I don’t even know what’s going on, but it’s like I already know whatever it is, it’s too much for him to handle. I’ve seen him in the middle of panic before, but I’ve never seen the start.
“Anders?”
His eyes fly open, and he stands. “I have to go. I have to go right now.”
I expect him to walk out, but instead, he pulls a duffle bag from out of his closet.
“Wait, you mean go as in for a few days or …”
“No. As in move out. I can’t … I can’t be here. Your sister needs a place to crash, so it’s all good. It’ll be fine. It’s fine.”
He throws random things into his bag. Clothes, his phone charger, a mouse toy he bought for the cat.
I step closer. “Just tell me what’s going on? Can I get you something? A Valium? A joint? You’re panicking. I think you’re having an attack.”
His eyes are dead and cold when they pierce mine. “No fucking shit.”
“Why?”
Tears flow freely down Anders’ face as he knocks the breath from my lungs. “Your father? He’s the reason I am the way I am. One of them, anyway.”
“What?”
“Your father was Kyle’s lawyer.”
21
Anderson
Honestly, I don’t remember leaving Brody’s apartment. I barely remember dialling Law’s number and begging him to come get me.
I do remember stalking away from Brody while he yelled questions at me.
“Who’s Kyle?”
“Where are you going?”
“Can’t we talk about this?”
Nope, we can’t talk. Because I have no words.
I don’t have a voice. That man, Brody’s father, took it away from me.
He’s the reason Kyle got a plea deal. He’s the reason my psychotic boyfriend only got six fucking years.
And he’s Brody’s dad—the guy Brody strives to live up to. Brody sat across the dining table from me and spoke of needing this man’s approval.
The panicky voice in my head screams to run, so I do it.
Streetlights cast an orange hue across the empty road and the path beneath my bare feet, leaving me to wonder if I’m in some fucked-up dream.
I keep running until my lungs burn, but even then, I push my legs harder.
Twenty minutes pass, maybe half an hour, I don’t know. I only know I’m running along the same road Law will take to come pick me up. Though I don’t even know if he’ll be able to stop me.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and it’s probably him, but I ignore it.
Keep going, keep running.
The minute I stop, I know I’m going to fall and not get back up.
A horn blasts from a car driving by at a snail’s pace, and it takes a second to realise it’s Law.
I keep going anyway.
He pulls over ahead of me and gets out, blocking me off and forcing my legs to give out.
“Anders.” Law reaches for me, and I lose it.
I lose everything.
My feet trip over themselves, my arms go around my brother, and I break down into sobbing tears.
“What happened?” Law asks.
I can’t do anything but hold him tighter.
“Where’s your stuff? You said you needed a place to stay.”
Shit, my bag. “I left it,” I blubber. I don’t even know where I left it. I swear I had it back at the apartment, but now I’m thinking I walked out without it.
I had to get out of there. Away from that much toxicity.
“Come on.” Law steers me towards his car, and I mindlessly follow.
The leather seats in his old car squeak under my weight, and I throw my head back on the headrest.
My brother knows how to read me, knows when to push and when to let me be. Right now, I need to break down.
There’s a certain point I reach when having an episode—one I can’t pull myself back from—and I’m so far past that point right now I can’t even see where the line is anymore.
Law doesn’t try to talk to me on the twenty-minute drive to his house. Nothing as we climb the porch either. Or when I throw myself face-first onto their couch.
It’s Reed who asks what happened.
“They don’t have the same last name,” I murmur.
“What?” they ask in unison like they have one brain or something.
“Brody.”
“Brody doesn’t have the same last name as who?” Law asks.
I roll over onto my back. “Do you guys have any alcohol?”
Reed goes to get me some, but Law stops him.
“No. He’s not drinking when he’s like this. It’s a slippery slope into self-medication.”
I want to throw him the middle finger, but I don’t have the ability to lift my arms right now. I’m heavy, physically and mentally, and I don’t want to move. Now or ever. I live on this couch now. “You’ll get me meds if I asked.”
“Alcohol isn’t meds. Tell me what happened.”
“Brody’s father is John Davenport.”
“John Davenport … John Davenport.” Law’s brow furrows as he tries to remember who that is.