Handful by C.R. Grissom

CHAPTER EIGHT

Everest

AUGUST

The sun bakes intense heat onto my back as I exit our training facility and weight room. Nothing stops football practice, not even a heat wave. We were inside lifting today, thank Christ, because air-conditioning is much better than the intense, radiating heat bouncing off the artificial turf.

I beat my personal best on dead lifts. Win for me. I’ll drive over to Iguana’s for their burritozilla—five pounds of carne asada perfection—where a few of my teammates will join me. Good times ahead.

Better yet, in a few days, students will start to move in. Kirsty. My pulse speeds up just thinking about her. She’ll move in with Faith and Phoebe in their newly acquired three-bedroom dorm suite. I haven’t spoken to Kirsty since our gut-clenching kiss on New Year’s Eve.

She’s better at blocking than the entire Fortis offensive line, including me.

We text. More accurately, I text, and she adds reactions. She’ll either add the laugh or emphasize reactions. No texts from Lilly.

It’s puzzling, but my working theory is she’s chicken. Something epic happened when we kissed. I felt it. I know damn well she did, too. The timing of our kiss was overshadowed by her breakup with Daniel the dickhead.

Daniel. My mood lifts. I still keep track, making sure he doesn’t go anywhere near Kirsty in a social media sense. Since she lives on the opposite coast, not much I can do to discourage him from trying to see her in person, though I doubt he tried. Faith would have told CW, and he would have passed that intel to me.

“Hey,” someone calls out.

I turn toward the voice. It belongs to a dude I don’t recognize. He’s just under six feet tall. Dark hair, deep brown eyes, and a lanky build, without muscle mass. Reminds me of my friend Gabe, our team statistician, before I helped him start a weight training program. He’s wearing blue jeans and a black, button-down shirt, and looks out of place on campus.

“Fuck me.” The dude stops about a yard away. “You look just like him.”

Like who? The dude looks angry. “Do I know you?”

“No.”

It’s like he’s been forced to spit out the answer. Even though I love riddles, I don’t have time for this kind of random bullshit. “Okay. Good talk.”

I spin around to head toward the lot where I left the Bronco. I’m three steps away when a hand clamps on my shoulder. It doesn’t stop my forward momentum, but it does make me question his motive. That takes balls. I’m strong enough to grab him by his ankle, turn him upside down, and give him a good shake.

I whip around, flicking off his hand. “What do you want?”

“We need to talk,” he utters and takes a step in retreat.

“Look, I don’t know you, and that’s not changing anytime soon.”

“Malcolm McBride. Does the name mean anything to you?”

That grabs my attention. Anger spikes hard, followed by a deep sense of dread. Dad. I won’t acknowledge the asswipe who happens to be listed on my birth certificate. “Not a thing,” I admit. It’s the stark truth. “If that’s all, I’m late.”

“He’s dead.”

Dead.I can’t compartmentalize my emotions, and I just shut down. Click off, like I’m on the field and pain from a hit makes it hard to concentrate. “That means nothing to me,” I answer without inflection in my voice. “I’m late.”

I turn away from the person who just tilted my world. Why would a total stranger show up on campus to tell me about Dad’s death, if it’s even true?

“You don’t believe me?” he asks. His voice loud.

I keep my pace steady. I’m showing him my back because I won’t reveal this news has had any impact on me. “I don’t disbelieve you. Either way, it doesn’t matter,” I toss over my shoulder.

“I’m your brother.”

You lie.He’s my age. That would mean he was born sometime between me and my older sister, Danielle, or maybe the twins. We don’t look related, not even close. Then I realize I’m being scammed because no way. Dad couldn’t handle the family he had, much less two of them.

This bullshit has gone on long enough. I stalk back to him. “You’re delusional.” I don’t control my voice and I’m loud.

CW runs up to me. “Problem?” he asks.

TJ and Dallas are two steps behind him.

“Yo.” TJ steps between me and the guy who claims to be my brother. “It looks like you don’t belong here. You should go.” TJ is normally even-tempered—not now.

The dude passes me a business card with my dad’s name on it. “Call that number when you want answers.”

