Lovegame(62)

“I do know it.” A quick glance at the clock tells me I’m cutting things close. “Look, Mom, I love you but I have to go. I have somewhere I need to be in an hour.”

“There’s something more important than this discussion?” For the first time she sounds as frustrated as I am. And I know I should soothe her. Hell, I even know how I can soothe her—by making some noncommittal noises about how maybe I could think about talking to Jason.

But I don’t want to lie to her. Giving her false hope now isn’t going to help her, or anyone, in the long run. It will just make me look like more of an * than I already am. Plus, she’s gotten enough of that from him through the years, so I work very hard to be as transparent with her—with everyone in my life, really—as I possibly can. The last thing I ever want is someone comparing us and thinking we are even remotely alike. Particularly since I spend so much of my time trying not to compare myself to him.

Just thinking about it has me pissed off and f*cked up, which is why I’m more harsh than I mean to be when I tell her, “There are a million things more important to me than talking about Jason. I’m sorry if that hurts you or upsets you or makes you think badly of me, but that’s how it is. He’s got no place in my life, and if I’m honest, Mom, I’ll own up to the fact that I wish he had no place in yours, either. I understand why you don’t want to cut ties with him, but the fact of the matter is, as long as you let him, he’s going to keep using you. And hurting you.”

“If you would just see him, you’d understand that he’s really changed.”

“I don’t need to see him to know—”

“Please, Ian. Please. Just hear him out. For me. Please.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

She’s crying now. Not crying like she’s trying to guilt me into something, but crying like her heart is breaking all over again. And this time I’m the one who broke it.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

The words are right there on the tip of my tongue. A promise that I’ll talk to Jason when I get back from L.A. What’s a couple hours of my time anyway, right? If it makes my mom happy, makes her stop crying? She’s done enough crying over him to last three lifetimes. The last thing I want is to make her cry over me, too.

In the end, though, I bite the words back. Because this is just one more of his famous manipulation tactics, one more way he’s using her as a weapon against me. I won’t give him that power, won’t give him what he wants. Even if it ends up breaking me wide open, too.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I can’t. But I’ll call you tomorrow, to check on you. I love you.”

I don’t wait for her to respond, too afraid that I’ll capitulate if she says anything else. Instead I hang up the phone. Put it safely on the dresser. Head toward the bathroom to take a quick shower.

I only make it halfway there before I lose it completely, the fury and the grief welling up inside me until all I can do is lash out. I grab a water bottle off the counter in the kitchen area, send it flying across the room. It slams against the wall with an unsatisfying thump and then I’m sweeping my hand across the counter, sending nearly everything on it crashing to the ground.

Papers fly everywhere, but still it’s not enough. Still I’m burning with fury, with the desire to tear my brother apart with my bare hands. There’s one thing left on the counter—the bottle of tequila I was drinking from last night. With a cry of rage, I send it soaring across the room as hard as I can.

I watch in sick satisfaction as it slams against the glass door to the balcony. It explodes on impact, sending glass and tequila raining in all directions even as a long, jagged crack appears in the door. The crack spreads out in various directions, turning the whole door into a giant spiderweb of smaller cracks and fissures. One more hit and the whole thing will come crashing down.

It’s tempting, so tempting, especially considering that I already have to pay to have the door replaced. I want to hear it break, want to watch the destruction as it shatters into a million tiny pieces. Everything else is broken. Why the f*ck shouldn’t that goddamn door be, too?

My hands are trembling with the need to give in, my whole body shaking with the soul-deep rage I’ve spent so many years trying to outrun. Trying to lock away. It would be so easy to give in, so easy to just let it all come pouring out of me and cross the lines I’ve spent most my life making sure to stay on the right side of.

I already crossed a bunch of them with Veronica last night. What’s a few more? So what if those lines are the only things standing between me and utter destruction? So what if there’s no way back once I cross them?

My entire adult life, it’s been Jason who’s the destructive one.

Jason who has f*cked up everything and everyone he’s ever touched.

Jason who breaks things, who breaks people, just to watch them fall apart.

I’ve spent my whole life fighting against that birthright, fighting against the nature and the nurture that made him the way he is. And, in the end, all it took to push me over was my unquenchable desire for Veronica Romero.

Blindly, I reach for the coffee mug on the next counter over. It only takes a second for my hands to connect with the handle and then I’m holding it, weighing it, wondering which spot to aim for to cause the maximum amount of damage.

But just as I pull my arm back, just as I prepare to send the cup hurtling across the room, shattering both the door and the life I’ve worked so hard to build, a picture of Veronica as she was this morning flashes through my head. Face pale, body hunched in on itself, skin marked up to hell and back. She put on a brave face—even a seductive one—but I could see the truth in her eyes. I could see how badly I’d hurt her. How badly I’d abused the trust she put in me.