Page 29 of Broken Brothers

And it wasn’t the person I was having it with.

In a private dining room in our mansion, I sat with a glass of water while my adopted mother, Melanie Hunt, patiently drank.

“She’s heartbroken, you know.”

The matter at hand could not have felt more awkward than right there. I had taken a girl upstairs while the Hunts were out of the house and we had had sex. But at the end, she asked if I loved her. It was too much too soon, and since I was going to college soon, I sure wouldn’t have let myself fallen in love anyways.

So I told her the truth.

Well, apparently, the truth wasn’t good enough, or it was too much at least for the girl, Christine. She ran out in tears… right as Mrs. Hunt had returned. And, unfortunately, I got to hear everything—which, namely, was everything we had just discussed. Christine spared no detail for Mrs. Hunt. I sat in my room, mortified at what was transpiring. My adopted mother,hearing the fact I had supposedly lied to this girl about how I felt for her.

I really did like Christine. But it was ridiculous to believe I had ever loved her. Maybe someday, if we stayed in touch for some time, we’d fall in love, but sure as hell not like this.

“I told her the truth,” I said, shaking my head.

At the beginning of our interaction, I had felt so uncomfortable, and Mrs. Hunt’s judgmental looks and stares did not help matters. I felt like I was being punished without being punished; I knew Mrs. Hunt wasn’t going to ground me because I had broken a girl’s heart, but the fact that I received her wrath all the same did not help matters. That, and how she kept saying she empathized with the girl.

“You swear that is the truth, Chance?” Mrs. Hunt said.

She didn’t speak sarcastically, but I knew she didn’t quite believe me. My reputation as a serial, casual dater had not gone unnoticed by the mother of the house.

“I swear to it,” I said. “I never told her I loved her. I told her I liked her a lot. But… I don’t know, I guess she misread it.”

Mrs. Hunt paused for a second and took another gulp of her wine.

“You have to be careful with women’s feelings, Chance,” she said. “You never know how a woman is going to take what you say. You have to be careful in your wording and make sure you communicate clearly. Especially for you. You’re a Hunt, you have all the opportunities in the world, you—”

“Not like Morgan. I’m not a real Hunt.”

I don’t know why I snapped there. Well, with a little thinking, I did—for nearly a decade and a half, I had not had the courage to lash out at my adopted parents. I had never told them what I had expressed to Morgan, that the name Hunt wasn’t a gift but a curse in my life beyond superficial access to certain things.

But it had built for nearly fifteen years, and finally, just a few months before I was set to move to Columbia for college, it had all exploded.

To my surprise, though, Mrs. Hunt did not react shocked or with horror. Instead, she put the glass of wine down on the table, got up, and kissed me on the forehead.

“I know you may not believe me, Chance, but you are going to someday be grateful that you are not Morgan.”

Of all the things I expected her to say, that was the absolute last thing that came to mind.

“Morgan has the expectation, probably the burden, of becoming like Edwin, and that is not a weight I wish upon anyone,” she continued. “You have the freedom to do whatever you want. Chance, your name is more appropriate than you can ever know. You can take whatever opportunity you want. You can do whatever you want. We love you and we support you, even if your father doesn’t always show it.”

He’s not my father. But I understand.

“You need to remember, though, there are other people in life. What you say and what you do makes sense to you because you have thought it through before saying or doing it. But there will be people like that girl, Chance. She truly believes you broke her heart because she truly believed you loved her. I know, I know. But just remember—what you think they are feeling may not be the same as what they are actually thinking. OK?”

I understand rationally what she meant. But I still couldn’t wrap my head around Christine believing I actually loved her. We’d only been together a few months!

Nevertheless, partially to appease Mrs. Hunt and partially to get out of this still awkward conversation, I nodded.

“You’re a good man, Chance,” she said, and it was not lost on me that she used the word man. “But you’re still learning. And that’s OK. We’re all still learning.”

Present Day

I admired Layla Taylor.

I admired her body. I admired her conviction. And I admired how goddamn fucking good she felt for the last twenty minutes.

But there was one thing I did not admire, and that was her seemingly terrible habit of choosing to distance herself after all of our encounters. I could practically see it now. She would leave, say she would text or call me, and then I wouldn’t see her until the next business meeting with her father. We’d then sneak off somewhere, do the dirty, and the process would repeat.