That One Day (That One #1.5) (31 page)

With every thrust, every time I slide in and out of her, the chaos subsides and it’s just us and the friction of our bodies moving together. I want to stay inside of her forever, craving the peace and serenity she gives me.

But good things never last. At least not for me.

Frankie is asleep in my arms, her body pressed against mine. The moment of peace only lasted until my orgasm subsided. Then reality came bearing down.

I can’t sleep, can’t still my mind enough to relax. No matter how hard I try to chase the thoughts and the memories away, they sink their claws into my mind, determined to drag me down with them.

I think of the man lying in a pool of his own blood on our kitchen floor—my father. I don’t understand what happened, what had gotten into him. I can still picture the panic in Frankie’s eyes, hear the fear in Archer’s cry—it makes my skin crawl.

I can’t stay in the room any longer. I slide out of bed, throwing on some clothes. Quietly, I sneak downstairs and walk toward the kitchen to get myself something to drink. I’d kill for a whiskey right now, but I can’t risk losing control. What if I snap like my father did? Instead, I decide on orange juice. But as soon as my eyes fall on the spot where not even twenty-four hours ago blood was pooling, I freeze and just stare.

It’s all gone, the crime scene cleaners having done a perfect job. It’s like nothing ever happened, like nothing disturbed our happy lives.

Fuck. I need some fresh air. I can’t breathe in here. It feels like the walls are closing in. Stepping into my sneakers, I head outside, relishing in the sting of the cold air against my skin. I take a deep breath. Once, twice. But the hollow feeling in my chest doesn’t go away.

Making my way to the shed, I go inside and inhale deeply. The familiar scent of wood, oils, and varnish hits my nose, but it does nothing to calm me.

I should have seen the signs. I should have seen the danger my father posed. I go over every little moment I spent with him and suddenly some things he said, some looks he gave me, appear to have been more, been something worse than I recognized. I should have seen it, should have stopped him, then nothing would have happened. I was so fucking blind. I wanted to believe him, wanted someone to be honest and real with me.

My mother’s words ring in my head. ‘Your biological father, he wasn’t a good man.’ Now I know without a doubt that she was telling the truth. Although, describing him as ‘not a good man’ doesn’t seem fitting. He’s crazy, sick, and dangerous. I fucked up. Everything.

My thoughts are spinning and his words are replaying in my mind. ‘You didn’t even see it coming when I pressed the pillow to your face, smiling up at me.’

Pain rips through me, replacing the anger and guilt. He tried to kill me without remorse. He wanted to get rid of me. I don’t understand. The thought of Archer so much as injuring himself is tearing me apart. How could someone who was supposed to love me try to hurt me? Why the fuck didn’t he love me?

The pain is suffocating me, boiling under my skin, ready to tear me apart. I turn toward my workbench and with hurt pumping through my body, I swipe everything on it to the ground. Tools are clanging, glasses filled with nails and screws break. I watch nails, screws, and broken glass scatter across the floor, just like my fucking life is falling to pieces.

Taking two steps, I tear down the shelves, leaving big gashes in the wall. I slam them to the ground before I grab what I can get my hands on and throw it against the opposite wall. I need to let out the destruction that rages inside of me before it fucking consumes me.

“Ben?” Frankie’s soft voice makes me stop mid-throw, a jar of varnish in my hand. Lowering my arm, I turn toward her. I want to say something, but I don’t know what. She can’t help me. She can’t undo all of this shit. She can’t make my father love me.

I watch her walk up to me, her arms snaking around my waist. I want to be strong for her, want to be the one she can lean on, but I have nothing left inside me. The anger that kept me upright disappears and leaves behind the pain I want to ignore so badly. The kind of pain that brings me to my knees. I sag to the floor, taking Frankie with me. I hold her tight, not letting go for one second.

Unable to control it any longer, I cry in Frankie’s arms asking her the one question I can’t find an answer to: “Why, Frankie?”

I don’t know how long we sit like this, but when I finally look up, it’s gotten light outside. Frankie doesn’t let me go as she leads me back to the house and up to our room. I let her take care of me, let her hold me while she snuggles Archer up to us. As I look at them both, I realize the destruction my father caused might have just been the beginning. The thought hits me hard; the consequences of what this might mean tearing apart what is left of me. My father is a crazy man, a madman, but I’m his son and I might end up just like him. I’ll leave them before that happens.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, pulling me out of my thoughts. We’ve barely left our room the past two days. The others understand, bringing us food and allowing us to stay locked away.

