Page 18 of Holiday Love
“Which is exactly what you need right now.”
“Yeah,” I answer, blowing out a weary breath. “It is.”
“Okay. I get it,” Gwen says slowly. “But Teddy, you’re in your late twenties. This party boy thing? Not quite as cute as it used to be.”
I roll my eyes. “So what, you want me in khakis with amortgage?”
“I want you happy,” she says simply, and the tease fades just enough to sting. Her words even and weighted, Gwen adds a soft, “Maybe you can use this time to figure out whatyouactually want.”
A cold weight settles in my stomach. Here it comes. Gwen’s been gentle with me since she found out I was in the hospital, but I knew it was only a matter of time before I got the full-on “figure out my life” talk.
“I’m serious, Teddy. This is what I mean about growing up. You can’t tend bar forever—”
“What’s wrong with tending bar?” The volume of my voice rises. She’s starting to piss me off. I like working at the bar. I like being around all the people and how exhausted I am at the end of each shift.
“Nothing!” Gwen fires back. “It’s a solid job. I just don’t think it’syourjob. Am I wrong? Didn’t you used to talk about saving people?”
I roll my eyes. “When I was five, I wanted to be a superhero. Spiderman or some shit like that.”
“No, you weren’t. You meant it. You said you needed to help people.”
“Wow. Didn’t realize I accidentally dialed Mom,” I snark, but the truth is she sounds likeallof my family. They’ve all given me some version of this speech recently. It’s easy to ignore one of my family members, but when they all start saying the same thing, maybe it’s not a “them” problem but a “me” problem.
Still, I’m not ready to admit that Gwen is right about, well, anything. It’s probably the annoying little brother in me that makes me respond in my snarkiest tone. “Sorry,Gwen. We can’t all be fancy doctors and lawyers like you and Brandon. You know I was never good at school. It’s like you two sucked up all the intelligence genes and all I got were the secondhand leftovers.”
“You’re smarter than you pretend. You just hate sticking with anything,” Gwen argues back. “You need somethingthat’syours,not just a job to kill time. I know as the youngest it was hard for you when Dad died—”
“Don’t bring Dad into this, justdon’t, Gwen. I mean it,” I grit out, my hands clenching.
As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I know it’s the wrong thing to say, but the last thing I want to talk about right now is our dad. I don’t want to go there.
Not now.
Notever.
The silence thickens between us, tense and unforgiving.
A sharp, disappointed sigh from Gwen. “Fine!” she huffs angrily, but since she always has to have the last word she adds a quick, “You know what I mean.”
We’re quiet, only the sound of our breathing, both of us a little too fast, filling the line.Think about Carter. She’s stressed from Carter and everything else going on in her life,I remind myself, praying for patience. It takes effort to relax, but eventually I do. Playing my usual role of peacemaker, I release a breath and deliberately lighten my tone. I try for teasing. “Why can’t someone pay me for lounging on the beach and surfing? That’s what I’m good at.”
“It’s the surfing that almost got you killed!” she snaps angrily. “I mean, really? Night surfing by yourself?”
Guess she’s not ready to make peace yet.
My first instinct is to fight back, but even I can hear the terror beneath her words. Ever since losing our dad, Gwen’s hypersensitive to any family member being in danger. Me almost dying isliterallyher worst nightmare. I’m sure it brought back all those terrible memories. Holding onto my composure, I rub my forehead, pressing like I can force the missing hours to come back, while I try to answer her question.
“I—I don’t know how that happened,” I admit. “It’s strange because I’m the one who always warns people to surf in pairs.”
“You obviously didn’t listen to your own advice,” chides Gwen. Out of nowhere a stifled sob rips out of her, the sound twisting my insides into knots.
“I wassoworried when Helen said you were in the hospital.” She’s crying now, my least favorite sound. I’d rather wake up in the ICU, cold and disoriented, a million times, than hear my sister cry.
It kills me to know thatIdid this to her. Made her sad, worried.
It’s not the first time.
She continues, her breath hitching on her tears. “I wanted to come right away—”
