Page 51 of Second Position (Astor Hill #2)

Grant

The neighborhood already put the bows up—big, red velvet ones on the street lights, with coordinating ribbon wrapped around the lampposts. I can just see Gen twirling around one, the way she did at the rehearsal. The way she does when she’s feeling carefree, all of sudden.

I blink the thought away. The streets are empty with everyone at my parents’ house, no doubt asking Evie Fielder what the secret ingredient to her punch is.

It’s just sherbet, but they don’t believe her; could be the pearls or the way her hair doesn’t move, but she gives the air that she’d never put store brand ice cream in her vintage crystal punch bowl, and yet she does.

There’s a twinge, deep in my chest, when I think about her lately.

My mom—Evie, always Evie—is at the center of the good part of my life.

Everything I am, everything my life gets to be, is because she insisted on fostering a set of almost teenaged twins.

She could’ve picked an infant, or a toddler even, but she chose us.

Decided that we were worth the work. Because we were work, Sloane and I.

Sloane doesn’t see it that way. I’m sure she can’t, with the way she keeps trying to pull Connie back into our lives.

She’s left it alone since things fell apart with Gen, but then, she’s kind of left me alone—something she’s never done.

It would hurt more if it didn’t mean she was choosing Gen.

And I know I’m being a coward, know that I should just get the fuck over my issues and reach out to Gen.

Tell her how I’m feeling. But the fear of her leaving, the fear of her finding something better, looms like a shadow over the hope that we could be okay. Is this painful, visceral thing.

Back inside, multiple fireplaces roar, Anders taking turns between offering champagne and keeping the cozy ambience alive.

There’s a lively game of pictionary happening in the sitting room, my mom and her friends on a team against the men, and I catch a glimpse of the neighborhood kids through the window, crouching behind the dark shrubbery in what looks like a game of manhunt.

I smile to myself, despite the cloud over my head that won’t budge, because I remember this so well.

The kind of childhood I got to have here is something I’ll never take for granted.

“...the number wouldn’t…” Sloane’s voice ebbs and flows from the corner of the room, where she’s perched in the lap of Brennan Leekes, just one of the many guys that thought they had a chance with my sister.

“So then I dropped everythin’ and went to Boston, because she was there tryin’ to contact Grant, which—” she rolls her eyes just as I appear in their field of vision, Brennan sitting up taller in an attempt to look less wrapped up in Sloane than he is.

My sister doesn’t budge, just lounges in his lap, her eyes slanted at me.

“Oh goodie,” she slurs, her hot breath reeking of undiluted whiskey, “we were just talkin’ about you.

” Her smile is feral, and I can tell that the weeks’ worth of thoughts stewing in the pressure cooker of her mind are about to come flying out.

“Hey man,” Brennan offers, smart enough to pick up on the shift in Sloane’s mood. “Long time no see.” As gently as he can—he really was always a nice guy—he readjusts her on his lap, deftly placing her on the chair in his place before giving me a quick pat on the shoulder. “We’ll catch up later?”

“Where are you goin’?” Sloane pouts, her arms crossing dramatically.

“Just grabbing punch,” he lies. “It’s just whiskey in her cup,” he says to me under his breath before shuffling out of sight, and I nod, like I didn’t already know.

“You ruin everything. Have you ever just not cared for, like, a minute of your life?” she scowls, glaring up at me. “Oh wait—you tried that. Didn’t work out for you.” I try my best to school my features at her flippant mention of Gen.

“Do you want me to grab you some water?” I sigh, wondering if sixteen year old me knew I’d still be checking on my sister’s alcohol intake into our twenties.

“Stop actin’ like I’m unhinged, Grant.” Shoving up from the chair, she stalks away from me, moving into our parent’s study to siphon more of their good whiskey, no doubt.

Just like the good old days.

“Well, you’re spillin’ your guts about Connie to anyone who will listen, so,” I challenge, stealing the bottle out of her hand before she can add more to the crystal cup meant for punch.

