could at least cushion his fall.
The sunken living room, a relic of the seventies, where the old couches are. At Christmas, Bear and Otter sat on those couches and listened as I regaled them with the most epic Christmas poems in the history of the world. Santa/Satan never stood a chance. I think I still have them. Somewhere.
The kitchen where I burned the Thanksgiving turkey on purpose one year, with no thought to potentially burning down the house. Everyone had to eat edamame. I think Otter almost cried. I counted it as a win. I might have been a slightly manipulative little shit when I was younger.
The hallway around the corner where I found Dominic and Stacey. I look away.
Up the stairs and there’s an open door that leads to my room. Albert Einstein sticks his tongue out at me, though the edges of his poster are now curled. A battered copy of Brave New World sits on a shelf next to a shell I picked up the day we let Mrs. Paquinn go into the ocean.
A shirt hangs on the wall, put there when I became too big for it. MEAT ISN’T NEAT, it says.
Pictures in mismatched frames are scattered on the desk. I don’t know why I left them behind. I guess I thought I’d always be back sooner than I was.
I’m one, and Bear holds me in his arms, his forehead against mine. I know who took the picture, but she doesn’t deserve my thoughts.
I’m five, and I’m sitting on Bear’s shoulders at the beach, laughing. I don’t remember about what. It doesn’t matter because I was with my big brother.
I’ve just turned nine, and I’m bouncing in a jumping castle at a birthday party I didn’t know was going to happen. I thought then that it was the best day of my life.
I’m nine, and I’m standing with Otter in front of the Green Monstrosity, both of us covered in dirt and sweat. Otter’s arm is around my shoulder as I hug his leg.
I’m ten, and Dominic and I are in the backyard, our foreheads together as we conspire. Over what, I can’t remember.
I’m twelve, and Dominic and I are camping with Bear and Otter. He and I are walking side by side, backpacks hanging off our shoulders. I’m half his height, and for every step he took, I had to take three to catch up.
I’m thirteen, and there’s Dominic.
I’m fourteen, and he’s by my side.
I’m… I don’t know. I’m some random age and Dominic is there. He’s always there.
The last picture is just him, his first day in uniform with the Seafare Police Department. The uniform fit him well. I remember thinking with a dark sense of wonder just how handsome he looked, just how wonderful he was. How big his arms looked. How strong his thighs were.
“Kid?” Creed calls from up the stairs. “You hungry?”
I allow myself to touch the picture just once. It seems only fair.
IT DOESN’T take very long before Corey’s prediction of our patented brand of what-the-fuckery to raise its Hydra-like head. I really don’t think it’s a question of if anymore, but more when. There’s no way you can put this family together in a room without all our crazy coming out to play.
Maybe I should have known when I come down the stairs and see Corey pouring Bear a glass of wine, dropping me a secretive wink as he hands my distracted brother the glass, which is filled to the brim.
Maybe I should have known when Stephanie Grant hands me a dish of asparagus to take out to the back patio, and all I can think about is Bear dressed as the Jolly Green Giant and I throw up a little bit in my mouth.
Maybe I should have known when I walked by Creed telling his son a knock-knock joke that involves a dirty rabbit, all the while warning him that he would put him up for adoption if he ever told his mother where he’d heard it. “And not the good adoption agency,” Creed said. “The bad one where they hang the kids in the closets by their thumbs when they’re bad.”
Maybe I should have known when I went back inside to grab the plates and I heard Otter say to Bear quietly, “We don’t have to do this now, okay? If you’re not ready, then we don’t have to do it. This is you and me, okay? I’m fine if that’s all there is. You know that, Papa Bear.”
Bear nodded and took another drink of wine. He looks extraordinarily nervous about something, which does not bode well for his sobriety.
Maybe I should have known when Alice Thompson handed her husband Jerry another bottle of wine as the first one was almost gone between the old people.
Maybe I should have known when we all sat down and Corey eyed us all with an anticipatory Machiavellian gleam.
Maybe I should have known. But apparently I didn’t.
Did you hear that? That was me sighing.
You should know by now how these things start.
Yeah, that’s right. With the “what we’re thankful for” prayer. Can I get a motherfucking amen? Hallelujah!
