IT’S ONLY BEEN A few days since the bowling alley, and only a few minutes after a Christmas dinner where nobody seemed to have anything to say.
I’m sprawled on my ass, propped up on one arm, wondering what it was that hit me so goddamn hard—blindsided me hard enough that I don’t remember falling, just standing in the rec room one minute talking to Charlie’s brother, Jordan, and then staring up at him the next.
I remembered Jordan’s face going hard—steeling himself, and making sure nobody was watching.
I’m trying to clear my eyes and I know that the faraway throb of dull, screaming pain in my jaw is only going to get closer and closer. I can’t think straight and the impact has me confused and for a fraction of a second I think I see Charlie standing in the corner, watching.
And then the fuzzy sensation of dreams shifting to reality as my head starts to clear, and Charlie disappears as Jordan leans over and says, “He was my brother, you motherfucker,” and hits me again. He has a mean smile on his face but there are tears in his eyes. “You were always getting into dangerous shit with him, you fuck.”
Then he puts his hands on my throat. Jordan’s a freshman in college—he’s a year older than us, he used to help us collect rocks. He had a bike with pegs and knew how to get illegal fireworks and when he squeezes down on my throat, my head starts to swim.
And I look over to the corner where I swear Charlie had been standing, but he’s still completely and utterly gone and I can’t even bring myself to try to pry Jordan’s hands off my windpipe.
My vision is getting red and fuzzy and the only thing I can think of while my cousin is choking me is, What song would we have picked for this shit?
Because there’s no music playing.
Nobody bothered to put on Christmas music.
There’s no one in the room with us. Just me and Jordan and the ghost of Charlie Baltimore. He’s crying and his hands tighten, then relax, then tighten, like he can’t decide whether or not this family can take another lifeless body.
And I think, “All Apologies” by Nirvana.
Jordan’s hands go slack and he slumps off of me, crying hard and ugly like a little kid, and I want to cry like him but there’s still nothing. I swear to all of the gods that we burned that I really am all apologies.
But I also can’t figure out if some important part of me burned up in that fire, or worse, if I never had that important part in the first place.
When I come upstairs, everybody is sitting in the living room talking quietly. It’s a quiet that goes silent when I walk in, which is something that I haven’t gotten used to yet. I have my hoodie on so that nobody can see my neck, and Jordan is nowhere to be seen.
God fucking bless us, every one.