HOMEWARD
I HAVE EIGHT HOURS of road time to think about everything again. Moving backward through space to the home I ran away from three days ago. Backward through time to what was before I learned about the possibility of what might have been, but wasn’t really.
There is no music playing this time.
I think about how I saw a resemblance between us that was nothing more than a coincidence. How our similar appearances, our abilities and our talents occurred by chance, not by actual relation.
I think about how I read words from my mother’s hand that said more in what they left out than what was written on the page.
I think about who my father really is, and always has been, and I wonder how I’m going to make things work out when we’re so diametrically opposed to one another.
I stop at the halfway mark for food. I find the eight bucks in the pocket of my flannel has been augmented by a twenty. Trevor must have stuck that in there. “No wonder he can’t pay his bills,” I say to myself. It makes me laugh a little.
I eat fast food garbage and check my phone, finally, reading through whatever texts I haven’t deleted, listening to however many voicemails are still there. Chelsea wasn’t exaggerating. Everyone was frantic. I put them all on high alert. Somehow finding out about Trevor Graves was important enough for me to shit all over everyone who already cared about me.
The shame starts kicking in.
There’s Chelsea’s pain, in sobs and screams. “Where the hell are you, Tyler? Just come home now…come home. Please.”
There’s Xan, as angry as I’ve ever heard him. “You have no idea what we’ve all been through trying to find you, you little fuck.”
There’s Tom. He’s the most rational of them all. “It’s been shit for us both, Ty…I’m not saying it hasn’t. We have a lot to talk about when you get back.” He’s somber, stoic. “I love you, son. Please know that.” I delete it all. Just wipe the whole thing clean.
I don’t want any reminders of just how wrong this all went. Of how much I’ve put them through the last few days. Tom, even longer.
I have no I idea how they’re ever going to forgive me for everything, or if they even will. Maybe they won’t.
I’m not sure I would, if I were them.