Page 106 of Home Grown Talent
“Yeah,” Aaron said, smiling. “He was furious about what happened. He’s arranged to go out for drinks with some of the Weekend Wellness crew he’s friendly with, to see what dirt he can dish up on Misty from them—and if there’s anyone who might want to make a complaint of their own. He seems to reckon there might be, from what he’s heard them say in the pub.”
Owen blinked, genuinely touched by that. He didn’t even know Tag that well. Nevertheless, he said, frowning, “I don't want to get anyone into trouble.”
Aaron shook his head. “If there’s no dirt, fine. But if there is, we should do whatever we can to bring it to light. The reason people in this industry get away with so much toxic behaviour is because of the power they have over the cast and crew who need the work. It may not feel like it right now, with all the shit you’ve had written about you, but the fact that Misty doesn’t have that power over you means that you can speak up about stuff others may not feel able to raise.” He shrugged. “And once you’ve done that, it may be easier for others to come forward.”
Owen hadn’t thought about that angle before, but now he found himself remembering all those painfully awkward moments during the filming when Misty had treated people horribly. The pervasive sense he’d had that this was the norm on-set at Weekend Wellness, and no one felt able to challenge it. Misty certainly hadn’t liked it when Owen had stood up to her.
He remembered her peremptory “Mason—with me” when they’d been filming. And Mason’s haste to follow her—because Mason was convinced that he needed the Weekend Wellness slot if he was going to break out of modelling and still provide for his family.
And Misty had seen just how much he wanted it, hadn’t she?
“Owen?”
He looked up to find Aaron watching him.
“You’re right,” he said. “And that was really nice of Tag. Especially given we don’t really know each other that well.”
Aaron gave a lopsided grin. “Well, he kind of owed you, given he got to be your plus-one at that awards dinner. Besides, he’s a nice guy.”
Weird to think of that dinner now—the night everything had started with Mason. It felt like a lifetime ago.
As though he’d just read Owen’s mind, Lewis said gruffly, “So. How are things with Mason?”
Owen grimaced and said flatly, “Mason and I are done.”
Ordinarily, that would have brought the conversation to an end, but not tonight apparently. Lewis glanced at Aaron, who gave him an encouraging nod. Then he said, hesitantly, “Do you… want to talk about it?”
Owen let out a short, sort-of-amused huff. “Do you want to hear it?” he countered, a note of disbelief in his voice that he couldn’t quite rein in. Lewis hated talking about feelings.
Lewis’s frown deepened. “Of course I do,” he said gruffly. “I know I’m crap at the touchy-feely stuff—Grace says it’s part of my whole avoidance thing—but it doesn’t mean I don’t care. You know that, don’t you?” His voice got a little croaky towards the end, as though just saying that much was hard.
“Who’s Grace?” Owen asked, frowning.
Colour flooded Lewis’s face. “My, um—my therapist. I’ve been seeing her for a couple of months now.” He let out an embarrassed laugh. “God, that makes me sound like a self-indulgent twat.”
“Hey, there’s nothing self-indulgent about it,” Aaron interjected firmly. “Going to Grace has been really good for you.” He turned to Owen. “She was recommended by someone we met a while back. She’s great. Really straightforward.” He bumped Lewis’s shoulder with his own. “She’s not what you expected, is she?”
“No,” Lewis admitted. “She’s actually… pretty normal.” Glancing at Owen, he added, almost tentatively, “I’ve been talking about”—he cleared his throat—“about Mum with her.”
A flood of emotions welled up inside Owen at that admission, with guilt predominating. He knew he hadn’t handled things very well with Lewis when their mum died. But the truth was, at seventeen, he hadn’t really known what to do. Lewis had seemed to want to ignore what was happening as much as he could, and it had been easier to just go along with that. After all, Lewis had only been fourteen. He couldn’t help Owen and their aunt deal with the medical staff in those awful final days, or make any of the funeral arrangements, or grapple with the bureaucracy that had followed afterwards, as Owen tried to keep them together. At the time, Owen had told himself it was better to let Lewis avoid it all. But now he wondered if that was the worst thing he could have done.
“I’m sorry, Lew,” Owen whispered, staring at the table. “I know I wasn’t there for you the way I should have been. I just buried myself in all the stuff that needed to be done to block it out and—”
“Hey, don’t you dare,” Lewis interrupted almost angrily. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I was the one who opted out. Jesus Christ, I was the one who fucking ran away the night she—” He choked up, the words dying in his throat, but Owen knew what he was referring to.
The night she died.
Owen stared at his brother, shocked by the wrecked expression on his face.
Lewis tried again. “Grace says I need to forgive myself, but I wasn’t there at the end to…” Again, he trailed off, as though the words were too painful.
Whenever Owen thought about that night, it wasn’t about the part when Lewis had run off, just after the nurse came and told them they were to come and say goodbye to their mum. Mostly, it was about what had happened after Lewis stormed away, after their aunt had urged Owen to go with the nurse while she went to find Lewis. He vividly remembered the minutes that followed. The long, grey, antiseptic-smelling corridor the nurse had led him down, the dim, beeping room she had shown him into, where his mother lay dying.
For some reason, he’d assumed she’d be awake. That she was going to say goodbye to him. But no, she’d been unconscious. He’d sat down and taken her cool, unresponsive hand between his own. And a few minutes later, she was gone. Just like that.
Owen swallowed hard at the memory and met Lewis’s agonised gaze.
“Lew, there’s nothing to forgive yourself for. She didn’t even know I was there.”