I look over to the armchair where Frankie’s reading Archer a goodnight story. Just like last night, I don’t participate. I’m too worried to get close to him, too fucking petrified I will snap and hurt him. Frankie tried to get me to give him a bath, but instead I told her that I was going to tidy up the room.

Picking up the phone, I see it’s a message from Dave.

Dave: Hey man, how are you holding up?

I guess someone filled him in on what happened. I type a reply, every word a fucking lie.

Me: Fairly good, considering the circumstances. No need to worry.

Dave: Yeah, right. We both know that’s bullshit. I’m here if you need me.

I wonder if I should tell him to be there for Frankie once I make up my mind and leave, but decide against it. He’d tell her and things would only get worse.

Me: Thanks.

I set the phone aside, but it vibrates again with an incoming call this time. Turns out it’s the police officer assigned to our case. That’s what our life is now—a case.

“Mr. Gibson. Officer Roberts here. I just wanted to give you an update.” I remain quiet except for an encouraging grunt. When Frankie comes to my side and sits down, I turn it on speaker so she can hear.

Officer Roberts continues, “Your father is still in the hospital, but he will be released shortly. He will be transferred to a high security psychiatric hospital to determine the state of his mental health and his treatment.”

“Okay. I don’t really care what happens to him. What I care about is knowing how the hell this could happen?” I get louder, ignoring Frankie’s hand soothingly stroking my arm.

“It turns out he tricked an intern at St. Michael’s and managed to escape. By the time the hospital noticed, he had already been gone for a few hours. They hoped they could find him, or he would come back. That’s why they didn’t alert you. The institution is being investigated, as well.”

I let out a breath. “Well, that’s fucking great.”

“There is something else.” He hesitates. “Looking into your dad’s case, I found out he wasn’t in the hospital of his own volition. He was committed after…” he pauses again, and I finish for him. “After he tried to kill me?”

“Yes. He never passed an evaluation in all those years. I’m really sorry. I wish I had better news.”

“Thanks, Officer Roberts.” I take a deep breath. “And thank you for saving us.”

“It’s my job. If you have any more questions, you have my number.”

We hang up and Frankie snuggles up to me.

“I’m sorry all this happened, Ben. I know how much he meant to you.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, placing a kiss to the top of her head. “You look tired. Why don’t you take a shower and get ready for bed?” She lifts herself off me, nodding weakly. Her eyes are sad and the corners of her mouth pull down. Before she enters the bathroom, she stops and looks back at me as if she wants to say something, but then shakes her head, walking inside and leaving me alone in the room.

I exhale, hating how hard it is to pull myself together when she’s around. I look at Archer’s crib, hoping he won’t start crying. I’m fucking terrified of hurting him. I don’t know what happened to my father. How am I supposed to know it won’t happen to me as well?

When I hear the shower, I grab my phone and dial the number of the hospital my father is currently at. The same hospital we were at after it all happened.

It takes a while to get through to someone who can give me some answers, and even though it takes some convincing that I truly am his son, I succeed eventually. I find out my dad has been treated for psychosis, though the doctor is still waiting for the medical records from St. Michael’s. When he starts to tell me about my father’s current state, I excuse myself and end the phone call. I don’t fucking care how he’s doing. I don’t care if his arm falls off due to the bullet wound in his shoulder. I don’t care if he falls over dead.

Frankie comes to bed, lying down next to me. She takes my hand, intertwining our fingers.

“Ben?” Her voice is so quiet I barely hear it. “Why don’t you call your mom? Talk to her, get more information?”

“And tell her what, Frankie?” I snap, but immediately regret it. I know she’s just worried, but I went over this in my head countless times since we came back from the hospital. I treated my mom like shit. Yes, she lied to me, but as it turns out she had a good reason.

“What should I say? Sorry for treating you like shit while you tried to keep me safe? I can’t…” I take a deep breath. “I can’t risk her telling me to fuck off and to never come back, something I would fucking deserve. I’ve had all the rejection I can take.”

Frankie squeezes my hand. “She’s your mother. She’d never do that, Ben. She loves you.”

I scoff, “Well, my father didn’t seem to have any parental feelings for me. There is no guarantee of parental love, is there?”

