Playing Fate (Endgame Series Book 1) (19 page)

If I’d known my parents were one-third owners in the house I lived in, I would have pitched a fit. For the first time in my life, I’m letting this revelation roll off my back. I can’t fight what’s done. Besides, I’m excited to do the basement. Wait.

“Deacon, your parents own your house?”

“Yes.” Well shit, the present I paid Avery to paint for him would be a killer mural in his basement. I had her paint a baseball diamond with his number etched in the grass where his position is, the seats filled with Julie in the forefront. ‘Love what you do, live to love, inspire always.’ That was the quote I decided to use, and it’s wrapped for Christmas morning. I was bummed I wouldn’t see his face, but Avery promised pictures. I shrug it off, maybe he’ll let me implement in the basement.

We work as a unit to prepare the house, pushing furniture back and locking our rooms. It’s the first day of break, and we’re preparing for the party to get rowdy.

“I’ll miss you.” His lips brush mine. “You want to duck out early and stay with me tonight?”

“I’d already planned to do just that. I’m packed and ready, so I’m all yours until my flight leaves.” He grins and kisses me once more. People start trickling in, the music gets turned up in volume, drinks flow . . . typical college party. It becomes crowded, and I need some fresh air. Deacon and the guys are in the kitchen, so I slip through the backdoor. I’ll only be a moment. The cool air is refreshing against my warm body, and I zone out. I’ll miss Deacon and I’ve tried to prove the past few weeks that I’m giving this relationship all I have. I hate that I’ve caused him doubts, made him question how important he is to me. In this case, the phrase ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ is justifiable. He’s done everything right.

I wrote him a letter telling him exactly that; I sneak back in the door to retrieve the letter, so I don’t forget to give it to him. Unlocking my door, I grab my letter and tuck it in the front pocket of my jeans. I hear Emberlee’s laugh trickle through the house, and something worries me when I hear it. I turn off the lights and lock the door, in search of Lee Lee. I don’t see her immediately, so I head to the kitchen to ask the guys. Standing in the middle of them is a girl I don’t recognize. She’s tall, statuesque . . . gorgeous. She’s a bit too close to Deacon, and none of them look happy to see her. I spot Emberlee and decide to get the scoop later.

“You okay?” Her eyes are glassy, and she’s drunk. Trashed. I’ve never seen her this sloppy.

“I’m good. You okay?” Her tone is snippy.

“Yep. Listen, I’ll be gone before you’re up tomorrow, so Merry Christmas.” I lean in to hug her, and she half-heartedly returns it. “You stressed about your trip?” I know she hates being with her parents for long periods of time.

“Nope. I’m excited. It’ll be like old times.” Her smile looks forced, almost sinister. “Oh, there’s someone I want you to meet.” I follow her gaze to the girl who was just talking to the guys. She’s a few feet from us, and sheer terror mars Deacon’s face. “You all packed and ready for Colorado, Adriane?”

My breath hitches, my chest tightens. I feel bugs crawling over my skin, and I’m sure my cheeks are red.
Just like old times. Adriane.
Yeah, I bet he
forgot
to ask me to join them. This . . . this is what I get for letting my guard down. Disappointment. Humiliation. Pain. “Saylor, this is Adriane.” Lee Lee looks at me like I’m a pimple on her ass. An annoyance. I step back, shocked how naïve I was to think we were friends.

I turn to run, but Mason’s there blocking me. “Shortstop.” His reaction time isn’t fast enough because I’m able to avert his grip and make it outside. I’m at my car before hands grab my waist. I kick, lash out, pinch my assailant.

“Calm down.”
That
voice. I never want to hear it again. Instead of elation, it sends dread through my body. “Why are you running?” He did
NOT
just ask that.

“Why didn’t you tell me Adriane is going to Colorado?”

“What?” He has the audacity to act shocked.

“Don’t. The truth is bad enough, but lies are worse. I saw your look of terror when your secrets were about to be spilled. You didn’t want our paths to cross. Does she know about me, or am I your dirty little secret?”