“Hey, God,” Alice says after we all join hands and bow our heads. “It’s us again. Thank you for the bounty you’ve bestowed up on us.” I crack open an eye and see that the main entrée in the middle resembles Slimer from Ghostbusters. It’s obviously vegetarian, but it still looks like it’s alive. Alice is awesome, but her cooking is a crime against humanity. “I’m thankful for the fact that our family is back together again, finally! Please watch over Tyson as he begins a grand new adventure.”
That’s a polite way of putting it, I guess. It’s the thought that counts.
Ian, Anna’s dad, is next, as always. “I’m thankful for the health of my family, and that my grandson will probably give the Kid a run for his money in the smarts department.” He doesn’t see that JJ is picking his nose with a fork and staring at the ceiling. I’m not too worried about having my position usurped.
Stephanie Grant is next. “I’m thankful for being able to find another job so quickly after being laid off.”
Quiet appreciation.
Anna says, “I’m thankful for my son and my husband, even if they leave dirty socks on the floor in the kitchen.”
Creed says, “I’m thankful that my wife knows my secret hiding place for my dirty socks.”
JJ says, “Hey, Mom! I heard a really funny joke from… some guy… named…. Leed. What do you call a—”
“JJ,” Creed coughs loudly. “This is not joke time. This is thankful time. You need to say what you’re thankful for or we won’t be able to eat the gigantic booger that my mom made.”
“It’s kale and spinach lasagna,” Alice says cheerfully. “Though it doesn’t look quite like the picture.”
JJ sighs. “I don’t know why we have to eat vegetables just because Uncle Ty is here. Dad says that not having meat in a meal is like clubbing baby seals.”
“I didn’t quite say it like that,” Creed says hastily.
“Maybe we can just skip JJ today,” Anna says.
“I can do it! I’m thankful for… for… my Xbox 360 and Call of Duty.”
“Which you are not supposed to be playing because it’s too violent,” Anna says sternly.
“Dad said I could but only when you’re not… uh. Never mind.”
“Dude,” Creed groaned. “Not cool.”
“When you see your dad sleeping on the couch,” Anna says to her son, “just remember I still love him very much.”
“Oh,” JJ says. “Does that mean you’re getting a divorce?”
Anna laughs. “Oh, sweetheart. Probably.”
“I’m okay with that as long as I get two Christmases. My friend Jack says that his parents got divorced and now they compete for his love with presents.”
“I’d only buy you dog food,” Creed promises.
“Well!” Jerry says. “I’m thankful that Bear, Otter, and the Kid have decided to move back to Seafare, at least for the time being. It’s been tough having them on the far coast. And I’m thankful Corey has decided to spend the summer here.”
Next to me, Corey grins, his head still bowed. “I’m thankful for everything that has happened in the last four minutes. And for being here.”
He squeezes my hand. “I’m thankful that even with everything changing out there in the world, I can come home and find that nothing has changed here,” I say. Easy enough. Filled with things better left unsaid. They know. Time to move along.
I squeeze Bear’s hand. Only then do I notice it’s sweaty. And that he’s way tense. And that he’s almost vibrating.
Oh, balls. I don’t know if I want to know what is going to come out of his mouth.
We’re quiet as we wait. His grip gets tighter on my hand.
“Bear?” I hear Otter whisper. “You okay?”
His hand shakes.
Oh no.
I’m too late.
“We’ve decided to have a baby!” Bear blurts out. Quite loudly. And a little bit slurred. And a little bit hysterical.
I just… I don’t even know what to do with this. I don’t even try to pick my jaw up off the table. From the looks of it, no one else does either. Well, except for Otter, who buries his face in his hands.