I watch Frankie close her eyes, fighting for composure, her lip quivering slightly.

I tug her closer. “Sorry, babe. I’m an asshole.”

She shakes her head. “No, you’re just hurting. We’ll get through this.”

I wish I could believe her. But I don’t see how we can come out of this still standing.

Once Frankie falls asleep, I sit down at her vanity currently doubling as a desk. Opening the browser on my laptop, I start my research on
psychosis
.

Two hours later, I’m sick to my stomach. Between the possible symptoms and the fact that it can have genetic causes, my worst fears are becoming a reality.

I can hear rustling behind me. When I look back, I see Frankie out of bed and on her way over to me, so I quickly close the browser and turn the laptop off.

My Metallica shirt engulfs her body. She tilts her head, worry etched into her features. “You okay, Ben?” Her voice is low in order to not wake up Archer.

Taking a deep breath, I nod. “Yeah, let’s get to bed.”

She snuggles up to me, her head on my chest, her leg thrown over my hips as she drifts off to sleep again. I hold her all the while trying to quiet the voices in my head telling me I’ll end up like my father.             

Waking up, I take a look around the room. Frankie is still sleeping, but Archer isn’t in his crib. I guess Dean or Alex took him downstairs already. I quickly brush my teeth and splash some water on my face before pulling on my sweatpants and walking downstairs. I’m puzzled that I don’t hear any voices and my confusion turns into worry when I don’t see Alex or Dean anywhere and Archer isn’t in his playpen. Doing a double-take I notice my father sitting on the couch, Archer cradled in his lap, a pillow pressed to his face. He isn’t moving, his little body totally still.

“Dad? What did you do?” I scream. My voice sounds foreign and distorted.

“Now he won’t take anything away from you,” my father replies, turning his face toward me.

“No, Dad, no,” I plead, closing my eyes, hoping when I open them again my father will be gone and Archer safe in his playpen. But when I do look, I suddenly see myself sitting there with Archer, holding his lifeless body.

I jolt awake, my heart pounding in my chest, my breath caught in my lungs. I’m panting as I look around the room, finding Frankie fast asleep and Archer snoring in his crib.

I stumble out of bed, not bothering to throw on a shirt. I need to get out of this room, away from Frankie and Archer. I go down to the living room, only turning on the lamp on the end table. Sitting down on the couch, I bury my face in my hands and groan.

Last night’s research was fucking discouraging. Trying to learn more about hereditary factors in psychosis, I’m left with more questions than answers. There is no clear evidence it’s hereditary, but there is also no clear evidence that it isn’t. So it’s like a goddamn Russian roulette—one day I might wake up and decide that my son is the bane of my existence, and hurt him. Or, what if I believe that about both him and Frankie? Fuck, I can’t even think about it. The thought alone is killing me.

I can’t risk that. Can’t put them in danger. If I stay in their life, I don’t know what will happen. What if I snap? There is no warning, no fucking alarm system. I might wake up one day and be like my father— a fucking madman who has no conscience, no remorse. I could talk to a doctor, have him prescribe me something, but what doctor would actually do that solely based on the fact that my father is a nut-job.

As much as it fucking hurts, I need to leave. Need to get as far away as I can in order to keep them safe. The idea makes me double over and I lean my elbows on my knees, groaning and rubbing my face with my hands. The realization of what I have to do is burning through me, the loss more than I can handle.

“Ben, what are you doing down here?” Frankie’s voice breaks through the silence in the room. I should have known she’d come looking for me sooner or later. She always does if I’m not in bed when she wakes up.

I don’t look up, don’t want her to look in my eyes because she’ll see the truth, and I know she’ll fight me on it.

“I couldn’t sleep. Go back to bed, babe.”

“Why don’t you come with me?” she suggests. But I can’t. It’ll just make me question my decision which is not a risk I should take.

“Nah, I’ll only keep you awake.” I silently beg her to just go upstairs and lock the door, but I should have known Frankie doesn’t give up easily.

“Ben, please don’t do that. Don’t push me away.” Her voice is quivering; I can hear the tears she’s trying not to shed.

When I tell her I’m not pushing her away, she ignores the lie. Instead, she kneels in front of me and takes my face in her hands. Her eyes bore into mine, and I know I’m not hiding shit from her. The recognition in her eyes tells me she knows exactly what I’m doing.

