My soles whirred across the grooved surface of the seat in front of me. The space between the footrest thing and the seat was about a foot wide. If I exhaled every ounce of air in my body maybe I could make myself skinny enough to fit into that gap, drop to the floor beneath me and slink out of the gym, never to be seen again.
But that would be wimpy and weak. Not to mention physically impossible. Yeah, it was an unwanted coincidence, but who cared if the jock boys were here?
I sat up straight and kept my gaze on Dave. Apparently Mike was his team’s coach and they were scrimmaging the team coached by Wyatt. After watching the action for a while, I realized both Mike and Wyatt were good at this. They obviously had experience working with kids, because as soon as they spoke in coach-like tones—deep and authoritative but with a big dose of friendliness—the kids stopped acting squirrely and paid attention. As the game progressed there was a lot of encouragement, some pretty jazzed enthusiasm and a fair amount of laughing.
At one point Dave looked up toward the bleachers, catching my eye. I waved. He grinned big and some of the tension eased from my shoulders. I leaned against the wall behind me and texted Amelia and Lucy. Amelia abruptly sent a rude message back—calling me a fucked-up, weirdo recluse on the road to becoming a friendless ruin. Such a dear. Shortly after, Lucy sent me an invite to dinner and copied me on another message to Amelia in which she called her girlfriend a meanie.
I smiled and proceeded to exchange righteous insults with Amelia, keeping one eye on the scrimmage. Things got a little hairy on the court—one kid wouldn’t stop fouling (bludgeoning) a kid half his size—and the two jock coaches brought things down a notch, another move of obvious experience. They did dribbling and passing drills for a while, and I was happy to see Dave looking sweaty but still bright-eyed when things began to wind down.
My boots thumped heavily on the bleachers as I headed to the gym floor. I paused, waiting for Dave, ignoring the urge to flee before Wyatt or Mike had a chance to catch sight of me. One of the pain-in-the-ass things about having a royal purple pouf on your head is that people tended to pay attention to you. And remember you.
Ironic that a fucked-up, weirdo recluse like me would have this hairstyle.
Dave caught my gaze and raised a hand. I headed for the open double doors, gesturing for him to follow me out.
“Hey, Ray!” Dave’s voice called. “Wait.” He was jogging toward me, Mike at his side. “My coach wanted to ask you something,” Dave puffed as he drew closer. Sweaty-kid-scented air filled my lungs.
Mike gave me a onceover. His blue eyes went wide. “Whoa,” he breathed. “It’s Elvis.”
I rocked back nice and easy on my heels and kept my mouth firmly closed.
“I know you, right?” He squinted as if he was trying to remember where he’d seen a person who looked like Elvis recently. He smiled. Jesus. How did a guy with a face like his—rounded, gentle features, dimples—turn out to be such a prick?
Yeah, Kong-boy, I was the one you called a faggot when you were rip-snorting drunk the other night.
“Been to Graceland lately?” I asked. Lame, I know, but it was either that or, “Ladies and gents, Elvis has left the building.”
“Ray!” Wyatt approached, sweat-sheened, buzzing with health and good humor. “What are you doing here?” His smile was sparkly and wide, as if he was genuinely psyched to see me.
Even though my brain had decided it was best to ignore the scarily appealing Wyatt-vibe, my body wanted to holler a big, enthusiastic hello! I settled for a relatively even-toned, “Not much. Just hanging with Dave here.”
“You guys know each other?” Dave’s gaze bounced from Wyatt to Mike to me. “Cool.” Dave put his sweaty hand in mine and I almost drew back in surprise. He hadn’t held my hand in forever. His boy brain must’ve been boggled by endorphins or something.
“Yeah, small world, right?” Wyatt turned his mega-watt smile toward Dave. “We met at the Ellery Inn.”
“True?” Mike asked, still studying me. “Knew I knew you from somewhere, man.”
While Mike blinked stupidly, obviously trying to stir memories in the Sam Adams soup he likely called a brain, I noticed Dave was staring up at him with awe and admiration. Made sense. Most kids appreciated simians.
