Page 81 of All of You

Feelings are exhausting.

So many darn feelings. I was nervous—wanting to win. Mildly sad, like always before a big event my parents wouldn’t even be watching, or more specifically, would be actively avoiding. It felt spiteful verging on cruel. Maybe it was. Always good fodder for my therapist, though, who every so often encouraged me to reach out to them and see if they were open to a relationship with very clear boundaries, but I hadn’t done it.

I didn’t want the judgement—didn’t want to see their disappointment. I didn’t want to walk out of my childhood home, if that’s what one would call it, and feel that bone-deep loneliness.

But then there was Ben. Ben helped. Ben made that loneliness nearly non-existent, and if I had him, maybe if I even walked out of those double French doors that hung at the main entrance, I wouldn’t feel the same way. I’d never had someone like him in my corner.

Reese would have been, but he’d been gone with the Army for most of my growing years. For some reason, he’d tried in the last five years to see me, know me, and be near me. Likely because we had the parental alienation in common, and he’d seen glimpses of what it was like growing up a Grantham.

The truth remained, I didn’t have close friends—a few people from Juilliard, but in the end, I’d been there so short a time, I hadn’t made strong bonds. I’d always had my mind on escaping, and part of me did regret that. I wished I’d appreciated the opportunity, but I saw it only for what it was for my parents and not what it could really offer me.

Ben was more than just someone to fill the loneliness, and the sizzling anticipation of showing him off to everyone in the world in just a few days filled me with new hope.

Ben

I pulled the door of the restaurant, the bell jangling loudly and causing an elderly couple in the corner to glare at me. I was meeting Bec and Thatcher for brunch before my flight to LA. Bec had messaged me and Thatcher and said she was ready to make peace, and she’d fill us in on her plans. We were told not to ask any questions—that she wouldn’t be responding unless we couldn’t make it.

Normally, I wouldn’t have wanted to meet up the day I was flying, but my flight was later—I wouldn’t get to LA until evening, unfortunately. I don’t know who booked the tickets, but since it wasn’t me, I couldn’t complain. They were getting me there to support Whit, and they were getting me home to avoid the ire of LTC Baker who’d made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that he would not sign off on me taking leave for even one day during the week, despite there being absolutely nothing on the training calendar.

So, one more point in that guy’s bucket, and one more thing I wouldn’t be sad to leave behind.

The hostess greeted me and led me to the table where I saw, from about fifteen feet away, Thatcher and Bec. Bec looked furious, evidently her natural state lately, and Thatcher’s back was to me, the set of his shoulders and neck tense, his spine straight as a steel beam.

They didn’t notice me as I approached.

“You’re not my brother,” Bec said in a voice full of venom.

“Trust me, I know that.” Thatcher’s voice was hard.

Bec’s jaw clenched as her eyes flicked up to take me in. “Ben’s here.”

Thatcher straightened further and turned as I walked closer to stand directly at the table.

“Everything okay?”

“Just fine. I’ve actually got to head. Good luck, Bec,” Thatcher said, with an abruptness I’d never seen before.

He stood, slid out of the tiny booth, and gave me a false smile.

People did that all the time—gave different smiles out like greeting cards, all false sentiment and empty promises. But not Thatcher. Seeing that thin stretch to his lips, the tension in his eyes and jaw… Bec better plan on talking.

“Have a great time tomorrow, and fly safe. I’ll be watching.” He patted me on the back as he passed and didn’t look back as he left, the bells jingling behind him.

I kept my attention on him as he exited the place to give Bec a minute, and frankly, to buy myself some time to recover from witnessing them at each other again and seeing Thatcher so visibly upset.

I plunked down into the booth seat, bouncing a little in the process.

“How were they going to fit all three of us at this table?” I asked, desperate for something that wasn’t so what’s the deal with you and Thatcher?

“They were going to bring a chair for the end,” she said, her voice calm, if a bit subdued.

“Ah.” Could the waiter maybe bring me some water, or a basket of chips, or something?

“We didn’t touch the chips, if you want them.” She nodded to the little red basket of fresh tortilla chips and the bowl of salsa. Rosita’s had the best chips of all time.

“Great.” I quickly shoved enough chips into my mouth to be comical, and also to keep me busy while looking over the menu.

The waiter came. I ordered their huevos rancheros because they were bomb and then turned my attention to Bec.

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