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As a kid, I even thought I wanted to be like him. Be able to take a hunk of junk machine and make it shine.
I gave him money to start a business. He did, then he lost it in a poker game. He can’t hold down a job because of his temper and drinking. It’s harder than I ever imagined proving abuse to a court, especially when it isn’t always physical. Emotional abuse is worse, more damaging. Harder to recover from. Rowan wouldn’t report him. He was always afraid of him hurting his mom. And he could never convince her to leave. So they stayed. Rowan stayed complacent. Did all the good son things. Didn’t ruffle any feathers anywhere. Doted on his mom. Now this…shit, what have I done? Making his life harder was never my plan. Hell, none of this was a plan.
Did I not try hard enough? I’ve talked to lawyers. I’ve tucked away money. My best solution seemed to be to take the brunt of dad’s wrath as best I could from afar. The phone calls. The constant verbal abuse. Telling me I’m not good enough. I should be playing better. Playing more.
I want Rowan out of there. Out of that house. My father has put one woman in the ground. And Rowen’s mom, well, of course, he didn’t give her cancer…but I know…I know it was because of him.
Eighteen. He turns 18 in three months.
Dad told him he can’t afford college. Told him he couldn’t go. Maybe he could get a job and go to a trade school and pay for it himself. Either way, dad says he has to get a job when he graduates to help with all the bills. “He needs to pull his weight.”
Rowan knows I have a college fund set up for him. I just have to get him out of Wisconsin.
Then I get the text…
I think I’m gay too.
Chapter thirty-two
“You’re allowed to be happy, you know,” Fynn says as he reaches for my hand. Instinct has me pulling it away. I recover. Not before he notices, though. I place my hand back in his and squeeze.
“So are you,” I say as I turn my attention to the shops along Fifth Avenue, sparkling like crystals along the dingy streets of New York. The shops shine brightly despite the drizzle falling from the dark sky. So dark it feels like early evening instead of mid-morning.
Fynn lets out a little snort.
Nearly two weeks have passed since the photos hit social media. TJ won’t tell me the details of the phone call with his dad. But it wasn’t good. Not enough to make TJ change his mind. In fact, if anything, he is more determined than ever to maintain our friendship and let everyone think what they want about him and Fynn. I wonder if it may be just to spite his dad. But TJ wouldn’t do that. Not with his brother still living at home and potentially in the crosshairs.
I don’t know where we stand at all at this point. I do know how I feel when he calls or texts. I do know what that flutter in my belly does to me. I do know it is him I’m thinking about every time I pick up the violin. Every time I close my eyes when I play, I see him. I see him in that elevator. I see him so vulnerable. I see his face at my knees. The lust and wonder at being on his knees for me.
My treatment of Fynn didn’t turn him off…it had the opposite effect, and I’ll admit to being shocked by that. He was more comfortable in that room that night than I was. I’m not used to having a third. An audience. That’s not what I do. And Fynn. TJ’s fascination with Fynn shouldn’t surprise me at all. Fynn is fascinating and gorgeous, and impossible to look away from. The three of us together. Holy hell, we are a sight to behold, that is for sure.
All of us. I haven’t talked to Fynn about TJ’s desires. I thought it might be a conversation the three of us need to have together. And it scares me. The idea of sharing TJ. TJ wants more…more with the three—
Blaring horns take me out of my daydream…I have less than a second to think before the car barrels into the side of the cab. I can’t even process what is really happening. Sharp pain erupts in my head as it snaps forward, then back and suddenly I’m in Fynn’s lap.
The pain. Holy fuck, the pain in my left arm and hand causes me to moan. Fuck, fuck, fuck, it hurts. A wave of nausea overtakes me when I look at my now misshaped arm and fingers.
The cab driver wastes no time and dials 911 instantly, then crawls out of the cab through the passenger side, since the driver’s side is smashed in like a pancake.
“What the hell happened?” I hear Fynn ask. The cab driver urges him not to move in case he is more injured than he thinks. “I’m fine,” Fynn snaps. He turns to look at me, his eyes grow wide when he sees my arm. I feel something drip down my forehead. I swipe the blood away before it drips into my eye.
“Stay still,” the cab driver says and Fynn sits back into what’s left of the back seat to make me do just that.
“Fucking red light…” I hear the cab driver say… “Are you blind, asshole…”
“I know…. saw it…” another voice…then some shouting and cussing…dispute over the red light…. must be the guy who hit us.
I’m feeling dizzy and sweaty. Sirens. Sirens are coming. I exhale. The world goes black, then stark white.
“Ah, there he is,” I hear a voice.
Light. Bright light. Way too fucking bright. I want to shield my eyes, but my arms won’t move. I blink several times and then turn my head toward the voice. I see cabinets behind her. Clear plastic tubes dangle all around me. Bouncing. Why am I bouncing up and down?
“We’re almost to the hospital. You’re fine.”
Hospital. Fuck. Car accident. I nod. At least I think I do. My body feels detached from my brain at the moment. I’m not sure any of the instructions are actually reaching my body. Pain…there was a lot of pain before…it’s less so now…I really want to sleep…please, just a nap.
Doors fly open, killing that idea. I hear the rattle of metal on concrete, another set of doors. I try to look around. And that hurts my head. Questions are being fired at me. No, wait, they aren’t talking to me. Everyone is talking around me.