The four of us were an island in the middle of a kid stream flowing from the gym into the hall. The sound of laughter and sneakers squeaking on the shiny floor echoed around my head, making my ears vibrate and ache.
“It was the other night,” Wyatt reminded Mike. “Remember when you booted in Hoke’s car? We were on the way home from the Ellery.”
“Hey, yeah! Cool!” Mike said, as if it was a beautiful thing to conjure those awesome memories of spewing in his true bro’s car.
I said to Dave, “We should get going.”
Dave shook his head. “Mike and Wyatt wanted to make sure I got my health forms signed by a parent. I told him they were on the way and that you could vouch for me in the meantime.”
“Not to be hyper or anal or anything,” Wyatt inserted swiftly, obviously trying hard to make his tone un-hyper and un-anal, “but the guys running the show here say they need that stuff on file.”
“We’ll get right on it,” I said, tugging Dave’s hand. Wyatt and Mike were gonna ask a bunch of questions that I didn’t want to answer. And I really wanted to leave because a doom-like feeling was pressing against my scalp, making me twitchy and itchy—
“Are you his, uhhh…au pair or something?” Mike asked.
See? Knew there would be questions. “No, uhhh, I’m not,” I said, mimicking his slow inflection.
Dave rushed to explain. “Ray’s not my official babysitter or anything. We’re actually kind of—”
“Hey!” A familiar voice boomed in the hallway before Dave could complete his valiant attempt to explain the absurdly complicated reasons for why we were here together. “Hey! Can you tell me where the intramural basketball is being played?”
And here was doom. Happening. I winced and looked at Dave. His expression went full-blown cringe.
“Hey! I’m looking for my son!” the voice from the hallway bellowed, getting closer. Tom was about to make his usual hurricane-force entrance.
Hey! Let me drop through the floor and sink to the earth’s core right here and now.
“Shit,” Dave said.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“So are you his brother, then? Or, uh, sorry…sister?” Mike tried again.
I chose to ignore Mike. One stupid guy at a time was all I could take. I poked my head into the hall.
Tom Perlmutter stood there in typical form. Clueless in his hand-tailored suit. Harassing random people with his unsuitably authoritative attitude. Demanding to be helped when what he was looking for was standing about ten feet away.
“We’re here,” I called.
Tom fixed his eyes on me and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Or groaning. Or screaming for mercy. Here it comes…
Tom’s eyebrows shot up, his expression all pleased recognition. He was happy to see me.
Split second later those same sleek, dark brows smashed together, creating deep grooves between eyes the same blue as Dave’s. He was unhappy to see me.
His lips smashed into a thin line and he strode forward, his dress shoes rat-a-tatting against the tiled floor, his spine rigid, his hands shoved in the pockets of his zillion-dollar suit pants. He was pissed off to see me.
Always took Tom a few minutes to remember I was no longer the adorable, precocious, loving kid I’d been when he’d actually been my stepdad. His disappointment was a physical thing, his frosty blues turning my sweat into ice as he recalled I was a fuckup, dropout loser.
I knew he was also remembering our last conversation—the one where I promised I wouldn’t take Dave anywhere without Tom’s express permission.
I slanted a glance at the kid who was about to face the consequences of this scene he’d unwittingly caused.
“Sorry,” Dave moaned under his breath, his guilty gaze fixing on mine. “I didn’t think he would actually show to pick me up like he said he would. And anyway I wanted to ride with you instead of with him because—”
“It’s okay, Goomba,” I interrupted in a soft voice. “I’m glad to be your back-up plan.”
“What the hell are you doing here, Ray?” Tom said by way of greeting.
“How’s it going, Tommy?” He hated it when I called him that. Which is why I called him that. I could call him “Dad”, which would really freak him out, but I was just as reluctant to acknowledge any past parent-kid relationship as he was. Better for both of us if we acted like casual acquaintances. Especially on campus.
Tom didn’t respond to my question. He stared at me like I was some kind of freak. Which I was, in Tom’s big book of right and wrong. He turned his gaze on Dave. “How did you get here?”
