Page 60 of Lessons in Heartbreak

She rolled her eyes.

“Good grief, you two argue like this all day?” I asked.

“No,” Maggie answered.

“Yes,” Bryce said at the exact same time.

Maggie pushed her brother’s head to the side. “Can we come visit you, Uncle Griffin? We haven’t seen you in two years, not since you visited Grandma and Grandpa’s while we were there.”

God, these kids. An ache formed under my chest before I could stop it. “I’d love that, Maggie Moo, but it’s not up to me if you can come. I’m not sure your dad would want you to stay with me. But let me know the next time you’re going to Arizona, and I’ll see if it works in my schedule, okay?”

Her eyes brightened—they were dark brown, just like her mom’s, and that simply intensified the ache. Neither of them really looked like her, which was a fucking gift. Any reminder of her was like a high-pitched whine you couldn’t get rid of. It’s not like my brother was my favorite person, either, but at least he wasn’t a raging narcissist who’d bailed on their kids.

“Okay!” she exclaimed. “I’ll ask Dad.”

I blew out a slow breath. Not what I meant, but okay.

Bryce said something under his breath, and Maggie nodded. “We gotta go, Uncle Griffin. We’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

“Love you guys.”

“Love you too,” they said in unison.

The call disconnected, and I sighed heavily.

Marcus shook his head. “He still won’t let you see the kids?”

“Can’t blame him,” I said. “I’m not exactly his favorite person.”

Marcus snorted. “I wonder why. You told the entire world he had a stick up his ass.”

“Yup,” I answered grimly. “Not my best moment.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” he pointed out. “Remember when Coach Haskins sat the two of us down junior year and said he’d have kicked us out if Barrett hadn’t vouched for us?”

I glared at my friend. “Yes. What’s your point?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just that maybe that stick up his ass has some occasional merit.”

Of course it did. That’s why I was reminded of it constantly. Any other brother might have turned that situation—him stepping in to save my ass when I did something stupid—into a bonding moment.

Hey, I believe in you. Get your act together and prove everyone wrong. I’m on your side.

Oh no. That’s not what Barrett did. Instead, I got hit with something entirely different.

Get your shit together, Griffin. You keep this up, and all you’ll do is embarrass our family.

What he meant was I’d embarrassedhim. Mr. Perfect. Ice Man, who showed no weakness. Never took a wrong step. Never messed up.

The world slotted us into roles when we got drafted—the Brain and the Brawn. I got my shit together in college, all right, and when draft day came, it was my name they called first. He smiled for the cameras, of course. But for a moment, we locked eyes, and I felt that unhealthy, hot zing of competition again. Turned out the very best kind of motivation was that of a younger brother who was sick of always being looked at second.

The last year of college ball, I played each game like a man possessed. My stats were insane, bringing me into the Heisman conversation, despite the rarity of a defensive player hoisting that trophy. Until the off-field stuff started causing bigger issues between us, widening the rift until I couldn’t see the other side, I thought maybe—just maybe—my brother would come to me and say,Hey ... you did it. I’m proud of you.

The screwups needed that validation just as much, if not more, than the perfect kids. I may not have acted like it, and a few years earlier, I wouldn’t have admitted that even with a knife to my throat. But I could now.

Contrary to popular belief, I didn’t hate my brother. That was too strong a word. Every once in a while, I’d see something that would remind me of growing up in Michigan: A song we used to listen to while we drove to school. The first snow of the year and how he’d always reminded me to bring my gloves and hat to school so I wouldn’t catch cold.

Despite the fact that I didn’t hate him, it wasn’t possible to imagine a world where we could coexist peacefully either. In his mind, I was always the screwup. The one who needed saving. Who needed a sermon. And in mine, he was the obnoxiously perfect brother whom everyone compared me to. The ideal I could never quite meet, no matter what records I broke, what awards I won.

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