Page 26 of The Other Side of Wild
I wrap her in a hug and sway wildly back and forth to the point her feet aren’t on the ground anymore. “Greyson Wilder, put me down, you big handsome brute!” She’s epically failing to contain her laughter as she pretends to struggle in my arms.
I do, but not before asking, “You think I’m handsome?” There’s nothing on God’s green earth that can take the ridiculous smile off my face at this current moment in time.
Her eyes roll so far back in her head that I’m afraid they might get stuck. “I mean, have you seen yourself?”
I chuckle and put my hand on her lower back as I guide her towards the gate, “You sure know how to stroke a man’s ego, Kitten.” She throws me a wink over her shoulder before walking into the backyard.
I watch as she goes to help my mom set the table, not believing the breakthrough we just had. I bring my hand to my mouth as I remember just how good her softlips felt on mine. She smiles as my mom hands her a glass dish full of pasta salad, and places it in the middle of the table. “So much for backing off,” Tatum growls from behind me.
I whirl around on him so fast I almost lose my balance. I start to call him out, but my dad walks up the second my mouth opens. His hands meet our shoulders as he gives them a small squeeze. Looking back and forth between the two of us, oblivious to the tension he walked into. “I’m happy you both are here. I raised some good men.” He pats our back once before he walks into the house to help my mom and Hannah. My eyes narrow at my younger brother before I turn and follow my dad inside.
I understand his concern. When Dr. Williams first told us he suspected I was depressed, Tatum laughed. Said I was too happy of a kid to be depressed, that I was just mad all the time. When the good doctor explained to my brother that my anger was a symptom of unchecked depression, his expression turned somber. I don’t think anyone would have ever suspected it. My parents are two of the happiest people I know; how could they have a son with a faulty brain?
Once Dr. Williams explained that it was nothing they did, nothingIdid, he started teaching us ways to soften the metaphorical blow. When I’d start to get irritated, my parents would take me to get some sort of physical activity. When that didn’t work, and it went a step further, the second I’d lash out at someone, my mom would take me to a yoga class, which helped me quiet my mind and focus on my body as a whole. Sometimes, she’d take me to a beach or park and let me ground myself with the elements. Touching the sand or grass,smelling the ocean or the flowers. See the birds in the sky, that kind of thing.
I didn’t actually have my first debilitating slip until my senior year of high school. And it, of course, had to do with a girl. My prom date, to be exact. She had been my crush for a little over a year; I didn’t have the game I do now. I was awkward, scared of saying the wrong thing. I had a tendency to put my foot in my mouth at the worst time. I asked Tate to help me as he’s a closet romantic. I know, it's hard to imagine. Long story short, she said yes.
I was over the freakin’ moon; we did the thing, dressed up, corsages, pictures, the limo. She danced with me for exactly one song, then disappeared. I looked for her for over an hour. When I finally found her, she was on her knees in a supply closet with her new boyfriend. The one who asked her to be his girlfriendatprom, the prom she had come to with me.
It wasn’t so much her that sent me spiraling, but that she didn’t respect me as a person, that I didn’t really matter. I was just someone to use to get to where she wanted to go. Which was the nice house to take pictures at, the limo, the cool group of friends. It was the first time in my life that I felt worthless. That I looked at myself and questioned my purpose, or if I even had one. That opened the gates, and the horses of depression were off to the races.
The self-loathing, the numbness. The non-existent desire to do anything. It was like I was caught in the cycle of Groundhog Day, with no clear exit. My brother latched on to the fact that two of my biggest episodes were spurred on by the actions of women. But what he doesn’t understand is it isn’t fully their fault. They triggered something in me, and I was helpless to stop it. Kara had more to do with it than Savannah did. But Hannah? She helps me cope; she sees me and doesn’t run. She steps in when I need a lifeline. Even if she doesn’t realize she’s doing that for me. I’ve never had that outside of my family before; I just wish he’d see that.
––––––––
“Foods ready!” Mom shouts from behind the kitchen island as she and Hannah pour water into glasses. I pull out a chair for Hannah, pushing it back in once she’s sitting down. She smiles up at me, and I swear my heart skips several beats.
It doesn’t take long for my dad to break the silence. In typical William Wilder fashion, he decides to dig. “Do your parents live here, Hannah?” She had just taken a bite of green beans and coughed around the fork. “Oops, sorry, that was a poorly timed question.” She gives him a thumbs up as she chews; when she swallows, my eyes are drawn to her slender neck; who knew that was such an attractive part of a woman? My hands itch to have them on her again.
“No, they don’t; my mom and little brother are still in Alabama.” I don’t miss the fact that she completely left her dad out of the equation.
“Are you financially stable?” Mom asks as she reaches for her margarita.
“MOM!” My face heats as I realize she’s going to turn this into twenty questions. She’s been more closed off than the usual welcoming, overly bubbly version of herself. And the comment plus the one about “the last one.” What was she thinking?
Hannah takes it in stride, wiping her hands on her napkin before meeting my mom’s gaze. “I am, Mrs. Wilder. I’ve been on my own for eight years. I worked my way through college and saved what I could. I now have a wonderful job, complete with health insurance and PTO. I’ve also made some smart investments; I don’t need anyone to support me. But I’m not sure why that matters here.”
“It matters because if you’re going to dat—” And that's enough of that! Before she can finish her sentence I lob a question at the table. A one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn sounds like the best course of action at the moment.
“Are you guys coming to my games in Washington?”
Chapter 14 – Hannah
I decide to take a chance at figuring out what Tatum’s issue is with me while Greyson is busy helping his dad with dishes after we’ve finished eating. He’s sitting by himself on one of the loungers outside. His hands are back behind his head, his eyes closed, only a slight scowl on his face. How these two are related, I will never know—they’re night and day.
“Can I sit?” I ask hesitantly. One eye pops open and meets mine, his face pulling tight. I’m met with silence. Sighing, I take that as a sign he isn’t going to talk to me. Regardless, I sit in the chair next to him, placing my arms on my knees and lean forward. “What have I done to make you not like me?” I ask, not expecting an answer.
“Don’t know you enough not to like you.” Frustration creeps up; I feel like I’m talking to a wall.
“Okay then, why are you so cold towards me?” Trying again because, dang it, I’m going to get an answer out of him.
His eyes fly open, and he moves to face me so fast that I recoil. “Like I said, I don’t know you enough to have an opinion. I don’t care to know you; I told my brother I didn’t like whatever was going on between you two. I don’t support it. I don’t know what your end game is, but I’ll figure it out.”
Suddenly, I wish I hadn’t asked; my stomach plummets to my feet. I’ve heard this before, but it's a different voice; I know all too well how it feels to be looked at like you’re the problem. I used to see this very look in my dad’s eyes like I was a disappointment just because I existed. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I push forward. “We’re just friends, Tatum.” It’s whispered, and all the fight I had in me bled out when I heard he didn’t “like” this.
He glares for way longer than comfortable; I’m fighting every instinct I have to curl in on myself to hide from his intensity. I can’t look away; if I do, it feels like I’m giving him control over me. I can’t do that. Not again. “Does he know that?” He snaps, his voice strikes like a snake, every word a painful bite. “Because he doesn’t look at you like a friend. He’s got way too big of a heart; he falls way too fast. And to be honest, I don’t think you’re good enough for him.”
I want to push back, to tell him just how wrong he is, but I don’t. The truth is, I’m terrified he’s right. I’ve always been terrified of not being enough for someone, of being abandoned when they see the scars that lay beneath the semi-polished exterior.