“I came with Ray,” Dave croaked. “On the, um, Vespa.”
“You,” he ground out, flinging his attention back to me, “do not have permission to pick up my son from school on that machine of yours.”
“This isn’t school.” Dave pointed out the obvious. “And it was my idea to go on the Vespa.”
Tom sent him a glare that would have the average adult shaking in his shoes. Way too hardcore for the kid. Asshole.
I might have muttered the word out loud because Tom turned on me again, getting up in my face for real this time. During the rare times when Tom smiled or looked peaceful, his features were almost nice to look at. I’d never been attracted to him in a way that was kinkified or sexual (because doing the wild thing with Tom…um, yeah, major, major squick), but he was attractive in a big-guy, big-business, big-balls kind of way. He had a Don Draper thing going on, except Don Draper might be a slightly better dad. And if you’ve ever watched Mad Men you know good old Don wasn’t much of a family guy.
Right now Tom’s features were not nice to look at. He zapped a blue-laser glance toward Mike and Wyatt before turning it full force on me. He raised one finger and jabbed it at my chest, hard enough to make me take a step back and drop my hand from Dave. My heart banged against my ribs, obviously displeased with the action going on outside its fragile cage.
“You do not have permission to pick up David from school, from basketball practice, from anywhere, do you get me? If it were up to me your license to drive anything—bicycle, riding mower, moped, or even your goddamned boots—would be permanently revoked.”
Dave made a gulping sound and sidled up against me. His fingers were picking at a big scab by his wrist. His happy, healthy, well-exercised expression had gone pale and bruised. Shit, shit, shit.
“Yeah, I get you, Tom,” I muttered.
I licked my lips, flicking my gaze from Wyatt’s shocked face to Mike’s confused one and then across the cavernous gym where I focused blindly on the empty bleachers.
Dave squeezed my fingers, his touch damp but firm, protective and comforting. That was usually my role and the thought that Dave was concerned about me made my heart perform another shaky thud-thump.
“Good. Everyone needs to be clear on this.” Tom turned his rude-ass gaze on Wyatt. “Mr. Kelly, I signed up my kid for this gig because I trusted you. Now earn my trust by assuring me I am the only individual who will be retrieving my son from this facility.”
My eyes rolled. Individual. Retrieving. Facility. Jesus. Who talked like that?
“Uh…the kids here are very safe,” Wyatt said. He shot me a wordless WTF. He’d run his fingers through his hair and it was curling damply against his pink-gold skin. “The folks who run the league have been doing it for a lotta years. And you can totally trust us and the rest of the crew, right, Mike?”
Mike had fixed his blinky gaze on Tom. “Yes, that’s right. Sir.” Mike said the last word with a proper bit of reverence.
I sighed. Apparently Mike had finally recognized that Tom was, in fact, Dean Perlmutter, worship-worthy rock-god of business majors. Dave’s chances at being a happy-go-lucky kid at regular ole’ b-ball practice were dwindling down to nothing.
“Well, I guess my time here is done,” I said. I caught Dave’s eye and winked, making it bold. I shrugged and slouched and curled my lip, playing every confidence card I had because I hated, hated, hated seeing that defeated look in Davey’s eyes.
Dave nodded at me. He knew this routine. I’d see him at my apartment later. And we would sort things out the best we could.
Ignoring Wyatt and Mike, I squinted at Tom, scratching my chin with my middle finger rather than giving him the verbal “fuck you and goodbye” I wanted to deliver.
I was booking down the hall, blinking away something in my eyes—something I refused to believe was hot and salty and manufactured by my own body—when a big hand gripped my forearm. My chin jerked. Wyatt the jock’s eyes focused on me, all worried and spring-green sympathetic (if sympathy had a color I was pretty sure it would be spring green). I fought the urge to shut my eyes in self-defense.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
My back teeth ground together hard enough to turn my fillings to dust. What a stupid question. Are you okay? Really. It ranks right up there with “how ya doin’?” and “what’s up?”. Does anyone ever answer that shit honestly? And isn’t “okay” the most relative concept ever? Sure, I was okay compared to a helluva lot of creatures on the planet…but relative to the other denizens of quaint little Ellery, Vermont, I couldn’t really say. And how was I supposed to know what the hell Wyatt Kelly’s definition of okay was?