“Stop, Saylor. Calm down, breathe baby.”

“Fuck you, Deacon. I believed you forgot to ask me to come. I believed you cared about me. I believed she wasn’t a part of your life.”

“You’re making assumptions, and they’re way off base.”

“Why’s she here?”

“She and Lee Lee . . .”

“Don’t hand me that shit. What’d she want in the kitchen?” His face pales. I watch him swallow, and I feel the bile rise in my throat.

“Julie,” I whisper. He nods. I wish it were as simple as him cheating. As him wanting to end things. Now, I’m the one who is going to walk away. I step back.

“Stop.” He sees all over my face what is going to happen. “She doesn’t get to do this.”

“I do. I can’t do this to Julie. I can’t be the reason you don’t let Adriane back in her life . . . in yours.”

“I don’t want her. She gave up her rights. That isn’t your decision.”

“Deacon, take time to think about it. People make mistakes every day. Every fucking day. Julie is still young enough that she won’t remember the bad. You have the chance to give her happiness. To give her a complete family. You have the chance to give her everything.” I swipe my cheeks, slapping the tears wetting my face. This fucking hurts. This is killing me.

“Julie isn’t you, Saylor. The circumstances aren’t the same.” He grabs my hands, and I pull back.

“No, she isn’t, and I don’t ever want her to be.”

“You don’t get to do this to me. To her. To yourself. Fucking fight for us. Take a stand,” he demands. His fists are clenched, and he’s panting the words.

“Take this break, and see what happens. We’ll talk after.” I open my door to leave. I have to escape before I change my mind.

“Where are you going?” He stands before me, defeated. His shoulders are slumped, his face hard.

“Hotel. I’ll come by in the morning and get my stuff for my flight.”

“Surprise. Your parents are at my parents. We’re all going to Colorado.” I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the steering wheel. “See, I wasn’t hiding shit. I wasn’t going to spend Christmas or the New Year without you. I fought for us. You gave up.”

“I’ll call my mom. We can stay here.” I won’t look at him. His anger is tangible, and I need to leave. He’s close to his breaking point, and I won’t be the cause of it.

“That’s it? You’ll handle it. You’ll disentangle yourself from us? You’ll walk away?”

“It’s not that simple, Deacon. We both need time. I need you think this through. All the ramifications. You deny your daughter a chance now, what happens years later when she finds out? Do you think she’ll forgive you? No, she won’t, because she’ll know the pain of an absentee parent. She won’t see the good you were trying to do. So I’m not walking away . . . I’m letting you go so you both can grasp onto something bigger than me. I’m so entangled in you two I’ll be unwinding for quite some time. It’s not about me. I promise.” I dig in my pocket and grip the letter. I go back and forth with myself; what will it help? In the end, I give it to him. If anything, it will show him I wasn’t planning on running from him. I am letting him explore this without the guilt of me. He looks at the envelope like it’s going to detonate. “Please, take it.” He grips it, and I let go . . . for good.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” His ire is written all over his body. I choke on a sob and reverse slowly. God, I hope I know what I’m doing. I make it two blocks before the tears blind me, the sobs shake my body, the ache in my chest debilitates me.

“Mom,” I manage as I dial her phone.

“Saylor. My God. What’s wrong?”

“I need a hotel for the night.” I don’t care the cost. I need solace. I need to curl into myself and shed this pain.

“Are you hurt?”

“By my own hands.”

“Honey. Where are you? Jack is coming to get you, and we’ll get a hotel.”

“No, Mom. I don’t want to be here any longer.” I haven’t put enough distance between us. I feel myself fighting to turn around and run to him instead of from him.

“Jack found one. SpringHill Suites by the airport. Can you drive?”

“Yes.”

“We’re leaving now. I’m coming, baby.”

“Th-thank y-you.”

“Be careful. I love you.” I end the call. My heart is shattered; I don’t think I can allow love in any crevice of it. I feel it’s beyond repair.

