Page 100 of One Little Lie
“I do.”
My gaze shifts to East as he rounds a workbench covered in scraps of paper, rulers, pencils, and wood samples in every shade and texture.
He glances down at something, and then back at me. “How long have you had the panic attacks?”
I would have felt it less if he’d punched me in the chest. His words hit me like a thousand-pound dumbbell, and I can’t control my feet as they stagger back.
Shame washes over me, and I glance away. We’re motherfucking Westbrooks. Alpha in all that we do. Win at everything we attempt. We don’t have these weaknesses.
“It’s not like that,” I lie.
Easton pulls out a stool and sits at his workstation, but I can feel his penetrating gaze on me.
“You can’t bullshit a bull shitter, Halt. I may not have recognized the signs at the time because I was distracted, but at the Billionaire Auction, you were seconds away from blacking out.”
My feet propel me toward the back wall where he has two sawhorses set up and an old beam lying across the top. I run my hand along the rough wood and notice the splinters, cracks, and fractures that show its age. It looks like I feel most of the time.
“You know, we haven’t really talked about what happened with Dad. Or the fact that you’ve felt responsible this whole time. I can’t imagine how it was to live like that. Or, to suddenly find out it wasn’t actually your fault.”
“I knew after he died, and we had the genetic testing done, that it wasn’t my fault.”
“And yet, you still blamed yourself.”
“I fought with him, East. Yelled, actually. I got in his face. If I’d stayed to listen …” I shrug my shoulders and turn to him.
“If you’d stayed to listen, you probably would have heard him tell you what we all know to be true. Rylan is your missing piece, and Colton’s best friend. It’s a relationship you need to navigate delicately because of how tightly she’s already woven into our lives.”
I grunt, feeling the collar of my shirt becoming smaller.
“Mom said something the other day about you never feeling like you fit in. Is that true?”
“Jesus, Easton. I’m fine. I’m not a ten year old that needs to play with the cool kids.”
I move around the room, stopping short when I see a sketch attached to a long piece of wood. Stepping closer, I take in the details. I can’t tear my eyes away as I follow the intricate lines. Scanning the piece of wood, I can see it take shape. A heavy, wooden chair with delicate detailing along the arms and backrest. I’m mesmerized by how clearly I can see his vision, and I have to shake my head when I realize Easton is speaking again.
“Is that how you see the rest of us? The cool kids?”
“For fuck’s sake, East. When did you turn into Dear Abby?”
“I’m just trying to understand why you don’t feel like you fit in. If you were an ugly fucker, maybe I’d get it.”
He’s so ridiculous, I have to turn to face him. His shit-eating grin covers his entire face.
“But, since you look like the rest of us, I know that’s not it. I’ve spent all morning thinking about you.”
“Seems like a waste of time now, doesn’t it?”
“No, actually. And when I mentioned it to Lexi, she told me something I couldn’t believe. Something about an art show you never made it to.”
“Fucking gossips,” I grumble.
“Rylan told her how your friendship grew and evolved through art. Your charcoals and her photographs. Lexi said the sample Rylan showed her was so detailed, it took her a few minutes to realize she wasn’t looking at a black and white photograph. How come we never knew, Halt? Why didn’t you ever show us? You have to know we would have supported you?”
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“Not a chance. The numbskulls up there want to make sure you don’t ruin your relationship with Rylan because of your inability to open up. I want to make sure you don’t ruin yourself first. You can’t love Rylan completely until you love yourself.”
“Did you get a subscription for self-help books or something?” I mean it as a joke, but he only gives a small smirk.