“Ben, you’ve barely touched Archer since it happened. You don’t dare to stay alone in the room with him. You pretty much stopped talking to me. You’re here in this room, but it feels like you’re leaving me. I can’t lose you again. You promised you wouldn’t leave.” She sobs. “You promised.”

I hate making her cry. Hate causing her pain yet again. But this is a million times better than the hurt I could cause if I stay.

The look she’s giving me, her eyes pleading, her cheeks stained with tears—it weakens my resolve enough to let her into my head. “Fuck, Frankie. Maybe it’s for the best if I leave. Before I hurt you or Archer. What if I’m like him? What if I end up becoming a monster like my father?”

She’s shaking her head, holding one of my hands to her cheek.

“Ben, you’re not. He wasn’t worried about hurting you. You are. You worry about Archer’s well-being every single moment. There is not a bad bone in your body. I trust you with him. Do you think I would do that if I thought you were dangerous?”

“I’m sure my mom didn’t think that either.” She would have never allowed him to be alone with me if she thought he would try to kill me. She trusted him, just like Frankie trusts me.

“Ben, you have to believe me. Please. God, please believe me.”

I want to believe her so bad. I want to trust in her words, but the risk is too big. No matter how much it might break her heart now and tear out mine in the process, I won’t take any chances when it comes to protecting her and Archer.

She must read my face, because all of a sudden, Frankie’s demeanor changes. She sits up straighter, and her eyes blaze with determination.

“I won’t let you do that. Remember what you said to me? You’d fight for us. You did. And now it’s my turn. You won’t leave me; not because you make yourself into something you are not. I love you. And I know you love Archer and me. This won’t destroy us. Do you understand?”

She sounds strong and unyielding, a hint of anger and a lot of conviction in her voice. She stomps up the stairs, leaving me by myself in the living room. I want to follow her, but I know it’ll just make things harder. I should stay away. Should leave as soon as I can. The only problem is I don’t want to. I don’t want to lose the life I have here. I don’t want to lose the only two people who matter to me. I’m torn between doing the right thing and doing what my heart wants me to do. In the end, my heart wins.

I walk into our bedroom and first thing I notice is the suitcase on the bed. She’s throwing my clothes into it. I have not the slightest clue what’s going on. Half an hour earlier, she was announcing she would fight for us and now she’s packing my stuff. Is she kicking me out?

The thought makes my stomach churn. I can’t abandon her and Archer. Not without a fight. The possibility of her having had enough is my fucking wake-up call. She and Archer are my world—if there’s the slightest chance we might fix this, that it could work, I need to try. She’s hell-bent on loving me. Others might have run away a long time ago, but not Frankie. She’s willing to fight for us, and I owe it to her to at least give it a try.

My heart is beating wildly in my chest. “Frankie, what are you doing?”

“We’re going to see your mom. The flight is in five hours.” I want to tell her we can’t do that, but she holds up a hand, stopping me before I can utter a single word.

“I’m not taking no for an answer. I told you, you’re either in it or you aren’t. You decided you’re in, so you’re not going to jump off the damn train at the first fucking detour. You owe me this. You owe Archer this. We’ll go there and we’ll ask your mom questions that need to be asked. If you still think you’re too dangerous to be around, fine, walk away. But I won’t let you do that without trying. And don’t say anything or I swear to God I will punch you.”

I watch her as she continues packing, noticing her stiff movements and the tension in her rigid shoulders. I watch my girl being strong for the both of us, willing to fight for me. She’s given me a chance before, forgiving all of the mistakes I made. Even now, after everything my father has done, she’s still here—fighting for me. They weren’t just empty words at the cemetery—she doesn’t judge me by my father’s deeds or illness. She simply loves me—even when I push her away, when I contemplate leaving her. She’ll never know how much this fucking means. This kind of unconditional love—I can’t believe it’s mine.

I walk up to her and take my shirts out of her hand. She freezes, looking up at me. Her face is scrunched up in anticipation, waiting for me to defy her plan. And maybe I should. But I can’t. I owe her this. I owe her to fight and to love her back the way she loves me. So I place the shirts in the suitcase and feel her relax next to me, all the tension leaving her body.

She exhales a long breath, as if she’d been holding it for a while. So do I, for now. It’s the upcoming days that will make or break us.