13. Winter

THIRTEEN

WINTER

W orking with August starts slowly.

My first challenge was convincing Hunter and Ella that having security shadowing August's every step was contributing to his dysregulation. Ella agreed right away, but Hunter was not fully convinced. We compromised that if August were on Amelia Manor grounds, he would be free from his detail.

We sit silently for the first six biweekly sessions: August plays video games on the massive 85-inch TV screen for much of the ninety minutes we've agreed on. I take notes and try to engage him by asking questions about the game. I set up a space for Kitty to rest and instruct him to remain there for the entirety of my time with August.

"I really do not feel like explaining this. It is distracting me," he says during the second session.

"Fair enough," I say and sit back in the leather chair in the corner of his game room.

For our third meeting, he meets me at the door of the game room at the start of the session.

"Did you get Hunter to stop having people follow me around?" He has the words waiting on his tablet, so he taps his iPad once to say the entire sentence.

"I asked him to, yes," I reply brightly, thrilled that he's talking to me at all.

"Okay," he replies, and before I can open my mouth to respond, he runs out of the room and down the hall. I wait for him for twenty minutes, expecting him to return.

He doesn't.

I try to engage him again on session six, picking up the controller. As soon as I sit down next to him, he stops pressing the buttons in his hands and shoots a look my way so quickly I can't tell whether I've actually seen it.

"Do you mind if I join in? I've been studying your plays and think I can hold my own." I try to look relaxed, but I'm honestly running out of ideas to get him to connect with me on any level.

He huffs and taps a few keys before logging off. After hopping out of his gaming chair, he goes into his bedroom. The door shuts just shy of a slam.

Later in the afternoon, I call Veronica for her opinion.

"Let's say you were trying to connect with a fifteen-year-old boy. His interests are gaming, RC helicopters, music, and ignoring the hell out of his therapist. What would you do to try to engage him?" I fight the urge to bite my nails—I've already got them down to the quick again.

"That's tough," Veronica says. I hear the chatter of the nail salon workers in the background. I look at my neglected toes. I give myself a pedicure once a month, pulling out the pumice stone and my favorite gel polishes. I want to be pampered, not just by myself but by someone else. I want to laugh with Veronica as we get our toes done. Maybe I'll add a manicure so I won't be so tempted to bite my nails off.

"At the end of the day, you need to seem really cool to him. Is there something you could bring and show off to him?" she finishes .

I hum as I think of what could possibly draw him in so much. Later, while scrolling on Reddit for the latest tech news, I find the name of the game most Redditors are going crazy over and get excited when I recall not seeing it on his shelf.

"Rons, I need a huge favor," I say as soon as Veronica picks up her phone.

I tell her my plan, and she connects me with a friend of her husband's who has exactly what I need.

When August walks into the game room, I sit in his chair, headset on and controller in my hand.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Hm?" I question, turning my head slightly toward him but not taking my eyes off the game. I shoot down a particularly nasty-looking zombie who pops up on the right of my screen.

August takes a step closer.

"Is that Doom of the Zombie Galaxy IV ?" he asks, and I fight the urge to giggle. His voice is still set to American gangster, and the way it says "zombie" in a New Englander accent gets me.

"Mmhmm," I say, glee rising in my chest.

"How did you get a copy of that? It is not due to be released for another three months." I glance at him, and his face transforms. I see him smile for the first time ever.

"I have connections," I say cryptically, shooting another zombie and throwing a grenade into an abandoned building.

August is silent for a moment.

"Can I play?" he asks.

"Of course," I reply, sliding a controller in front of the seat next to me without looking.

He sits and grabs it with one hand while placing his tablet on his lap with his other.

We play in silence for the next few levels. Finally, I ask, "How long have you been into video games? "

He makes a few moves before tapping out his response with his other hand.

"I have been gaming since I was ten. Aunt Ella got me my first PlayStation."

"That's super cool," I say.

We're silent for a little longer before he asks, "Are you a gamer?"

"Not usually," I reply. "I prefer to read books or draw or color."

"Coloring?" He twitches, then gives his version of an eye roll.

"Yeah, like in adult coloring books. It's something I got into when my parents died."

His head turns sharply in my direction. He looks at me soundlessly before saying, "Your parents died too?"

He puts his controller down. I do the same.

"Yeah, they died when I was twelve. Car accident."

He nods somberly. "I am sorry."

"Thank you," I say.

"So you know what it is like then."

"To lose a parent? Yes, I unfortunately do. We're…" I laugh a little and shrug, "part of a crappy club, you and I."

The corner of his mouth tips up, and for a second, he looks exactly how I imagine Hunter did at August's age.

