Crazy (The Gibson Boys 4)

“It’s fine.”

“I just saw you with Nana and assumed that your family was picture-perfect.”

I take in the concern embedded in her eyes. There’s distress in those gorgeous greens because she’s worried about me.

No one worries about me. It’s not something I think a lot about, but I am aware of it. I’m Peck—the guy who will figure it all out. That guy who’ll be okay. The guy who’s just a goofball at the end of the day, so nothing really gets to him, right?

Wrong. Shit does bother me. I just don’t go telling the world about it.

Because the world thinks it already knows. It assumes. Dylan assumes too. But the difference is that she cares when she gets it wrong. It bothers her.

Huh.

“My family is great,” I say. “It’s just that my parents weren’t … that great.”

The vacancy inside a piece of my heart that’s never quite been filled—the one that I become hyper aware of around my birthday or Mother’s Day or the few days a year when I’m basically snowed in. My mother used to love those days. She’d make Vincent and me hot chocolate and snow ice cream, and we would light a big fire in the fireplace. The house always felt like a home on those days.

On other days, it didn’t. It was very much my father’s house, and we were allowed to stay there. A constant reminder was hauled our way that as soon as we were of legal age, they were getting the hell out of there and living their life.

They didn’t even wait that long.

“My dad always resented Vin and me,” I say. “I think he had these big ideas for his life, and then Mom got pregnant, and he felt stuck here. With us.” I shove off the cabinets, a lump in my throat.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Not your fault. Not mine either.”

Dylan bites her bottom lip. “No, it’s not. But I can be sorry for you. I know what it’s like to not really have the greatest parents in the world. It sucks. My mom is … a handful. And my dad doesn’t give a shit.”

“My mom cared. I think she knew Dad had a lot of mental issues and got sucked into that.” I shrug. “It’s her choice. Maybe he needs her more than we do. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.”

Her laugh is soft and light. “How are you even a real person?”

“What kind of question is that?”

I pull the steaks from the bag and pat them dry. They probably needed another ten minutes or so, but I need to keep moving.

She leans against the end of the table and watches me get them situated on a tray.

“You just told me that you don’t even know where they are, and you’re like, ‘Oh, that’s okay.’ How are you not bitter about it?” she asks.

Because I’ve had too many years of disappointment. My expectations have been adjusted back to zero.

“Bitter?” I shrug. “A part of me is, I guess. Vincent definitely is. But I figure everyone does what they have to do. I can’t make their choices for them. I can only make mine.”

“You’re way more of an adult than I am. I’m bitter. And angry. And frustrated.”

I look at her. And beautiful.

“At least you’re honest with yourself,” I say.

“But how did you learn to let that go?”

I grin. “The truth?”

“The truth.”

“Little League.”

“What?” she asks with a laugh.

“It’s true. When I started, I was terrible. I mean, awful. Vincent and Machlan were on my team, and both of those bastards were awesome. And then here I come. I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

She giggles.

“I had a coach my second year pull me to the side and tell me something that just stuck with me.”

She waits for me to continue. When I don’t immediately, she motions for me to hurry up. “Come on. Share this golden information.”

“He said that every time I let a strike go by, I was fixating on it. That I didn’t have a shot in the dark at the next pitch because I was worrying about missing that first one. And he was right. I went to the plate knowing I sucked and expecting the worst. As soon as that first pitch came, I was already so amped up and scared shitless that I swung. Missed. And then I stood there and berated myself over it as the next two strikes went by.”

“So you just extrapolated that over your life? Or what?”

“Well, I was twelve.” I laugh. “So not immediately. But eventually, I did. And it worked. Helped me not to hold on to a lot of shit.”

“See? I didn’t play softball. I was a cheerleader.”

I nod in appreciation. “I bet you gleaned a few valuable lessons from that too.”

“Oh, totally,” she says, nodding empathically. “Like how I don’t look great in white and olive green. And not to trust the girl who likes your boyfriend to be your back spotter.”