Save Me: a Stepbrother Romance

I knew three things about Callum Gatlin:

First, he was an asshole.  He radiated hate. Fifth grade inducted him into my asshole hall of fame when he tripped me at lunch, sending me flying into a splattered pool of creamed corn on the floor; little me bawled her eyes out until the office sent her home.  In eighth grade, he ended my blossoming band career by stuffing a condom (unused, thank God) into my trumpet.  And during junior prom last year, he snatched my corsage.  I found it the next day stuffed down the pants of the mascot in our lobby, forming a suggestive bulge. 

Of course, I wasn’t special.  Cal Gatlin had his own special brand of asshole for everyone, from teachers to his father to the policeman that patrolled our school halls (because of him, according to the rumor mill). 

But the point still stood.  Cal Gatlin had it out for everyone. 

Including me.

The second rule of Cal Gatlin was that he was trouble.  A criminal.  Dangerous.  Endless rumors surrounded him, every one of them more horrific than the last.  “Did you hear Cal Gatlin set fire to the bar down the road?”  “His tattoos are gang signs.  My cousin said he got into the Hell’s Angels.”  “I heard he beat his mom to death, I swear to God.”  If the asshole personality wasn’t enough to get me to avoid him, his promising future as a prison drug smuggler was.

Third and worst of all?  As of 1PM yesterday during a tearful (then furious, then bargaining, then resigned and depressing) conversation with my mother at the kitchen table…

Callum Gatlin was my new stepbrother. 

I glared at the slats of the air conditioning vent on my bedroom ceiling.  The pink and purple boy band posters plastered around it smirked at me, laughing at my pain with their too-white teeth and too-blue eyes.  I wondered if the vent was sharp enough to slit my wrists.

“For God’s sake, Nat,” Mom’s voice snapped through the door, her voice echoing through the massive hallway.  “Don’t be such a drama queen.  You and I both know we need this.”

“Really, Mom?  James Gatlin?  Really?”

“He’s a good man.”

“His son sure as hell isn’t.”

“Natalie Amelia Harlow, you will not use profanity in this house.”

My groan was muffled by feather stuffing as I smashed my down pillow over my face.  I was tired of being a goody-two-shoes.  I was tired of being the overachieving, obedient child, the one who made straight A’s and had a 5.0 GPA.  The one who never caused trouble for her single mother and always flossed after brushing.  For once in my life, I wanted to act like my 17-year-old high school girl self.

 And I was doing a great job at it if I say so myself.

“You said you weren’t serious,” I moaned into the pillow.  “You said you didn’t want to get remarried right away.  You said you wanted to wait after Dad.”

“Well, things change.” 

Mom’s voice was tight.  She hated when I used Dad against her.  Even if their marriage had been rocky (and that was an extremely charitable way to describe the dumpster fire we called a home life), it wasn’t fair to bring a dead man into this. 

“And we need help with the house payment.  James makes me happy, Nat.  And James and I need each other—we’re both single parents raising teenagers.  It’s hard.  It’s lonely.”

“So you decide to make it harder by marrying someone you barely know?”

“James and I have known each other for a while.  We’re just taking a chance for once.”

“And who cares what happens to me, right?”

“Natalie, it would mean a lot if you at least tried to pretend to be okay with this.  For me.”

I didn’t answer.  Mom groaned.

“If not for me, then do it for your father.”

I crawled to the door, leaning my head against it, letting my eyes sink closed.  It was true.  As much as I hated it, this brave carrying on is exactly what Dad would want. 

And I missed him.  I missed him more fiercely than anything I had ever lost in my life.  I had been holding his hand when he died.  Sometimes I still felt the ghost of his warm pulse on my hand, reliving the horror of its faint beat fading until only a cold emptiness remained. 

Something in me died along with him.  Ever since, I was a zombie.  Not living, just going through the motions, terrified that somebody would realize I wasn’t the perfect daughter, Student Council member, and Harvard prospect they believed me to be.  Being perfect was my mask, the one I hid the pain and nightmares and migraines behind.  Everybody bought it. 

Except Mom.  Because she felt the same pain too.

“He would want us to do this.  To try to move on.”

“I know, Mom,” I whispered.

“Can I come in now?”

I huffed, but I reached up and turned the lock on the door.  Mom pressed it open with her shoe and peeked in.  Her expression softened behind her soft blonde curls.  For the first time, I noticed the gray strands threading through her golden hair and how deep the wrinkles around her eyes were getting.