"It is a real shitty club, Winter."

At least he's calling me something. Progress.

"I agree. It is shitty. And for a while, it felt more than shitty. It felt impossible to get through."

He looks away from me and fidgets with the silicone rings attached to his pants. He picks up his tablet.

"I do not," he begins, then he lifts his hand from the keyboard. "I do not know what to do with myself. I have always felt like I did not fit in with everyone." He lifts his hand, shaking it back and forth a few times and cracking his neck as he allows his body to stim. "The world is not set up for people like me. It has not been. And now I am just floating around these days."

He rocks back and forth in his chair. I turn to face him fully and lean forward to put my elbows on my knees.

Listening.

"Being here with my…" He lifts his hands from the tablet again, slapping his leg in a quick three-tap staccato. "…sperm donor is shit," he finishes.

He tosses his tablet onto the table in front of us and gets out of the chair. Walking in circles, he alternates between walking and hopping, switching directions often over the next minute.

He jumps over to where he left his tablet and types furiously. He emits tiny grunts as his fingers fly over the screen. When he's done, he taps the "Speak" button forcefully before throwing the tablet back on the table, returning to his track on the other side of the room.

"He has never given a shit about me. I have hardly talked to him in all these years. I was alone with her, and do you want to know the messed-up part? It is that I wanted to be with both of them. I wanted to know what a family is like. But I was left here alone like trash. I am trash to them. And to everybody in the world."

His chest rises and falls quickly, verging on hyperventilation. I put my hands up, trying to soothe him. "August, I'm here with you. I can say this with certainty: you matter. You are not trash. Your life has value."

He turns in the other direction, walking back and forth across the length of the room. He's vocalizing and a blur of movement. I stand still and silent. Then suddenly, he stops in front of me. Tears stream down his face.

"August," I repeat. "I am here. I won't say I know how you feel because only you know how you feel. But you are not alone in your feelings."

His whole body shudders. He walks back to the tablet and grips it in one hand, swinging it back and forth. I have a momentary fear that he might chuck it across the room like a Frisbee. When he pauses again, his fingers tap quickly on the tablet. "I keep having dreams about her. But not her when she was alive. Her dead. What that looked like. What that smelled like."

He drops the tablet on the plush carpet and wraps his arms around himself. The pained sounds he makes come from his soul. There is no mistaking this level of anguish.

I approach him. When I'm a foot away, I pick up the tablet and say in a low voice, "August."

He stops and looks in the direction of my torso. He sways from side to side.

"Do you want to tell me about the dreams? I'm here to support you as you talk about it in any way you need."

After a moment and without looking at my face, he grabs the tablet from me, holding it to his chest. After another moment, he flips the device over and hovers a hand over the screen.

"I need to run," he says. He vocalizes again, and something splinters inside my chest at the devastation in the sound.

"Let's go together," I say.

"Alone," he says as he exits the room.

I stare at the open door and allow my shoulders to slump. This is the furthest I've gotten with him, so I try not to be too disappointed that the session ended how it did.

I scribble a note on a sticky pad I grab from my bag.

Try to not wreck my high score.

See ya tomorrow, August.

-Winter

"Come," I say to Kitty, and he slowly walks over to me. His head droops a little, and I feel like he's just as bummed about August's sadness as I am. Looking down at my phone to schedule a ride, I'm only a few steps outside the game room when I smack into a wall.

A solid wall.

A solid wall that smells like cedarwood and campfire smoke.

A solid wall that smells like cedarwood and campfire smoke and with ocean eyes that reflect a look I know entirely too well.

Grief.

I haven't seen Hunter in a week, and it's been three weeks since our private discussion in the sitting room. But I haven't stopped thinking about him. Haven't stopped thinking about the intimacy of our conversation or how easily it all flowed.

Hunter Brigham has taken up a lot of space in my mind.

"H," I say. "Did you run into August?"

I don't realize I'm still quite literally plastered to him until his hands circle my upper arms. "Yeah," he says. His chest rises and falls, pressing against me.

"Did you hear all that then?" I whisper.

"Yeah," he says. It takes a moment, but his face clears to an unaffected look, like he doesn't care that his teenage son just verbally eviscerated him. But I can tell from the sag of his shoulders he's taking August's words hard.

I step back and immediately my body protests the action. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He's silent for a few moments with his eyes closed. When he opens them, storm clouds brew in his gaze.

"Nah. It doesn't matter," he says. He even sniffs and shrugs his shoulder.

I roll my eyes. I take his hand, pulling him along.

He doesn't ask where we're going. Just like I don't focus on how his big hand feels pressed against mine .

We reach our destination in a few minutes, and I breathe in the smell of the ornate garden around us.