“Some of us have to talk about things. I know that’s a foreign concept to you.”

“I talk to y—” Her loud “ha” stops me in my tracks, and she steals the bottle back .

“Not me , Grant—her. Mom. Talk to mom. Hell, talk to Gen . You just shut down the moment things get hard, or real. You’re never goin’ to feel anything worth feelin’ if you keep livin’ like this.

” There are tears in her eyes, more than there would be were it not for the fact that her blood might be pure whiskey right now.

The small amount of liquor in mine sings to me that she’s right, but the lived-in part of me wins over, and I feel the urge to run from this conversation before it’s even started.

“Let’s not talk about this here, Sloane,” I tell her softly, hoping it’ll convince her.

“Why not!?” she explodes, slamming her glass down, the contents sloshing onto the desk.

“Because it’s Thanksgiving,” I tell her, my voice a deep rumble as I fight against the current she’s pulling me into.

“And Mom is having a great time, if you’ve even noticed, and no one wants to hear about the dead beat who abandoned us,” I finish, through gritted teeth, my sadness over everything pushing against the back of my eyes.

“How long are you goin’ to pretend that this ,” she motions to the dark paneled study, overflowing with golden threaded collector’s editions and Fielder family history she’s never cared about, “is the entirety of your life? Have you even told Dad about the draft?”

“I don’t need to tell him yet, there’s time for?—”

“No, Grant!” she shouts, and I take a step back.

“There isn’t time. Eventually, the words are due.

The feelings come. Life happens. And the longer you keep pushing off anything that leaves you feeling even a little vulnerable, the longer you’re going to spend that life alone.

Unhappy. A sad excuse of the person you could be. ”

The words feel like a slap in the face, the truth of them stinging. And instead of agreeing, I feel myself get angrier by the second.

“So what do you prescribe, Sloane? Since you’re so fucking wise?

” I spit, unable to stop myself. Her tears start to fall, face red with fury as she clenches her jaw in an attempt to stifle them.

“Am I supposed to live like you? Don’t look any happier than me, from where I stand.

You say I don’t face my problems—you literally run from yours. What even happened in California?”

“Fuck you, Grant,” she seethes, her face crumpling in real time as she shoves past me and out of the study, the sound of her frantic footsteps fading within seconds.

“What the hell did you say to your sister?”

My dad stands there, hands shoved into the single pocket of his signature quarter zip, none of the anger in his voice anywhere on his face.

I clear my throat, shame coursing through me because while she pushed me, I never should’ve spoken to her like that. Never should’ve used her pain against her.

“I, uh… we were arguing,” I tell him, the explanation falling flat.

“Yeah, I gathered that, otherwise she wouldn’t have run upstairs sobbing.”

Fuck .

“It’s fine. I’ll talk to her.” I offer him a curt smile, making to leave, but he stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

“Sit down, son,” he says, his anger dissipating as he studies my face. I don’t have a reason not to—it’s Thanksgiving, I have nowhere else to be—so I do, my molars grinding the entire time. “We never talked about Genevieve.”

“There’s nothin’ to talk about.” I stare into the fire keeping this room even warmer than the rest, the flames looking a lot like all the fires raging in my mind.

“Seemed like things were serious.” I just shrug, not sure of the answer myself. “I wish you’d talk to me, Grant.” At this, I finally laugh.

“It’s not like you ask,” I tell him, the liquid courage I’ve been sipping on all night pulling the words out of me with ease. My dad nods in long, languid motions, ruminating over his response.

“You’re right. I could’ve done a lot of things differently—with you.

Sloane was easier for me, I think, ‘cause she was so obvious with her disdain. Made it easy to figure out how to get to her.” He loses a sigh, sinking back into the sofa.

“But you always had it together. I guess I convinced myself that if you needed me, you’d let me know.

