And I don’t give a damn. She’s still mine. Not Zo or all the commentators combined on Sports Center and Good Morning America will convince me otherwise. But what about Banner? Does she remember whose she is? And that across the country in Maryland, there is a black-hearted, horny motherfucker who, by some miracle, has convinced himself that he is hers?
I need some air or at least some space. I wander away from the herd of joyful partygoers and into the den, which is really my father’s man cave. There is never a time when the television isn’t on, and I’ve never seen it on any channel other than ESPN. I flop into the leather recliner usually reserved for His Royal Highness and settle in to check some scores.
Only it’s not scores they’re discussing.
“We have an update in the ongoing story of Alonzo Vidale,” the commentator says, his face appropriately grave. “Who, as most know by now, is fighting a rare disease called amyloidosis.
“A few photos surfaced on Instagram from a fellow patient at the facility where he’s being treated,” the co-anchor says, blinking her false eyelashes like she’s trying not to cry. “I think we all send Zo our best wishes and prayers.”
As they’re talking, the photos that were posted come onscreen. Again, people suck. Who does this kind of shit? Sees a man being treated and posts pictures of him at his lowest for the whole world to see? His face is gaunt in a way you immediately recognize is due to illness. Obviously his height hasn’t diminished, but when he and Banner walk out of the hospital, she seems to be holding him up, even though she’s only holding his hand.
Why is she holding his hand? Is that really necessary?
I hate feeling this way. These thoughts are awful—even for me. He’s fighting an against-all-odds, uphill battle for his life, and the only thing I can care about is the fact that he shouldn’t be holding Banner’s hand when I don’t even get to see her.
“You okay in here?”
I glance up, pulling myself out of my selfish musings to nod at August.
“Yeah, just tired.” I drop my head back against the recliner and close my eyes. “Long flight.”
“Oh, good,” he says. “I thought it might have something to do with Banner Morales and Zo Vidale.”
I open my eyes and turn my head slowly in his direction.
“Excuse me?” I ask, eyes narrowed on August’s face.
“Just a wild guess.” He shrugs and offers me a Stella. “Want one?”
I accept the beer without further comment, and we fall into an uneasy silence. Uneasy because I know it won’t last long.
“I only asked,” he continues after a couple of sips. “Because Iris mentioned seeing Banner at the office shortly before news came out about Zo. She thought things looked pretty intense between the two of you.”
“That right?” I fix my eyes on the interview with Stephen A speculating about the upcoming season.
“Yeah, and then I remember she told me you came to Banner’s session at that conference and seemed really into what she was saying. That you guys knew each other in college.”
“Wow, that Iris is really observant, huh?” I take a sip, still not looking at him.
“Look, if you need to talk to someone,” August says. “And I suspect you do, you know you can talk to me. I won’t judge you.”
“Oh, so if I tell you I’m fucking Banner Morales, you won’t think that’s bad?”
His jaw drops, and then he snaps his mouth shut in a hard line.
“Bruh, I didn’t think you’d taken it that far,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Jared, you can’t. You’ll be a social pariah.”
He leans over to peer into my face.
“And so would she,” he says in a low voice. “You know that, right? That if word got out, it would ruin her reputation. She’d be reviled.”
“Right. I know that,” I snap. “And you can rest easy. I’m not.”
“But have you?” he presses.
I look back at him and say slowly, deliberately, “Many times.”
“Dude.” He squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Start from the beginning.”
I walk him through my early friendship with Banner and the disaster with The Pride to reconnecting over the last few months and all the grinning and grinding in between.
“So you pursued her knowing she was in a relationship with Zo?” August asks, looking pained, which pisses me off.
“Yeah. You wouldn’t know anything about going after a woman when she’s with someone else, would you?” I ask, knowing damn well I’m being an asshole.
“Jared, stop.” August shakes his head, disappointment in the look he gives me. “You know it was different with Iris. Caleb was a sociopath.”
He really was. I rub my tired eyes and blow out a long breath.
“Yeah, that was fucked-up, Gus. I just . . .” I growl and tunnel my fingers into my hair. “You want me to be sorry I took her, and I’m not. You want me to be better, and I won’t be. I’m just going to be me. I’m not noble like you and Dad, or a saint like Zo, and frankly, I have no desire to be.”
August often felt like the odd one out in our small family. With my father and I being blond, and Susan with her red hair and blue eyes, August’s mixed-race gene pool made him look like he didn’t belong, but I was the outlier. The one who saw things through smut-colored glasses and didn’t want to save the world.
I wanted to run it.
“Dude, no one expects you to be like me or your dad or anyone else,” August says. “And you’re not as bad as you think you are.”
“Well, however bad I am, she sees it, and still wants me.”
I point an accusatory finger at the wide screen television mounted above the fireplace.
“And every time I see some story about her being Zo’s rock, or how they are made for each other, or how she’s standing by him through the hardest time of his life—”
“All of which is true,” August interjects.
I just stare at him for a second, infuriated. He’s my brother. He’s supposed to be on my side, but he’s too concerned about what he thinks is right. He’s always so damn good. I can’t stand it. I’m surrounded by paragons.
“It’s not all true,” I say after taking a semi-calming breath. “She doesn’t belong with him. She belongs with me.”
“The man is fighting for his life, Jared.”
“She belonged with me before he got sick. You have your right.” I pound my heart with my fist. “I have mine, and she is my right.”