"I did some exploring the other day to find some places for August and me to change the scenery. But he hasn't wanted to do anything except play video games." I smirk as I walk deeper into the garden, my eyes on the wrought-iron bench shaped like a butterfly.

"This was my mother's favorite place," Hunter says.

I sit down and place my bag at my feet. "Play," I tell Kitty and he's all too happy to bolt off down the path. We're about an hour from dusk, and I'm grateful that the late September sun is slightly obscured by cloud cover.

"I can see why," I reply.

"Ella's updated Amelia Manor over the past few years, but this garden still looks the same."

"Do you not spend a lot of time out here?" I look around and marvel at the dozens of roses around us. Lavender-blue, apricot, and dark red rose bushes surround the garden in staggered arcs, centering on where we now sit. Birdbaths scatter around the garden, and on the far wall, ivy and honeysuckle climb up the trellis.

"I don't. I haven't been out here since I was a kid."

I tilt my head, studying him. There's more to the story there, but I don't push.

"August shared a lot with me today. What did you happen to hear?" I try to keep my face and posture open and non-judging.

"I heard—" He runs his finger over one of the flowers. It's a deep, velvety red rose that makes me think of dark sheets and sensual lovemaking.

What the actual, Winter?

I hear my inner Genevieve tsk-tsk-tsk ing at me.

He continues speaking. "I heard that he hates me. That he's fucked-up about his mother's death. That he feels alone. Abandoned. And he's right. I did fucking abandon him. "

He plucks the rose from the bush, brings it to his nose, and then crushes it in his fist.

I don't say anything about his actions. Instead, I say, "Yes, you did."

His head jerks toward me before looking back at the rose. His jaw visibly clenches.

"You did abandon him. You did avoid interacting with him for the majority of his life. You say you have your reasons, but intent doesn't erase the impact of your actions. He did go through an incomprehensible trauma with his mother's death." I blink at him. "These are facts about the past. Facts we cannot change."

I stand up and walk toward him. I take the crushed rose from his hand.

"But the beautiful thing is we have a chance to make the future better. To heal. To grow." I remove the bulb from the stem, cradling the bloom.

"I bet you think I'm the biggest piece of shit, don't you," Hunter says.

I look up at him, and his eyes are full of emotion. His hands twitch slightly, and I notice pinpricks of blood on the palm that crushed the rose. He shoves his hands in his pockets.

"No," I say simply.

His eyes narrow as he looks at me.

"I don't think you're the biggest piece of shit. I think you truly believed the choices you made were for the best and that any alternative was unacceptable. And while I or someone else in your position might have made different decisions, they were your choices to make."

Finally, he looks away from me, his angular jaw tilted up as he looks at the flock of birds hopping from tree to tree near where we stand.

"I don't need to know your reasons because honestly? You're the one who has to live with them. And it looks like you've been living with those decisions for a long while. And feeling the consequences."

He looks back at me now, and the full force of his gaze unsettles me as it always does.

"What matters to me, to the world, and most importantly to August is what you choose to do from here on out. Will you continue to be the sperm donor? Or are you here to be his father? A father to a deeply traumatized, lonely, growing teenager? A father who does better every day?"

I fold my arms, proud that I told him the truth without sugarcoating it. Without trying to make it palatable or easy to swallow. Because I sense people don't tell him the truth and it's about time someone did.

The uncomfortable, raw truth.

"I don't know what that even looks like, Winter." His voice is soft and serious. "I don't know how to make this right." He's looking right in my eyes now, and I feel his gaze shoot down into my soul.

"It starts with you being with August. Like, really being with him. It starts with atonement."

"Atonement," he repeats.

"Yes, you need to acknowledge the harm you've caused and act to make it right from here on out. You make it right by doing better every day."

"Will you—" He cuts himself off, tilting his neck from side to side as if to release the tension.

"What, H?"

"Will you help me? With this?" He says the words so softly that I find myself leaning toward him to hear.

Or maybe it's the magnetism of everything that is Hunter Brigham.

"It's hard for you to ask for help, isn't it?" I ask.

He looks at me for a heavy moment. "I don't like having weaknesses," he says .

"Everyone has weaknesses. That's what it means to be human."

We're close, breathing each other in.

"I'm glad we're friends," he whispers.

"Me too." Another moment. Another breath in and out. For an unexplainable reason, I'm trembling.

"So you'll help me?" he asks. His voice is so soft, like a caress across my cheek.

"Of course, I will," I whisper back.

My only explanation for what happens next is that we both devolved into pure insanity.

Because when his lips touch mine, I know I'm completely, utterly, and thoroughly lost.