“Ray?” he prompted.
“Trying to leave.” I stepped forward. He didn’t let go of my arm.
“Hey!” a deep voice hollered from behind us. “Kelly! Come back here a sec.”
The smart glints in Wyatt’s eyes flickered as he looked back at Tom. Hard to ignore authority like Tom’s when you were a good boy like Wyatt obviously was.
I wrenched my arm away. “Better go talk to your buddy,” I said, focusing on the double doors leading to the parking lot. My fingers fumbled around numbly in my pocket for the Vespa key as I started walking.
“Wait,” Wyatt called. “I’ll be done here in five, and then maybe—”
My hand shot out, slamming against the door’s release. The latch thingie stuck for a moment and then gave all at once, sending me stumbling onto the exterior steps. I flailed and caught my balance, narrowly avoiding taking a header into asphalt. Pain zapped through my midsection and for a few seconds I couldn’t breathe. The door slammed behind me and I leaned against it, breathing in the damp, cold April air.
I walked slowly to the Vespa, fired it up and executed yet another disappearing act wherein I didn’t completely disappear even though I really, really wanted to.
A few hours later, all my fave stop-gap measures against reality were in place. Sweats. Trusty down comforter. Ear buds. East of Eden on the laptop. I was adjusting myself into my favorite corner of couch-thing when I heard a thump on the door.
Dave.
It was way past his bedtime but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d come down here after his dad had put him to bed. His anxiety issues often showed up after dark and I was used to running interference. I ripped out the plugs, paused the movie and went to the door.
When I looked through the peephole my hand froze on the doorknob. It was Tom. My stomach flip-flopped. He had mentioned we needed to talk earlier but I was expecting his usual method of communication—a phone call or a text summons to meet upstairs. I pressed my forehead against the door’s hard, cool surface, wishing there was some way to absorb the wood into my head. Maybe a hunk of oak would serve me better than gray matter. I was tired of thinking, wasn’t any good at it today.
“Let me in, Ray,” Tom commanded from the other side of the wood.
I opened the door, but not all the way.
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk. Would you prefer to come upstairs?”
“Is Dave asleep?”
“Yeah, I just checked on him.”
Letting the door swing wide, I walked to couch-thing and plopped down, gathering the comforter around my shoulders. I didn’t offer Tom a seat. There was no way I was gonna share couch-thing with him, so he stood watching me pretend to sit comfortably while I sat watching him pretend to stand comfortably. We were both touch-and-go with pretending skills.
He was wearing his favorite at-home wear. Pricey workout pants, a V-neck tee, and manly moccasins made out of elk-hide, or moose-hide, or mountain goat or some other creature that would freak the shit out of him if he came face-to-face with it.
He sighed, a very human rattle of discomfort rumbling up through his chest. His mask was sliding. His blue eyes looked bruised. His scruffy chin and splotchy skin appeared one-hundred-percent mortal. Spending several hours with Dave could do that to people’s masks.
“Sorry I lost my temper at the gym earlier,” he said finally. “But you, uh, know why I made the rule about driving with Dave.”
“Yeah, I know.” I also knew the biggest reason he felt bad about losing his temper was because a bunch of Ellery students had witnessed Mr. Cool blowing his stack.
“You feel okay?” he asked after emitting another sigh.
“Not really.”
He nodded. “Me either. Kinda feel like shit, in fact.”
Interesting. Was I actually going to have a conversation with Tom? The thought was so alien it took over my usual mistrust. Instead of hurling some choice insults at Tom’s big head, I asked, “How’s Dave? Was he okay when you brought him home?”
“Yeah, I guess. Things could be a lot better between us, as I’m sure you know. The way I’ve been handling things… Well, it’s become a big problem.”
