Hung: A Badboy Romance (11 page)

Every time my mind flashes back to that horrible final scene in his house, I’m filled with an almost uncontrollable rage, and I start thinking again about all the things I
should
have done: like thrown his food in his fucking face.

A few times, I manage to grab some sleep, but for the most part I’m left awake and sobbing, and by the time the flight pulls in at its final destination and I stumble, bleary-eyed out into SFO airport and head towards the taxi rank, I’m pretty much dead on my feet.

But even so, even in my current state, it feels so good to be
home
; to hear American accents once again, and to think that that bastard is now safely on the other side of the fucking planet.

By the time the airport taxi pulls up outside Mom and Alexander’s place, it’s a bright sunny day outside, and I have no idea what time it even is anymore. My whole body feels leaden with tiredness, and I’m already rehearsing the excuse I’m gonna tell Mom – how I’m going to carefully manage her surprise at seeing me here, then simply tell her that I’ll explain everything
tomorrow
, and as I trudge towards the familiar front door, I’m already looking forward to the delicious moment when I can just fall back into my own bed again, pull the sheets right up over my head and drift away to sleep ...

I unlock the door and step inside, and the first thing I notice is that the house feels strangely quiet and empty – eerily so. For a moment I wonder if I’m alone, if perhaps Mom and Alexander have gone out somewhere, but then I hear the sound of soft murmured voices, coming from the living room.

I assume they must be having some kind of private talk, but even so, I decide to let them know I’m here.

“Hello?” I call. “It’s me, Stacey! Surprise!”

But there’s no answer. And as I approach the door to the living room, I get this weird, uneasy feeling in my stomach – like something isn’t quite right.

I open the door, and the first thing I see isn’t my mom but
Colt
, dressed in a black suit, sitting slumped in the corner, his head in his hands. 

What the fuck is he doing here?

I look over at my mom and her face is all blotchy and red; it’s obvious she’s been crying. 

“Mom? Are you okay?” I blurt out, confused. “What’s happened? What’s going on?”

But she doesn’t answer me, instead just starting to sob again, her whole body shuddering with the force of her emotion.

I turn to Colt in total confusion now, watching him as he stands up and approaches me, his face masked with a kind of pain and sadness I’ve not seen from him before. 

“Stacey, I’m so sorry,” he says quietly, not quite meeting my eye. “I tried to message you but you were already in the air ... My father ... Alexander ... passed away last night.”

Looking back, I don’t know how I even made it through those first two weeks – from the moment I got the call from my stepmom, Gloria, to the moment I delivered the eulogy at his funeral, well, it was all just a blur: the days flashing by with alarming speed, my head crammed so painfully with recrimination and regret. And as I threw myself into the task of writing a fitting speech, an attempt to sum up my father’s life and character – his many achievements, his personality, his kindness, his warmth – well, I guess in the process I couldn’t help but think about my
own
life, too; how far I’d fallen short of the impressive mark he’d set for me.

And I’m not talking about
business
.

I’m talking about treating people right. I’m talking about living your life with compassion and humility.

In those respects, I couldn’t be further from him. And you know what was even worse? On top of all that, I’d hardly even
seen
him much since I left college for Europe. I’d spent over half my life here, in England, trying to build up my business empire, and sure, I’d made a ton of money. But had I made any real friends? Any meaningful connections?

Looking back on it, it seemed like I’d all done was push those I cared about – my dad, my old friends,
everyone
– further and further away from me, erecting an impenetrable wall around myself, so big and tough that nobody could possibly get through.

Well, almost nobody ...

And the more I thought about the events of the last few weeks, about the way I’d treated those closest to me, sure enough one person in particular kept returning to my thoughts.

The one person I’d hurt, more than any other.

The one person I’d hurt, purely because I was scared just how deeply I was falling for her ...

I have to admit, as I saw him standing there at the funeral service for Alexander, his voice shaking a little as he read out a surprisingly beautiful and thoughtful eulogy, I felt all my anger and resentment begin to melt away. Because in that moment, all I felt for him was tenderness, and as the crowds spilled out of the crowded chapel afterwards, I took a moment to go up to him and tell him just how sorry I was – something I realized with shame that I hadn’t even done yet.

You see, until that moment, I’d decided the best thing I could do – for
both
of us – was keep my distance.

“I’m so sorry, Colt,” I say, gently, my hand resting on his arm for just a half second.

I’d half expected him to tell me to go to hell, or to brush me off with some cold cutting remark, but to my surprise, he turned to face me and smiled – not an arrogant smile, just a small tender smile, full of sincerity – and then he simply said, “Thank you, Stacey. That means a lot. Really.”

And now, a few days on from the service, I guess I’m left wondering what happens next. I’m not talking about the thing between Colt and me – I mean, I’m not totally stupid, I know that
that’s
over and done with – but what happens next in
my
future?

Where do I go from here?

This whole thing, Alexander’s death, has really shaken me up; has shaken all of us. Right now I know I need to be here, at home, for my mom – and I yeah, I guess for Colt too. But I’m still left wondering what the future holds for me after that.

Now that we’re technically no longer step-siblings, I suspect that after all this settles down, we’ll just go our separate ways. After all, I barely saw him when our parents were married. He’s hardly the type to come back for Christmas, to visit someone he’s not even related to.

And you know what?

After all the crap that’s gone on between us – all the hurt, all the lies, all the game-playing – maybe that’s for the best ...

It’s so strange, waking up in this house again. As I open my eyes, feeling the warm sunlight spilling in across my face, for a moment I don’t even remember. And then it hits me all over again: harder than a punch to the chest.

He’s dead.

My father is dead.

I throw off the covers and pull on a plain white t-shirt and boxer shorts, before heading out of my room and down the staircase, where I can hear the sound of classical music playing from a radio, and the distinctive scent of bacon frying in the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Stacey greets me from the stove, giving me a brief but compassionate smile before returning her focus to the skillet full of sizzling rashers. “I thought you might be hungry,” she adds.

She’s right. I’m starving. I’ve hardly eaten anything in the last couple weeks – I’ve been too sick with shock and sadness to feel really hungry before now. But this morning, all of a sudden, I’m totally ravenous.

“Thanks so much,” I reply, feeling a sharp pang of embarrassment as I remember again just what an
asshole
I was to her. And not just at that final fiasco of a dinner, either. Nope. When I think long and hard about it, I’ve been an asshole to Stacey ever since we first met.

You see, more than anything,
this
has been the lasting effect of my father’s death: the sinking feeling that I’ve spent far too much of my life focused on myself, and far too much of my life being cruel to other people. So from now on, I’ve decided, that’s all in the past. It’s high time I changed. Time I finally grew up a little ...

“Mom’s gone away for the weekend,” Stacey explains, as she shakes the perfectly-fried rashers of bacon onto a plate, then dishes up some eggs and pancakes too. “She’s visiting my aunt, her sister, in Tucson.”

I glance up at her from my seat at the breakfast table. She’s busy arranging the food on the plate, her brow furrowed in concentration, the sunlight shining through her beautiful brown hair, and I feel something I wasn’t expecting: an even sharper pain, shooting through me.

Only this time it isn’t sadness.

This time it’s
regret
.