Ty:Awesome. We won and Booker scored two goals.
There’s a commotion in the kitchen, and apparently Mel’s dancing got a little out of hand and she knocked a plant over. Now she’s calling it Audrey and begging Ian to save her. Those two are ridiculous, but I love them. I turn back to my phone, intending to ask Ty if he has time to meet up for breakfast tomorrow morning, but when I look at my phone screen, I see he’s already texted.
Ty: I’m in bed alone, and god, Phoebe, I wish you were here.
There’s a picture, too, and it leaves little to the imagination. He’s shirtless, his body and its art on full display. His sheet barely covers his very best parts, and holy heaven, I kind of want to leave right now, and keep walking until I land naked in his bed.
We haven’t had much time alone, but we’ve kissed and teased and I’m dying to learn the feel of his hands on me. His mouth.
Ty:Did I shock you speechless? Offend your delicate sensibilities?
Phoebe:Not at all. I’m just sitting here with my mouth open because my boyfriend is super hot.
Ty:What a coincidence. My girlfriend’s fucking gorgeous.
Phoebe:Lucky you.
Ty:Damn right. God, I need to see you, baby. Can you come over tomorrow night? We can do dinner first, a movie, whatever. I just need to see you.
Phoebe:Yea, that sounds really good. I can be at your place at 7.
Ty:Perfect. Until then, I’ll just lie here thinking about all the delicious things I want to do to your body.
And after that delightfully filthy text, I get another picture. But in this one, his sheet’s even lower, and his hand is strategically placed right over his dick. And the look on his face? Lordy Lord. I think we need to open a window in here.
Before I can even think of a response, Ian and Mel come bounding back in and cuddle onto the couch next to me. They turn on the film version ofLittle Shop, just for comparison’s sake, so instead of sexting with my boyfriend, I’m singing old show tunes with my best friends.
Oh well. There’s always tomorrow night.
***
Ty
Today has been a total shitshow. I walk in the house and shut the door much harder than I intend to. “Fuck!” Tossing my bag on the bench inside the foyer, I stalk into the kitchen, looking for something to drink, or maybe a glass to smash against the wall.
Whit’s sitting at the counter, scrolling through his phone and eating a sandwich. He looks up when I walk in. “Everything ok?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “It was a fucking set-up.”
He nods, leaves his stool, and starts fixing me a plate. It’s what he does, the way he shows affection. Usually, I’d fix my own food, but I’m pissed as hell, and I need to pace. Booker comes down the stairs, towel around his waist, hair still dripping from his shower. “You ok?”
“No,” I repeat, running my hands through my hair.
Whit serves up sandwiches while Booker sits half-naked at the table, which isn’t really all that strange, and I wear a hole in the carpet.
“I had paperwork to sign for my trust. I can only withdraw so much each year and it all has to be related to school or living expenses in some way, according to my dad’s will. Fine. So I drove my ass to fucking D.C. to sign it. Took me over two hours each fucking way because of traffic, but fine. So, I walk into Michael’s office, shoot the shit for a minute, and get ready to sign on the dotted line. Just as I’m finishing up and turning to leave, my mom and Rob walk in.”
Booker and Whit stop eating and look at me. I keep pacing.
“I didn’t need to haul my ass to D.C. I could have signed that fucking paperwork right here and had it notarized. But no. They knew I’d be at the lawyer’s, so they showed up. My mom burst into tears, raving about how I never call and I’ve abandoned her in her hour of need and Rob droned on about how Brett’s depressed and needs visitors to cheer him up. What the fuck is that shit? I’m supposed to feel bad? I’m supposed to cry a goddamn river because their kid is in fucking prison, paying for his crime of killing an innocent man, andI’mthe asshole? What the ever-loving fuck is wrong with the woman who gave birth to me and the man who married her?”
There’s no response from the table. They’re done eating. They’re just listening now. And it’s a good thing, because I’ve got more shit to say.
“I am not visiting him. I won’t do it. I haven’t yet, and I refuse to. What would I even say?You sonofabitch, I hope you rot in here?What? Would that be a good icebreaker? They are fully convinced he’ll get an early release for good behavior. Did you hear that shit? He left a guy to die of alcohol poisoning in a goddamn basement. He made his fraternity brothers delete evidence from cameras and their phones. One of the brothers tried to call 911, and Brett threw his phone off the goddamn deck after smashing the screen. Tell me, what about that is redeemable? What about that says fucking victim?” I’m screaming now, vibrating with rage. I stalk over to the window and take a deep breath. “What the fuck?” I shake my head as though that will help me make sense of the day and the fucked-up family I was born into.
“No parole board will grant that, Ty. You’ve got to know that,” Whit says.
“I hope you’re right. But even still. Their absolute insistence that Brett is the victim? That boys will be boys? That it was a party that just got out of hand? Jesus. It makes me sick.”