And by the grace of God (or whatever force it is that runs the mind of Derrick Thompson) it spills forth: “I didn’t even think I wanted to be near kids, much less have one for myself! They’re sticky and gross and they smell weird, and they’re always leaking fluids, and they do stupid shit like eat bugs and glue, and the cost! Holy fuck me sideways, the cost? They always want new stuff like clothes and food and slap bracelets and Super Nintendos and Hypercolor T-shirts! I don’t think they even make Hypercolor t-shirts anymore! Where would I even go to find one now? Goodwill? I can’t even go into Goodwill without feeling like my dreams are dying! And kids get hurt so easy! What if he loses an arm in a boating accident or gets attacked by a gorilla when we go to the zoo on an educational visit? I don’t know if I could deal with a two-armed kid, and now I have to have a kid with only one arm because he wanted to try and feed the gorilla cotton candy? That’s some fucking bullshit! I didn’t even want this, but then we were sitting at a restaurant minding our own business when this little boy walks by wearing little checkered Vans, and he was walking and singing a song and dancing. He was dancing, and all of a sudden I turned to Otter and demanded he put a baby in me! But I’m a guy, and he’s a guy, and that’s biologically impossible, but what the fuck is going on in my body that all I could think about was offering those parents five hundred dollars if we could just buy their son so I could hold his hand while he wore his checkered Vans and sang a song and danced? How is it even remotely normal that my biological clock is ticking? You know me! The idea of me raising a child is so far out of the realm of possibility that it should be absolutely ludicrous, but no! It’s all fucking Otter’s fault! He’s the one who encouraged this! He’s the one that said this was okay! And now I’m drunk again and I’m pretty sure I’m going to turn into a stay-at-home mom who gets wasted on Merlot at one in the afternoon while waiting for the kids to come home, and I’ll be forced to go to T-ball games and I’ll hide my wine in juice boxes because I think T-ball is literally the most excruciating thing to watch. I mean, come on. The ball is sitting right there and you miss it? Are you fucking blind? But then it all comes back to that little kid in the checkered Vans, and I don’t care. I will be the alcoholic T-ball mom who gets drunk and yells at the refs because my kid just needs a little more time to hit the ball so the refs had better fucking calm the fuck down!”
He’s panting by the time he finishes. His face is red. He slings back the rest of the wine.
“No words,” Corey says in awe. “Should… have sent… a poet.” Jodie Foster in Contact he is not.
“You guys are going to have a kid?” Jerry says, sounding thunderstruck.
“We’re going to be grandparents again?” Alice says with tears in her eyes.
“What is in this wine?” Ian asks, frowning at his glass.
“This is such a wonderful day,” Stephanie says happily.
“Hey, Mom!” JJ says. “What do you call a bunny with a bent penis? Fucks Funny!”
“JJ!” Anna shrieks. “Where did you hear that?”
JJ’s eyes go wide. “Dad told me, and then he said not to tell you.” He rests his chin on his hand and pouts. “Oh crap. Now I’m going to be hung by my thumbs in the orphanage.”
“Traitor,” Creed grumbles.
“Creed!” Anna shouts.
“Anna’s pregnant again,” he says, raising his hands as if to ward off the incoming blows.
“Creed!”
“What?” he says, sounding offended. “You are. I should know. I put it there. On purpose this time.”
“You’re what?” her parents say at the same time.
“Again?” Otter asks.
She rolls her eyes. “Yes. Again. Eight weeks.” She casts a murderous glare at Creed, who is whistling and staring at the ceiling. “We were going to wait to tell you, because we wanted today to be about the Kid.”
“I have no problem with this,” I assure her. “Please, continue.” When you’re knee-deep in it, it’s better to just go with it; otherwise you get bowled over.
“Dear Jesus,” Corey says. “Thank you for this whole thing. This is magical. Like you wouldn’t even believe.”
“We’re going to be grandparents?” Alice asks. “Even more?”
“Can I have it?” Bear says hopefully.
“No, Bear, you can’t have my unborn child,” Anna says dryly.
“You can have the next one,” Creed says. “I mean, by the third, they just have to slide right out of there, right? How hard could it be?”
Every male in the room grimaces. It’s not a pleasant image.
“I’m pretty sure that’s not what happens,” Alice says, patting her son’s hand. “You took at least fourteen hours.”
“That’s because of my big—”
“Head,” his dad finishes. “You got stuck at the head because it was the size of a watermelon.”
“I am not a baby factory,” Anna says. “Just so we’re clear.”
“Do you guys have a donor yet?” Creed asks Otter.
Otter, looking resigned, shakes his head.
“Why couldn’t you, then?” he asks Anna. “Think about it! We’d be keeping it in the family! You’ll have carried mine and my brother’s babies! And your ex-boyfriend’s, because they can mix them all in now!” He pauses. His eyes narrow. “Wait. That doesn’t sound right. At all. And I don’t know how I feel about that.” He turns and glares at Bear and Otter. “I don’t think I want either of you getting my wife pregnant. Stay away from her baby factory.”
