Page 25 of Don't Fall For Your Brother's Best Friend

I climb into my truck and once the door is closed I slam my hands against the steering wheel. “Fuck.”

As I drive home the image of Anya leaning in to kiss me plays over and over in my head. My anger rises. I’m pissed at myself for denying her. I’m pissed at Callum for making me promise something I now regret.

Another man, a better man, would have followed her home and tried to explain himself. But as I pull into my driveway, I shake my head. Even if I was that man, what could I say? I can’t tell her that her brother has put her in the off-limits category. I can’t tell her that not kissing her back is something that will haunt me for the rest of my life. The only thing I could do is lie and tell her I don’t feel that way about her and I’m sure she’d see the sham in my eyes.

My mother didn’t teach me much, but she always told me not to lie. Which is a fucking joke because her entire life was a lie.

I grab a Kunt Kicker IPA out of the fridge and sit down on my dark navy couch. After taking a long pull, I sigh, closing my eyes. I make it a point to block out as much of my childhood as possible, but feeling like I’ve hurt Anya, makes it impossible to keep those times pushed down.

Growing up in my house was the equivalent of walking around a minefield. One misstep and everything would blow up.

Ever heard the saying ‘walking on eggshells?’ Well my life was walking on the whole damn egg, a mess no matter which way you saw it.

My father was an angry man, a storm always on the horizon. If he wasn’t happy, no one was happy. A loud child running around laughing wasn’t something he appreciated. He didn’t like a messy house. Toys scattered on the floor, and snacks left on the table, were just unacceptable to him. He liked silence. He liked order. Things that a child doesn’t give you. Every noise, every cluttered space was an affront to his need for control and tranquility.

My mother catered to him, making sure he got everything he wanted. I couldn’t be loud, I couldn’t make a mess, I couldn’t be a kid. I remember tiptoeing around the house, holding my breath, hoping not to disturb the fragile peace. I couldn't laugh freely, couldn't let my imagination spill into my surroundings. I couldn't be happy.

I'm not entirely sure when my father started cheating on my mother, but it happened. Perhaps it was inevitable. I'm sure he liked the idea of pretending he didn’t have a wife and kid at home, responsibilities that he felt shackled by. He was always chasing after younger women, women with no kids, women who represented the freedom and adoration he craved. It was his way of escaping the life he resented.

My mother just pretended none of it was happening. The cheating, the way he treated me, the way he treated her. She walked about this town smiling and lying about what a great life she had. She wore her denial like a mask, plastering over the cracks in our family’s façade. I would watch her, wondering how she could smile while our world was crumbling, how she could act as if everything was fine while I felt suffocated by the tension and sadness. Her pretense was a survival tactic, a desperate attempt to keep our fractured lives from falling apart completely.

You’d think with his wandering dick, clean house, quiet child, and a wife that was at his beck and call it would make him happy.

It didn’t.

He was still a miserable prick. I spent far too much time hiding in my room, afraid of what I might get in trouble for. One time I brought a couple of little cars out to the living room while he was out fucking someone. It was the most fun. I drove those little cars all over the place. The living room was so much bigger than my bedroom, and I remember I even laughed a few times when the cars sped across the floor, their tiny wheels spinning wildly. For a brief moment, I felt happy. It was fleeting because my mother ran into the room, panic etched on her face, yelling at me to bring the cars back into my room. I grabbed them and ran, closing my door behind me. Disappointment crashed over me because even at that young age, I knew that feeling of freedom and happiness would not return.

I was right. When my father got home, his face contorted with anger, he pushed my bedroom door open, holding one of my little cars. In my rush to hide, I hadn’t noticed I left one behind. He shouted, telling me little boys who can’t clean up don’t get to have nice things. All the while, he gathered every car I had and threw them away. The sight of my toys disappearing into the trash was a punch to the gut, a cruel end to my brief joy.

That was the first night I learned what leather against skin felt like. The belt whistled through the air before it bit into my flesh, the pain searing through me. I sat quietly in the corner, my body trembling, until he finally left my room. Only then did I allow the tears to fall, silent sobs shaking my small frame. They didn’t stop until exhaustion claimed me and I fell asleep, my body aching, my spirit crushed.

I shake my head, bringing myself back to the present. That was the life Callum saved me from. Without him, I don’t think I would’ve survived. He didn’t even know what was going on at my house until years later, but he started inviting me to his house. Callum's home was a sanctuary, a place where laughter wasn’t punished, and messes weren’t met with rage. Of course, my mother was all too happy to have me gone, so it was never a fight. She saw it as one less thing to manage, one less target for my father’s wrath.

Callum’s friendship was a lifeline. His family welcomed me in, never questioning the frequency of my visits. In their home, I experienced a kindness and warmth that was foreign to me. It was there, in those stolen moments of peace and safety, that I began to heal, slowly piecing together the shattered fragments of my childhood.

I stayed at the Atwood house, pretending they were my real family. The kids were loud and happy. There was laughter, talking, and endless amounts of fun. The Atwood home was a symphony of joy and chaos, the complete opposite of the oppressive silence of my own home. When I was there, I felt that happiness that had been thrown in the trash, a happiness that had once seemed out of reach.

As we got older and I confided in Callum about how awful my house was, he never judged me or my shitty parents. He just listened, his face a mask of concern and understanding, never interrupting, never making me feel small for sharing my pain. He invited me over every chance he got, offering me an escape from the hell I lived in. I slept on a blowup mattress on his bedroom floor more than I slept in the bed at my house, and I loved it. That thin mattress was more comfortable than my own bed because it came with a sense of safety and belonging.

The Atwoods treated me like one of their own. Mrs. Atwood always made sure I had enough to eat, her warm smile and gentle words a stark contrast to my mother’s cold indifference. Mr. Atwood would ruffle my hair and ask me about school, genuinely interested in my life. In their home, I found the family I wished I had.

So, when Callum made me promise I wouldn’t date his sister, I didn’t take it lightly. Callum saved me, offering me a lifeline when I was drowning in despair, and there’s no way in hell I’ll ever forget that. It doesn’t matter how I feel about Anya, because I can’t cross that line. My feelings for her are strong, but my loyalty to Callum is stronger. He’s my brother in every way that counts, and betraying his trust isn’t an option.

Every time I look at Anya, I remind myself of the promise I made. She’s beautiful, kind, and everything I could ever want, but I owe Callum too much to risk it. The bond we share, forged in the fires of my troubled past, is something I’ll never take for granted. Anya will always be a dream I can’t pursue, a reminder of the sacrifices I’m willing to make for the one person who saved me from my own personal hell.

It’s been almost a week since I denied Anya’s kiss, and I haven’t seen her once. Part of me is relieved because I still don’t know what to say, but another part of me, a bigger part, misses her sweeping into the kitchen with her big smile, her energy lighting up the room. The kitchen feels emptier without her, the air heavy with the unspoken tension between us.

There’s a party this weekend, and we haven’t discussed the menu. I know it’s because she’s avoiding me, and I hate that it’s now affecting our work. Our usual effortless collaboration has turned into an awkward dance of avoidance, each of us tiptoeing around the other.

“Griff, you have plans after work?” Callum asks, walking into the kitchen, breaking my train of thought.

I wipe my hands on the white towel and turn my back on the potatoes I was cutting. I lean against the counter and lift an eyebrow. “No, why?”

“My mom just called and invited us for dinner,” he says, shrugging as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“On a Wednesday?” I reply, my surprise evident in my voice.

He grabs a piece of bread off the counter and takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully before responding. “Yeah.”