He turns and stalks away. I crumple the card in my hand and stick it in my pocket.

CW asks, “Who was that?”

“A liar,” I snap. Adrenaline courses through my veins. It can’t be true. I’m going home and doing a deep dive on Dad, something I’ve avoided for years. I won’t be scammed by some second-rate poser with Dad’s name on a business card.

“Look. I’m going to skip Iguana’s. I’ll talk to you later.”

My friends don’t try to stop me. I’m sure they have questions, but I’m too unsettled, and way too pissed to do anything except go home and start investigating the asshole who left my family eight years ago.

*

Six hours later,I’m on my third Red Bull. Malcolm McBride became a photographer. His one big break—a pic taken in Africa four years ago—featured a lion strolling through a village like he was checking out real estate options. A toddler was two feet from the beast, and directly in his path, when Dad captured the shot. National Geographic featured it.

I hope the kid lived to brag about the tale.

Mostly his pics are found on sites where you buy packages with limited licenses and use the backgrounds for websites and such. One of his photos was used on a book cover for a debut author who wrote a thriller. It sold ten thousand copies of the print version on its first run.

He wasn’t worth much. As near as I can find, his photographs paid for his nomadic lifestyle, but not much more, certainly not enough to send home to our family. Did he live his life under the radar on purpose? He sold his photographs under the name McBride Malcolm LLC.

The douche kept an extremely low profile.

I can’t find any reports of his death, at least not in the U.S. I set up a program to keep searching, and it’ll run without me. I’ll find out everything I can about the jerk. I also need to warn Mom. Just in case the dude claiming to be my brother reaches out to my family, since he struck out with me.

I’m in no shape to drive out to Modesto. I can’t face my sisters either—deal with their reactions—recriminations, certainly tears. Not until I’ve locked down my own emotions.

Dead. I don’t believe it.

Brother.

Another lie. Has to be, otherwise Dad didn’t just walk away from us, but to someone. His other fucking family. There’s no marriage certificate in the States besides the one my parents signed. Mom divorced him by publication after hiring a private investigator. It took less than two years from disappearance to divorce.

Mom didn’t waste much time. Divorcing someone by publication doesn’t grant child custody or division of property, but Mom wanted a divorce. She saw no reason to remain in what she called marital limbo.

Knowing Mom, it was a matter of pride, too. You don’t want us? Well, we don’t want you, either. It was a show of strength. She wasn’t going to be the little woman pining for her wandering man. She moved on. She had the papers to prove it.

Dad never came back, and I’m positive he never looked back.

God.If I’m honest with myself, those long-dead feelings of abandonment—responsible for the pain and disillusionment I felt eight years ago—have been resurrected. It’s a backslide to admit they still have the power to scorch me now, and to undermine my sense of self.

I’ve received multiple texts from CW, TJ, and Dallas. Crikey, Rio, and Baloo have joined in. I’ve received basically the same text from them all. You okay?

I’ve taken a page out of Kirsty’s playbook and added the like reaction to their texts. I scoot back from my laptop, and step away from the computer.

After all those energy drinks I shouldn’t pour liquor, but I’m at the I don’t give a shit stage of tonight’s program. I walk into the kitchen and reach into the cabinet above the sink that serves as our booze cabinet.

I grab the bottle of vodka and reach for a mason jar in the next cabinet. They’re sturdy and serve as drinking glasses in our rental. My roommates Dex and Chrysler haven’t come home yet. I’m relieved I won’t have to deal with their concern, too.

I’ll be fine. As soon as I solve this puzzle about Dad. I’ll move forward and forget him all over again.

I fill the jar halfway, which equals about four healthy shots, and place the bottle back into the cabinet. I don’t need Chrysler or Dex seeing the bottle on the counter and knocking on my door to investigate my mid-week drinking. Technically, a violation since we’re headed toward preseason and we’re not supposed to drink alcohol.

I close the door to my room, swallow down a shot’s worth of vodka, and call Mom, knowing she’s probably home, has grabbed a bite to eat, and is in the middle of reviewing accounts in her home office.

She answers on the third ring. “Hey, kiddo.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“What’s going on?” she asks cautiously. Her mom radar is never dull.