Weird how Tom’s eyes were so similar to Dave’s. Not weird in the sense that Tom was Dave’s father because, duh. It was weird because of that saying—the eyes are mirrors to the soul. How could two souls that were so incredibly different have mirrors that looked so much the same?
“He needs someone who’s got his back twenty-four/seven,” I said. “Someone he trusts.”
He leaned against the tiny butcher-block counter and fiddled absently with my container of impractical cooking utensils. “I agree,” he said.
Tom’s abrasive asshat attitude had been dialed down to something almost reasonable. Did he want something? Was he genuinely worried about Dave? Was he here because he wanted to ask me—the person who by default had cared for Dave and spent the most time with him lately—for some advice?
Tom grabbed a big pair of burnt-orange plastic tongs, a purchase I’d made because they were cool-looking and something I couldn’t imagine anyone ever using for actual cooking. “It’s time we finally have that tough conversation about the future we’ve both been avoiding.” He widened his stance and waved the tongs. “It’s time we made some changes.”
I snorted, not feeling particularly threatened by his words or his tong-waving. His desire for any kind of tough conversation was going to be disappointed. I didn’t have the energy to shoot down meaningless comments.
“I keep telling your dad and your mom that you’re making progress, but now I know I’m fooling myself and them. Instead of reaching out, you’re shutting down. The only way you seem to communicate anymore is through drama.” He pointed to the ceiling, clacking the tongs. I wanted to smirk at how idiotic he looked but my facial muscles were locked down on sullen.
“Drama?”
“Yes. Drama. Your so-called breakdown. Your seeming inability to do anything but live down here and watch movies, acting out the very tired role of bad kid. With the tats and the cigs and the hair…” He made a twirling motion with the tongs. For a second I thought he was suggesting I might use the tongs to style my hair—salon de salade?—but no. He had no sense of humor, no depth, no style. This was proven by his continuing diatribe. “And let’s not forget your pathetic bid for attention last month when you plowed a hundred-thousand-dollar car into a goddamned tree—” He tossed the tongs on the counter. They made a crunchy, clattering, plastic-breaking sound. Tom ran a hand through his thick, black hair. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“What-the-fuck-ever,” I muttered.
“I shouldn’t have said that. I know the accident was just that. An accident.”
“Honestly, Tom, I don’t give a damn what you think.”
He winced. “Yeah, well… I know your dad has come down hard on you about your choices. Too hard maybe. But you don’t make it easy to help—”
“Was that all you wanted to say? Because I’ve got shit to do.” We both knew that was a lie, but I wanted him to leave. Badly.
“No, actually, I have a few more things to say.”
“’Course you do, but I don’t care—”
“This arrangement,” he said, raising his voice and talking right over me, “was supposed to be short-term. And, after the events of the last few months, I can only deem it a failure. If you can prove to me you’ve got a plan—if you can show me things are going to change with your life, then I can help you. Otherwise, you’re on your own.”
I rolled my eyes. When it was convenient for Tom’s schedule, he liked to play parent. Even though his role in my life had been as brief, lame and unmemorable as Val Kilmer’s stint as the Caped Crusader, Tom was egotistical enough to believe he had the power to “turn my life around”.
I had no intention of turning even a few degrees in any Tom-approved direction, but tonight I was tired and I told myself the best strategy for getting rid of him would be to sit quietly and pretend to listen to his rundown of life strategies and career goals and highly functioning mutually beneficial relationships.
But he didn’t talk about any of that. Instead he said, “There’s a visiting faculty member from Switzerland who’ll be arriving next month. He’ll need a place to live for the rest of spring and summer term. I suggested here.”
My heartbeat roared in my ears. “You’re…you mean here, here?”
“Yes.” His gaze flitted around the small space, which barely had enough room for one person to live comfortably. There were a few of my favorite movie posters on the walls. My ironic kitchen gadgets. A small hooked rug with a demented-looking owl on it. It wasn’t much. But I thought of it as mine.
“As in, you’re kicking me out?” I wanted to hear him say it.
“Yes,” he repeated, no inflection.
A sound I think was supposed to be a laugh sputtered between my lips. “Well, then. I guess my plan is to get the hell out of here and find a new place to live.”
