Cold Turkey (John & Luke - Pt 1)

Chapter 8

"My dad had it custom made," Luke said. "Cost him over two thousand dollars."

John was speechless as he stared at the immaculate trophy case. Even more impressive was the immense collection of trophies that it housed behind its etched glass door—each one engraved with Luke's name.

"Whoa," John breathed when he found his voice. "This is...incredible." He looked at Luke who stood next to the trophy case, eyes dull as he stared inside. "Your dad must be really proud of you, to spend so much for such an awesome display case."

Luke didn't reply.

"Luke?" John asked uncertainly.

Clearing his throat, Luke nodded at the case. "This..." he whispered. "...is all I am to my dad. To my parents." He looked at John and a shadow of hurt darkened his eyes. "A trophy."

"What do you mean?"

Luke leaned his arm against the corner of the case, his face taut with a strain of tension John had never seen in him before now. "My dad has to have the best of everything," he murmured. "As in—better than what everyone else has. The nicest house, the most expensive cars, the finest clothes." He looked at John. "These trophies, this ridiculously expensive display case—it has nothing to do with him being proud of me. This is him bragging that—not only does he have the best of everything else—he also has the All-Star son. The superstar kid that is better than everyone else's." He shook his head. "He doesn't give a fuck about me. I'm just fuel for his ego. In public, we play the perfect family and he nails the role of proud father. In private..." he exhaled slowly. "...he doesn't even fucking know me, and doesn't care to. I'm just another possession that makes him appear superior. All of this..." he swept his hand at the case. "...doesn't really mean shit to him." He turned away from the display case. "Or to me."

John stared at him as Luke's statement—I hate sports—was beginning to make sense.

"Yesterday, in your bedroom," Luke murmured, a thickness to his voice. "You talked like I was something special...even out of your league." A thin glimmer of wetness glistened his eyes. "I'm not, John. I never was. All the kids in school who wished they had my life, wished they were me...I would have traded places with them in a fucking New York minute." He swallowed thickly. "Especially you."

"Me?" John whispered, an ache tightening his throat.

Luke released a slow breath. "Sometimes I would see you outside with your dad, sitting on the porch steps and just talking...laughing. I would've given up every one of these fucking trophies just to know how that felt." He licked his lips and swallowed hard. "The only time my dad talks to me is when he's telling me what I'm doing wrong and to get off my ass and push myself harder." He gazed at John with damp eyes. "That's why I said those things yesterday, about talking to your dad. I knew for a fact he would love you no matter what. And I didn't want you to hold everything in so long that you began to resent him. I never had a chance with my dad, but you have something really special with yours. I just didn't want to see you lose that."

Emotion squeezed John's voice as he murmured, "I'm sorry...for getting mad."

"You already apologized," Luke said quietly.

"I bears repeating," John told him. "I had no idea..."

Luke shrugged, the strain in his face lingering. "The worst families are the best at faking perfection."

"Yeah," John whispered, his gaze drifting to the display case. He stared at the trophies. "You're wrong, you know."

"About what?"