“This will sound strange, but has anyone stopped by the store asking to talk to you about Dad?”

“What an odd thing to ask. Why?” She huffs.

I hear concern layered in her voice.

“Someone stopped me on campus. He claimed to have information about Dad, that he died. I don’t believe the dude, and if he stops by the store, you shouldn’t either. Don’t give him any information about our family, Mom. Con artists thrive on emotion and empathy. Just tell him to get out or you’ll call the cops.”

“Dead,” she whispers. “I don’t believe it,” she says with conviction.

There’s a sharp jab to my chest, which I ignore. “Neither do I.”

“Did he say anything else? What makes you believe this person is trying to scam us and will use Malcolm to do it?”

Mom isn’t overreacting, a plus, and she’s listening. Another check in the pro column. I hope she doesn’t just blow me off like she might with the girls. “Gut reaction. He’s got a playbook and he’s running through options.”

She sighs. “That doesn’t make me feel better. I don’t see how lying about Malcom’s death benefits him.”

I don’t want to tell Mom about his claim that we’re brothers. That would cause her unnecessary pain without validation. A sharp pain hits in the vicinity of my heart. It can’t be true. “It’s my fault. I cut him off, stopped listening, and I didn’t give him a chance to elaborate.”

“Eric, should I talk to the girls?” Her reluctance is clear.

I don’t blame Mom. Marla will overreact. As the baby of the family, she wants to be the center of attention at all times. She’ll whine about how this might affect her. Danielle, the firstborn, will keep her own counsel. She’ll need time to process. Isabel and Athena are twins, and also fall low on the drama scale. Athena will demand more information. Isabel will head to her computer to discover more on her own. She won’t hack. She’ll research until she fills in the blanks. Janelle will hurt all over again, just the mention of Dad will shut her down.

Another jab to my chest, more pointed and painful this time. Not for Dad, but for the potential pain this news could unleash on my family. When I realized Dad wasn’t coming back, like Mom, I cut him out of my life.

“I’m sorry for the need, but yes,” I agree.

Her breath catches. “Damn it. Damn Malcolm. Damn me for falling for him in the first place.”

Her teeth click together, which means her decision is made.

“Mom, it’s not your fault. He was selfish. You were the best parent any kid could hope to have. He’s the one who couldn’t be a husband to you or a father to us.”

“Without Malcolm, I wouldn’t have you or your sisters. My children are my life. I wouldn’t trade my kids for anything,” she sniffs. “Anyway, have a good night. Don’t stress over this either, kiddo.”

“Let me know if he makes contact.”

“I need wine now, God.”

“Choose a white—red wine gives you a headache if you drink it late.”

“Yeah. Thanks for the reminder.”

My stomach clenches. I wish I were with her now to help her break the news to my sisters. “Bye, Mom. I love you.”

“Love you back, brat.”

I smile at her nickname for me. I stare at my dark phone screen long after she ends the call. I set down my cell and pick up the mason jar. I slam the rest of the vodka and get back to my computer. I want to see if anything popped on Malcolm McBride.

*

The rest ofthe week passes without any contact from the jerk who claims to be my brother. I won’t risk my future on hacking into a government website, but it was a near thing. Without knowing his name, where he was born and the year, it’s a fucking crapshoot anyway.

I could do a DNA test and try to connect dots that way, but it’s a step I don’t want to take right now. Adding my DNA to one of those genealogy websites can be a path to trouble. Once you’re in their database, any buttwipe can find you. Like the con artist claiming to be my brother.

My teammates backed off. I guess my facial expression telegraphed my feelings on the situation: don’t ask.

No contact through Mom, either. Ditto for my sisters, as far as I’m aware.

Mom told me she was vague when she told my sisters. She said someone might come around asking about Dad, and if so, ignore him.

I grab my gear from my locker before heading out. Scanning people around me, keeping an eye out for the asshole alleging to be my brother. I want him to come at me again. I need to see his ID, which I should have asked for when he first approached me. The blindside screwed with my ability to think about next steps.

If he makes contact again, the loser will figure out in a hurry I’m not someone to try to scam.