He heaved another sigh. “Don’t make me the bad guy in this, Ray. I think you need a push. You need to think of this as an opportunity, not another failure.” His tone was all reasonable and practical and businesslike, as if there was no other way to see an issue except for his way, the right way, the black-and-white way.
Emotions and fuckups and weirdnesses, all the things his son and I seemed to wallow in, were either blatantly ignored or dealt with memo-style and given a five-bullet-point solution. He made me want to shake my head sorrowfully and ask, “Where did it all go wrong with you, man?” (Actually, I’d asked him variations of that question many times over the last few years but he never gave me a good answer.)
When my mom and I had first moved in with Tom after my parents’ divorce, he became my dream dad. The kind of guy who got down on the rug with you and built cool shit out of Lego, the kind of guy who let you order the ooey-gooey sundae instead of the single-dip cone, the guy who said you could go to the waterpark on Saturday even though your mom really, really wanted to go to the museum.
I woke up from that cool-dad dream when he divorced my mom and decided to start his own investment firm instead of working for someone else. Fifty-hour work weeks turned into eighty-hour ones. He got married again, Dave came along, and I saw Tom maybe a few times a year. My mom told me not to blame him—who wanted to hang with an awkward, smart-mouth tween with identity issues?
Apparently becoming a semi-awkward, smart-ass, almost-twenty-year-old hadn’t helped my cause. He was giving me the boot again.
“I promised your folks I’d look out for you, but I didn’t think it would be for more than a few months—”
“I get it.” I raised my hand to shut him up, desperate to put both of us out of our misery. “No more explanations needed.”
“Go home, Ray. I know your mom wants you at her place. And your dad would be happy to have you too.”
I yawned. Rubbed my ears. Blinked. Waited to be shot down with bullet-points.
“Do something. Do something different!” he rat-a-tat-tatted. “Travel. Explore. Obviously Ellery’s not the school for you—that’s one thing you’ve managed to prove. I’ll give you the money for airfare if you need it. Hell, you could leave tonight.”
Okay, so that was only two or three bullet points, but I’m sure he thought the plan was plenty good, very thorough. It got me out of his hair, right?
I was more than willing to get out of his perfectly cut hair, but there was no way in hell I’d take a penny from him. No way in hell I’d crawl home with my tail between my legs. No way I’d ever leave—
“What about Dave?”
“I’m taking a new approach on that front,” Tom said calmly. He’d been expecting this question. “I’ve hired a new counselor, and David and I will start seeing her together. David needs other people in his life. I want him to break away from his current routine and that includes his increasing dependence on you. I know you’ll respect my wishes on this.” Tom cleared his throat—a loud harrumph that echoed off the ceiling and reverberated like a death knell in my head.
Oh God. Not only was he kicking me out of this apartment, he was kicking me out of Dave’s life. And that was the “key objective” in this plan of his. He kept talking but my ears weren’t registering the words clearly. I flexed my jaw and cranked my neck, trying to stop the panicky buzz from taking over my head. Why hadn’t I seen this coming? I should have realized, should have guessed—
“—more appropriate influences,” Tom was saying in his Wall Street Avenger voice. “You’ll still be able to hang out when our families get together, but I think it would be healthier for both of you if I made other arrangements for his care—”
“Appropriate,” I spat, cutting him off. “Healthy. What do those words even mean?” I brushed at my cheek and found wetness. Shit. I kept springing leaks. “You’re more worried about appearances—the way it would look to your colleagues and my parents—if you keep letting me stay here. You’re not thinking about Dave at all. He trusts me, he relies on me, he loves—”
Tom’s hand sliced across the counter, sending the tongs flying, cutting off my words with sudden violence. “Yeah, he does all those things and he damn well fucking shouldn’t! He’s had enough people let him down…” His voice cracked. I should have been happy that I’d rattled him in such a big, bad way, but happiness was suddenly an alien concept—a thing that existed in a galaxy so long ago and so far away that I’d need the folks from Industrial Light and Magic to recreate it.
