Page 45 of Fight For Me

“No, Wyatt. Because of everything that’s going on.”

A rush of defensiveness crashes through me. “I’m fine.”

“You haven’t talked much about Bruce and Alice.” His voice is much gentler than usual and it makes my skin crawl. Like he thinks I’m something fragile that he’s too afraid to push. “Or your surgery.”

“What’s there to say?” I snap. “My grandparents died. It sucks. I can’t play piano. That sucks too.”

“It does suck,” he says in that same, calm, gentle voice. “And that’s why you need to talk about it.”

“Dad—”

He holds up a hand. “I’m not saying you need to talk about it with me. Or your mom, though I know she’d love it if you did. She’s struggling too.” I try to ignore the sharp stab of guilt that causes.

I hate the idea of my mom struggling. I always have. For a kid who spent the majority of his childhood terrified that his mom wasn’t going to be okay, it’s pretty much second nature to try to smooth things over. To try to make her happy, make her feel better. But something has stopped me from wanting to talk to her about Bruce and Alice. Every time I try, the words all get stuck.

Dad leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and meeting my eyes. “But you need to talk tosomeone. You can’t keep shit like this bottled up.”

An image of Alex flashes through my mind, of the peace that had settled over me when we sat together outside the funeral home. Of the way she’d gotten me to open up about my grandparents not once, but twice now. And how I’d felt so much better both times.

“I don’t know how well you remember this,” he says, sounding a little sheepish. “But right after we started dating, I screwed up pretty big with your mom. She wouldn’t see me.”

I blink at him. He doesn’t know if Irememberthat? Is he fucking kidding me?

Cash Ransome had come crashing into our lives like a wrecking ball when I was eight. I’d pretty much immediately developed a strong case of hero worship. He was a rock star from LA who I regularly heard on the radio. The dude drove aporsche. And he had all these cool brothers who could play instruments. I even begged my Grandma to buy me hair gel so I could copy his rockstar hairstyle.

But it wasn’t just the sudden appearance of this larger-than-life celebrity in our town that made an impact on me. The thing I remember the most from that time is how happy my mom was when he was around. She’d been so sad for so long and seeing the way she lit up with Cash was enough to make me his biggest fan. When things went sour between them and he disappeared, it terrified me. Both because I missed him and because I was afraid it would send my mom back to that bad place she’d been in when my biological dad died. The place that kept her from being able to take care of me.

I had nightmares for weeks after he left. But I never told anyone.

“Wyatt?”

I glance up and immediately regret the direction of my thoughts. He’s watching me too closely, and from the way his eyes are pinched together, I can tell he read something on my face.

“I remember,” I say quickly.

He’s still studying my face but he finally lets out a sigh, nodding once. “I really screwed things up with her. Came close to losing the both of you.” He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “But beyond that, I was pretty messed up. I was still dealing with my issues about my mom leaving and, well, a whole bunch of shit.” He meets my eyes. “Going to therapy is the best thing I ever did for myself.”

I groan. I should have known he was going to go there. “Dad.”

“Ithelps, Wyatt. It really does. It put me in a better place to be there for you and your mom. It also made me a better brother and a better friend. Helped me to take my job more seriously. I would be a much different person if I hadn’t gotten that help.” He rolls his eyes. “As my brothers love to remind me.”

I snort out a laugh at that. My dad has definitely come a long way when it comes to emotional maturity, and his brothers constantly give him shit about his insistence on showing affection to the people he loves. Somehow bad ass rock star Cash Ransome turned all soft and fuzzy over the years. He’s ahugger. It’s kind of hilarious.

“I think I liked you better before you were Mr. Sensitive,” I mutter.

“Fuck off, kid.” But he’s grinning at me and the tension on my shoulders eases slightly.

Until he goes back to the therapy thing. “Your Aunt Daisy knows a few really good counselors—”

“I don’t need therapy, Dad,” I snap.

“Maybe not,” he concedes. “But it couldn’t hurt to try.”

“Why would I do that? I’mfine. I’m handling things.”

“You’re not acting like yourself, kid. You think I haven’t noticed? You used to sit playing video games with Silas for hours whenever you came home. You always made it a point to plan outings for CeCe. You’re not doing any of that.”

My stomach knots, guilt coursing through me. That’s probably why I snap at him. “I just fucking got home, Dad.”