You were good like that. Always knew I could depend on you. ”

“Yeah, well, maybe I didn’t want to be dependable,” I tell him, giving voice to the feeling I felt every time my parents looked at me with unquestionable trust. I wanted just an ounce of distrust—just an inch to do something outside the careful confines they had created for me .

The fire crackles before us, sputtering before gaining new life, and we sit in silence, my admission hanging between us like the new thing it is.

“No,” my dad mutters, “of course not. What kid wants to be?”

I turn to him, the understanding in his voice so different than what I usually hear. Is this what Sloane’s gotten for the past ten years? Is that why we’re so different?

“I told you, Grant. I could’ve done things differently, and I mean it.” He pauses, his eyes latching onto something as he looks at me. “I don’t think you see where you went wrong until they’re all grown, like you and Sloane are now. Don’t think it’s possible not to mess up.”

“You didn’t mess?—”

“And what if we did? It’s okay to let us feel that.” The crease between his brows deepens as he inspects my face, like it’ll fill in the gaps of everything I’ve never been honest about.

“I loved my life here,” I tell him, my voice cracking at the emotion I didn’t expect to find there. “I never want you to think I didn’t.”

A small huff escapes him, like a realization.

“So that’s it, huh?” he regards me like a fog just lifted, shaking his head. “There’s nothing you owe us, son. We love you, and that’s it. I’m sorry if I made you think our love was conditional.”

“That’s not what—” I start, embarrassment burning at the tops of my cheeks before he cuts me off.

“I thought joining Fielder Foods intimidated you. I said, Evie, maybe he just takes it so seriously that the light I used to see in his eyes went out because he’s been workin’ so hard on gettin’ everything right.

But…” he tilts his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I never asked, did I?”

The urge to tell him it’s not a big deal, that I’d be honored to join Fielder Foods, that he never needed to ask because of course I would do it, pushes against me. But I fight it, the newness of this moment encouraging me to lean into the truth for once.

“I’m uh… I’m going for the draft,” I finally tell him. And the moment I do, it’s like a thousand bricks fall off my shoulders, like a herd of elephants disappears from my chest.

“Okay,” he nods, taking the information in. His idea of the future looks so different than it did just twenty minutes ago, and he’s being more gracious than I’ve been to anyone lately. “I’d be lyin’ if I told you this didn’t make me nervous.”

“I know. But?—”

“But it’s your life, Grant. You can’t be makin’ decisions based on me. That’s my job,” he smirks. “I want nothin’ more than for you to live a life you’re proud of. One that you’re happy to step into every morning you wake up. I don’t care what that looks like, so long as you have it.”

I don’t notice the tears trailing down my cheeks until one drops on my hands, clasped together in front of me. His assurance is something I didn’t realize I needed.

“Okay,” I say, swallowing back only some of the tears and taking a deep breath to still the rest. “Thank you.”

“No, it’s uh… something I probably should’ve made sure you knew a long time ago.”

I’m pulled into the kind of hug I’ve only gotten from Beau Fielder a few times in my life the moment I stand, and it’s another thing I didn’t realize I needed from him.

“Now, don’t go apologizin’ to your sister when she’s been through half of my better whiskey. You might lose an eye.”

My chest reverberates with laughter as I step back, and I notice the gray at his hairline that wasn’t there when he adopted me all those years ago. “No, I’d better not. But I should see if Mom needs another teammate. She never could draw.”

Now it’s his laughter that fills the room, his cheeks turning ruddy thinking about his wife trying to draw anything that isn’t a straight line. “Might just make her night not see you so dour. ”

“Dour?” My face scrunches up at the word and he throws his hands up.

“She hasn’t had to tell a soul that you’re heartbroken—it’s written all over your face.

” His laughter softens, his gaze turning thoughtful.

“I don’t know what happened with you and Genevieve but…

I think you know she’s worth whatever it takes to turn that ship around,” he tells me, leaving me alone with the ocean of hurt keeping me from doing just that.