Tom heaved a big breath. “I am thinking about Dave. He’s come to rely on you, but you’ve proven time and again that you’re completely unreliable. Your judgment sucks, Ray. The day you got to Ellery you set about sabotaging everything your family has worked so hard to give you. You fuck up, but you don’t take the help you’re offered. You just run and hide. You get a job at that damn diner. You spend every measly cent you make on cigarettes and new tattoos and God knows what else…”
I wanted to inject “rent to live in your fucking big-ass house” here, but he was on a roll and I didn’t want to throw shade on his shiny moment of self-righteousness.
He carried on, “You promise to get sober but end up wrapping my car around a tree. Christ, you can’t even decide if you’re a boy a girl.” He snorted. “Is it any wonder I want my son to have a better role model?”
I must have been sitting on the very edge of couch-thing because without being aware of it I’d slid right off the edge, landing on my ass on the cold, hard floor at Tom’s feet. Poetic, wasn’t it? Except the words flowing in my head didn’t seem like poetry, they seemed like pleas. Tom stared down at me. I closed my eyes, waiting, holding my breath, holding my words, holding everything, everything, everything inside.
Please, please, please go away…
“Goddamn it, Ray.”
He spoke the words with emotions I didn’t know he even had. Regret? Sorrow? Remorse?
“What is it about you?” he asked, his voice thick and miserable-sounding. “How can you do this to people? To yourself? Inspire such…”
“Disgust?” I muttered.
“No. You know damn well it’s not disgust you inspire. I remember when you were a kid. You were amazing. Happy and smart and cute as hell. We all loved you so much. Why would you throw everything away?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. What was I supposed to say to that?
Sorry I’m not happy and cute anymore. Sorry I’m not someone you can love anymore.
Jesus. Did he not get how shitty that sounded? Was Dave gonna have to hear the same kinda shit when he got older?
“It wouldn’t take much effort on your part to fix things, Ray.”
Yeah, why don’t you fix yourself, Ray? Become someone else. Shouldn’t take more than a few weeks of concentrated effort. I dropped my hand and stared up at him, watching to see if any more stupid words were gonna come out of his mouth. When none did for a while I asked, just to be sure. “Finished?”
“Finished, yeah. Time to move on, move forward. You gotta agree with me on that one.” When he exhaled his chest deflated, so much so it made me wonder about his health. Your heart need a little work in there, Tom?
“Yup.” I knelt to retrieve my giant duffle bag from beneath couch-thing. “Bye,” I said. The tightness in my own chest eased as I repeated the word in my head. Bye. Bye-bye. I jerked the zipper open, spreading the dark green canvas so it looked like an empty, yawning mouth. Bye.
“Ray…”
I stood, only stumbling a little bit when I crossed the room to the tiny closet. I gathered all my clothes together in a big hug and dropped them into the cavernous bag. There was something comforting about the action. My clothes didn’t have to live in that closet and I didn’t have to live in this apartment. The tightness in my lungs eased a little more and I exhaled slowly.
Maybe I had been in a holding pattern waiting for something to happen. Now it was happening, right? My landing gear was functional and all I needed was a good runway for touch down.
Tom sounded all disgusted when he said, “See what I mean? Drama. Why don’t you at least wait ’til morning? I’ve got some good boxes in the garage. I’ll help you—”
“Bye.” My hands shoved and crushed cotton, denim and wool deep into the bag’s corners. Bedding and shoes might have to come later.
“Where the hell are you going to go tonight? You can’t carry all this stuff on the Vespa.”
Full, the duffle was about my height and weight. Tom had a point. I’d have to call a cab. But I didn’t care as it was immediately, importantly, insanely imperative I got out of there.
“I don’t want your help.”
“Fine. Let me know where you are as soon as you get there, okay?”
Oh, so now after fucking evicting me and telling me I couldn’t hang out with Dave anymore…now he was gonna be all worried and paternal?
I didn’t answer. I just kept packing.
“I’m not leaving this room until you promise.”
I muttered, “I’ll let you know” just because I wanted to see the back of him.