Where There's a Will (Lost Boys, #1)

by Jessie Walker

“Have you always been this mean?” He rolls his eyes, lip ticking up into a bitter smile. “You’d know. You’ve seen the worst of me.” I start to frown. “You’re not that bad, man.” He chews on his lip as he looks at some point on my chin. “Don’t lie. It’s not becoming of a golden retriever.”

I also have PTSD—no, sorry, complex PTSD, because apparently regular PTSD wasn’t bougee enough for me,”

“If that’s not a mess, I don’t know what is. And don’t even get me started on the ‘suicidal ideation’ stuff.”

i feel you

When I was so focused on how much worse other people had it—Zayne, in particular at the time; so much so that it killed him—that I couldn’t see how damaging that thought process was to my own healing journey.

“It’s important you learn the difference between having fun and trying to escape your problems.”

Will could very well turn into another addiction if I’m not careful. A dependency. And I have enough of those, thank you very much.

The mountain of blankets on the king-size bed doesn’t stir, but a raspy voice fills the room just as I reach the bed. “Fuck off.” Smiling, I toe off my shoes and whisper, “I’ve missed you too, dear cousin.”

At the time, she thought they drugged me. Like her brother used to drug her.

WHAT

You’re taking me to Chickie’s and you’re buying. It’s the least you can do after waking me up at the butt crack of dawn just to tell me you kissed a boy.”

The sun’s out, and the birds are up, and I just told someone for the first time in my life out loud that I kissed a boy. And guess what? The world didn’t come crashing down around me. Maybe it’s all not as hopeless as I thought.

“Or are you just saying that to get me naked again?” I start coughing. He’s chuckling, dimples out on full display like the goddamn beautiful asshole that he is, while I’m busy trying not to hack up my lungs, tears cresting my eyes. “Are you trying to kill me?” I rasp, rubbing my sternum. He rolls his eyes. “Drama queen.” I mock-gasp. “Now I’m a queen?” He’s full-blown laughing now, and if I wasn’t so goddamn taken aback by the sight of it, I’d notice that nearly everyone here has tuned into this corner of the bar.

I bat it away and grab for a napkin, balling it up, just as he reaches for the soda dispenser. I’ve got my arm raised, primed to throw, while his finger’s on the trigger, aiming it right at my face. We’re at a stand-still, eyes narrowed on one another’s with matching smiles promising war. It’s like I’m suddenly eleven years old again, facing my best friend on the playground, snowballs beginning to melt in our hands as we wait for the other to fire the first shot. “You sure you wanna do this, City Boy?” I give him a sly smile. “Babe, do you even have to ask?”

He broke his sobriety.

Because alcohol is just a stepping stone for them. For you, it’s your whole world. But obviously, I couldn’t tell him that. He’s not ready to fucking hear it.

He knows Waylon’s trying to cut back. He knows Waylon has a problem, despite the fact that none of them seem to want to admit it. So, drunk or not, it’s no fucking excuse. I don’t care.

I suddenly get the feeling we’re missing something here. Something big.

“I forgot, Will,” he rushes out in a voice like gravel. “I was so caught up in-in you, I forgot.”

see thats that shit right there

The question remains though—why? It’s not like this anniversary is any different to last year’s, or the year before. He remained sober for those, so why now? Is it the weight of the years adding up? Is that it? Or did something else happen...?

Who’s to say Shawn won’t fall off the wagon now, too, the second he leaves this room? And where will that leave me?

It’s not easy. Watching a man break. In fact, there’s something downright earth-shattering about it.

Because when that hard exterior finally cracks—when the pressure of all the generations before us, with all their “Buck up, sons,” and “Boys don’t cry,” and “Be a man,” finally becomes too much—there’s nothing to shield us from the rapidly approaching avalanche that is our own crumbling egos.

“You should go.” Halting mid-step, I watch as he tips his head back and takes a long pull of the whiskey. Not even a hint of a grimace. Like it’s water.

oh ffs

“What, you think now that you’ve had my dick in your mouth, you suddenly have some kind of right⁠—” “And you’ve held mine in your hands!” I finally explode, my voice ragged. Because ouch. He goes very, very still. “Or are we just going to pretend that didn’t happen?” I go on harshly, spreading my hands. “Are we just going to pretend nothing’s changed since that night?

hold onnn this is too much

He shoves me. The bottle of whiskey slips from my grip, crashing to the floor between us as I drop my hand from Waylon’s face to take both his wrists in my hands.

bruh

“It’s your dad.” And just like that, time snaps forward. My hand is now in Waylon’s, and he’s holding on to me like it might be the last thing he ever does. Bones creaking against bones. “Way and Will. Will and Way. Always.” Always, always, always. Don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t let go... “He’s getting out.”

i knew it