I don’t know how, but I made it to the hotel, and my mom and Jack are outside waiting for me. “I’m sorry.” I fall into my mom’s arms.

“Heavens, Saylor. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I-I’ll pay y-you ba-back.” My crying isn’t slowing. “W-we can-can’t go to Co-col-orado.”

“Nonsense, Saylor.” Jack’s hand is rubbing circles on my back. “You don’t need to pay us back. We were going to spend time with you, and we can do that here. Or at home if you want to fly to Florida.”

“I ruined it.” My mom leads me into the room, and Jack disappears through the adjoining door. He comes back in with a glass filled with clear liquid. I gulp it, needing my parched throat wet. Holy hell, it burns. I cough, sputter, wipe my tongue with my shirt.

“Jack, what did you give her?”

“Vodka.” He shrugs. “I’ll give you time.” He leaves, and my mom turns to me.

“Start at the beginning.” She settles herself on the bed and forces me to lie next to her.

“I think I was falling in love.”

“That’s normal. Why the tears?”

“She came back. I couldn’t do that to Julie.”

“Saylor, you’re not making sense.”

“Julie’s mom showed up tonight.”

“I thought she was out of the picture.”

“She was. I don’t know. I just know she is going to Colorado. She came back for Julie. He has to give them a chance.”

“Does he want to?”

“He says no. I told him Julie wouldn’t forgive him if he didn’t.”

“Why is that?” Her body tenses.

“I know Dad left us. I know somehow, someway he stopped loving me. Stopped wanting us. But if he came back and wanted another chance, would you have turned him away?”

“He didn’t just leave, Saylor. Have you been basing your relationships on your idea of what you believe happened?”

“It’s what happened.”

“You’re wrong. Your dad was sick, Saylor. He didn’t just flip a switch.” I stare at her; we are speaking two different languages.

“What? He died in a motorcycle accident. I’m sure being careless like the last years he lived his life.”

“No, baby. We talked about this.”

“You’re confusing me. What do you mean?”

“When your dad moved out, do you remember how I explained it?” I shake my head. I don’t remember a conversation. I remember lots of fighting leading up to the day I came home, and his stuff was packed in a U-Haul. I remember standing in silence as I watched it disappear. I remember being sent to see him every other weekend, then that dissipated to whenever he had time. I remember the knock on the door telling us my father was dead. I sure as shit don’t remember a conversation about him being sick.

“No, Mom, I don’t remember that. I don’t understand.”

“Your dad changed one day. I didn’t understand. He was hardworking, proud of his family—he loved you. No matter what, he loved you. Money started being spent faster than he was making it. Frivolous spending. He started ditching work and lost his job.” I watch the pain play across her face. Her hands are fisted and clenched, and her eyes fill with tears.

“Mom, stop.” My chest aches, I can’t handle her hurting.

“The fighting. The screaming. It was nothing we’d ever experienced. I begged him for weeks to go to the doctor. I suspected drugs, but that wasn’t the case. I’m so sorry you don’t remember this.”

“Are you sure you told me?”

“Yes, baby. Maybe not in this much detail. I finally got him to agree to a doctor’s appointment. After extensive testing, which added many bills we couldn’t afford, we had a diagnosis. Multiple concussions over a short amount of time resulted in a closed brain injury.”

“I don’t understand. I don’t remember him ever being hurt.”

“It started when he was younger. When he was six or so he pulled a television down, and it landed on his head. There was no external injury, so it went untreated. He played football in school and had several concussions. A bad car accident in college added to the symptoms.”

“Was there anything they could do?”

“Yes. But he refused. He could have tried medication to stabilize his moods. He could have received therapy to help with the erratic behavior. In the end, he chose not to, and I couldn’t do anything. He wasn’t deemed a threat to himself, but he was. He lost impulse control. He lost so much.”

“Why? Why couldn’t he get the help?”

“Honey, you can’t make someone get help. I tried. I begged. I pleaded with the doctors to force it. I gave him ultimatums. In the end, he left. I asked him to. I couldn’t have you grow up with that. I held out hope until there was none.”