“You’re having two babies?” JJ asks. “That better not mess with my two Christmases when you and Dad get divorced.”
“Which seems more and more likely with each passing second,” Anna says. “And no, I’m not having two babies. I’m having one.”
“We weren’t going to ask you,” Otter says helplessly. “Trust me. That conversation would have been… well. I guess it would have been no stranger than what is happening right now.”
“You want to be a dad?” I ask Bear.
He looks down at his hands. Everyone is mercifully quiet while he thinks of the right words. “I think so,” he says finally. “I mean, I did okay with you, right? You didn’t turn out weird.”
“I’m very weird. And so are you.”
He cracks a smile. “You know what I mean. Otter’s wanted a kid forever, even if he hasn’t said it out loud.” He takes Otter’s hand in his and looks up at me. “I didn’t think I’d ever get there, but here I am. Thirty-two years old and going baby-crazy.”
“You did okay with me,” I say. “Your kid won’t be too messed up.”
“Vote of confidence,” Otter says. “Score.”
“Why surrogate?” Alice asks. “Why not adoption?
“Because Bear read an article about Russian children being taken away from families,” Otter explains. “And it absolutely convinced him that we would get a Russian kid.”
“I read articles now,” Bear says. “I’m extremely well-informed.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I say. “You read about one article a year.”
“Hey,” Otter says. “At least he’s trying. I was relieved just to find out he could read.”
“Russia is scary,” Bear announces, as if we all didn’t know.
“So no surrogate yet?” Alice asks.
They shake their heads.
“I’d do it, but I’m too old for it now,” she says sadly.
“Thanks, Mom,” Otter says. “That wasn’t weird at all.”
She beams at him. “My pleasure, dear.”
“I’m drunk,” Bear says to no one in particular. “How did all this wine get in my mouth?”
“Corey did it,” I say.
“I’m not sorry at all,” Corey says. “I’m probably going to do it again in the future. That was even better than I could possibly have hoped for.”
“You guys have to wait until we have our baby,” Creed says. “I want all the free stuff and money and attention when we have a kid. You doing it at the same time would be like having to share your birthday party with Jesus because it’s on Christmas. That’s no fun.” Anna slaps him on the arm. “I mean, because I want you to experience the joy all on your own.”
“When?” Stephanie asks him.
Otter shrugs. “We haven’t gotten that far yet. Bear’s got the teaching contract here with the Seafare School District for the next school year. Tyson is leaving in a few months. I’ll probably go with him to get him settled and then come back after a few weeks. I’m thinking of going back to school, but I don’t know yet. I’ve got a few more shoots lined up that I can spread out over the next few months.”
“You guys better hurry,” JJ says. “You’re getting pretty old.”
“JJ,” Creed scolds. “That’s not a nice thing to say to the elderly.”
“Otter just turned forty!” Bear says.
JJ shrugs. “I was talking about you.”
Bear glares at his godson. “I don’t want kids anymore.”
“Kids?” Otter says, going a bit pale. “As in plural?”
“Well, yeah,” Bear says with a drunken grin. “Isn’t having kids like Pringles and tattoos? Can’t have just one?”
“Yes, Bear,” Anna says. “Having children is just like having potato chips and tattoos.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s going to open the floodgates,” he says to Otter. “Aren’t you going to be sorry when we have, like, thirty. We could adopt half from other countries and have our own mock United Nations.”
“I don’t think that’s as good of an idea as you think it is, you wino,” Otter says.
“Why don’t you just start with one?” Anna suggests.
“What’s your position on breastfeeding?” Bear asks her. “Because I read this article that says—”
“You need to stop reading articles,” I say. “Now.”
He rolls his eyes. “I just wanted her opinion on nipple sensitivity.”
“Uh, Bear?” Anna asks. “You know you can’t breastfeed, right?”
“I would have made a good mother,” Bear says sadly.
“You would have,” Otter says, kissing his cheek.
“Who’s hungry?” Alice asks. “All this baby talk has left me famished.” She begins to cut the irradiated lasagna.
“I have a question,” JJ says.
“And what’s that?” Anna asks, putting the cloth napkin in his lap.
“We’re all here, right? Our family?”
“Right.”
“And it’s pretty big news that babies are coming, right?”
“Right.”
