Page 43 of The Guilty One

“It’s what I know. You all want to be like me. You have since we were kids, bouncing from one foster family to the next. You followed me to the university I chose. You’re always here with the family who chose me. You may as well tape yourselves to my ass at this point.”

“We followed you, we hang out with you, because we’re friends,” Dakota says, his expression pinched and exasperated, arms out to the sides. “We were the closest thing to brothers any of us had. Friends, Tatum. Remember that? Though right now I can’t remember why.”

There’s a grumble of agreement, and I cock my head to the side. “Is that really how you feel?”

“No. Guys, stop. We should all just calm down,” Bradley says. “It’s Christmas. We shouldn’t fight. We’re just tired.”

“No. You know what? Matter of fact, get out.” I snap my fingers and point toward the door. “I want you out. Now.”

“What?” Dakota asks. “You aren’t serious.”

“I couldn’t be any more serious if I was Sirius fucking Black, dude. Get out of my house. I don’t want you here anymore.”

“You can’t do that. You don’t mean it. Come on, we always spend Christmas together,” Aaron says. Clearly, he thinks I’m going to change my mind. That I should care what they think or want. What the fuck do they think this is, a circle jerk? Fucking therapy? They’d like that, wouldn’t they? Pussies.

I give a single tight shake of my head. “Not anymore. Get out.”

“He doesn’t want us here. Let’s just leave.” Matteo is already stuffing things back into his bag, but the three others remain still.

“Come on, man. You’re just mad. You don’t mean this,” Bradley says, walking toward me. He puts his hand on my shoulder, and I snap. My fist whirls back, and I throw it forward, connecting with his face. Blood splatters everywhere and cascades down his face, and I can feel specks of it coating mine.

I blink. Then, everyone jumps into action all at once.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Dakota shouts, rushing forward, and soon there are hands and arms everywhere, trying to separate me from everyone else.

“What is going on?” Mom shouts, her voice cutting through the room. Everyone falls still, the entire room turning to face her as if we’re in a military lineup and she’s our drill sergeant. She takes a deep breath, staring at the mess we are.

“Mind your business,” I growl.

Mom’s cheeks flush bright pink, and I can tell I’ve humiliated her in front of everyone. Slowly, with Matteo leading the way, the boys all move to stand beside her, and Dakota leans down. “We’re going to go, Mrs. T. We’re sorry to have caused problems at Christmas.”

Fat tears fill her eyes. “What? No. Don’t go. Please, don’t go. It won’t feel like Christmas without all of my boys here.”

My so-called brothers look at me, waiting for me to stop her tears, to end this fight. They want me to give in, but apparently they don’t know me at all. They want me to give in? Fine. But not in the way they want. I’m going to make them all come crawling back to me.

“Fine, you want your boys?” I wrinkle my nose in disgust. “Have ’em. But you just lost this one.” And with that, I’m gone.

I’m her only boy. I’m the one she chose. And I’m going to make sure she regrets forgetting that.

CHAPTER TWENTY

CELINE

When I get home, everything I’ve learned over the past few days is ready to come bubbling out of me.

Since Tate’s disappearance, I’ve really tried to make it look like I have it together, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. Maybe I’ve been lying to everyone, including myself, but right now, all I want to do is sleep. And cry. I want my mom to hold me and promise that somehow this is all going to be okay. That the man I knew wasn’t a con artist who had me fooled, that his family would’ve told me who he really was, that they love me like a daughter and would protect me if they thought he was capable of hurting me, of hurting our sons.

I need someone else to say these things to me because I’m not sure I’m capable of saying them to myself anymore. I’ve tried so hard, but my resolve is slipping. I need help. I need someone to be here for me, and it can’t just be me anymore.

I feel weak for even admitting that. I made it all of two days, and already I’m cracking under the pressure and weight of the pain. People have it so much worse than this.

They really do.

I shouldn’t be so weak.

I’m on the verge of tears when I walk into my house. The boys come running up to me before I see my parents lingering in the doorway to the kitchen, and I promise myself I can hold it together for just a few more hours. For them.

I sink to the floor and hug my sons, hoping I can love them enough for the two of us. Hoping someday I will be enough for them, that what their father has done to us won’t hurt so badly.