“Then how come Dominic isn’t here? He’s part of us too. Is he working or something? I can’t wait to tell him I’m going to be a big brother.”
Silence. Except for the high-pitched buzzing in my ears.
Anna looks embarrassed. “JJ, I—”
“You guys still see him?” I ask.
The only one who’ll look at me is Creed. “Sure, Kid,” he says. “Why wouldn’t we?” There’s a bit of a challenge in his voice. “We have him over for dinner once a week. Like JJ said, he’s family.”
I swallow thickly. “That’s… nice of you.”
“People mess up, Kid,” he says. “Everyone in this room knows that. Sometimes people mess up too much and there’s no coming back from it. Other times, it’s something mishandled, but it’s in the past and needs to be forgiven. You, of all people, should know the difference between the two.”
“Creed,” Otter warns. “Not now. This isn’t—”
“No,” I interrupt. “Let him talk.”
“Creed,” Anna says, but he ignores her.
“Hasn’t this gone on long enough?” he asks.
“You don’t know everything,” I tell him. “Not about him. Not about me.”
“Don’t I? I was there when it was about Bear and Otter. I might not have seen it right at the time, but I can see it now.”
“It’s not the same. I’m not like them. This is different.”
“Really? You left, Kid. Doesn’t get much more the same than that.”
“Creed,” Bear says. “That’s enough.” His voice is hard. “I told you not to talk about this.”
“You did?” I ask, unable to keep the surprise from my voice. “When?”
Bear sighs. “Before we left New Hampshire.”
“Why?”
“Because it needed to be said.”
I’m pissed, though I can’t quite figure out why. “So you just thought that I shouldn’t be aware of this? Poor, fragile Tyson couldn’t possibly handle it?”
“Panic attack,” Bear snaps. “Two hours ago. On the beach.”
“That’s not fair!”
He shakes his head. “It’s not. But that is how it is. I was just trying to do what’s best for you. As I’ve always done.”
“Maybe I don’t need you to do that,” I say coldly. “I’m not a kid anymore.”
“You better believe I’m going to do it. As long as you live under my roof, I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you—”
I laugh. “Practicing already, Dad? That’s not quite how it works.”
“Tyson!” Otter barks in that voice even I can’t ignore. I’m such a fucking shit, but I can’t stop the anger rolling through me. I feel betrayed.
Oh? it whispers. You thought… what? That just because you stopped seeing him that the rest of them would? That just because you couldn’t handle the thought of him loving anyone else but you that they’d feel the same? Tyson. Kid. Child. You may be a genius, but sometimes, oh sometimes, you are so very fucking stupid.
“Apologize,” Otter growls. “Now.”
Bear’s trying to keep the hurt off his face, but he’s not quite succeeding. Goddammit. How did we get here so quickly? We were just laughing. All of us.
“Sorry,” I mumble. I’m pretty sure I’m the world’s biggest dick.
Bear shrugs. “It’s okay.” It doesn’t take away the pained look in his eyes.
“You and Dominic had a fight?” JJ asks me.
“That’s enough,” Anna says. “Time to eat.”
“It’s fine,” I say, waving her away. “Yeah. We did.” And he broke my heart. And somehow, every single person in the room knows it. Which means they all know I was in love with my best friend. That’s… fuck.
“When?”
“A long time ago.”
His face scrunches up as he thinks. “Then why are you still mad?”
“I’m… I don’t know.”
He nods. “We’re not related, right?
“Not by blood. In other ways, though. That matters. Just as much.”
“And Dominic’s not related either?”
“No.”
“But he is too, though. In other ways. Just as much.”
“Yeah, JJ.” My voice is hoarse.
He smiles. “Then you can’t stay mad. Dad says that’s not what family does. He says we can get mad, but we always forgive.”
Creed looks adoringly at his son.
Plates are handed around. Food is served.
Corey squeezes my leg in comfort. Otter whispers something to Bear. Conversation picks up about children and homes and school and the weather and how Mrs. Paquinn would have just loved this, would have just loved every piece of it.
And it’s funny, really, because all I can think about is how a nine-year-old kid sitting across from me might actually be smarter than I am. I wonder if Bear felt like this with me. It’s terrifying.
Shit. I messed up. Big-time. With him and with Dominic.
And I have no clue how to fix it.