"Just listening," I say. It sounds slightly curt, so add a strike to the "fucked it up" column.
"Mkay," he says softly. Soft and easy. Asking for nothing. That's Josh Miller. He's a good guy. Too good for me, with all my baggage. All my...issues?
I saw Greeley again two days ago, and we did our first session of EDMR—trauma therapy. It felt weird. I hated it. I don't want to go back...but I will. For Miller. Because if I'm going to stay with him—and I am—forever—then I have to be sure I put myself back together right. The arms in arm holes and the feet on the right sides. I have to become a whole fucking person. Not just for him, either. Also for me. I guess.
Do I deserve to be a whole person?
I do.
I know I do.
Do I feel like I do? Not every day. But I know it with my brain.
We pass under a bridge. A walking bridge?
"What is that?" I ask.
"I think it's just some walking bridge. Part of the state park that's here."
I didn't know there was a state park. I don't say it. "That's cool," I say instead.
Then, with no warning, all the pine trees disappear, and there's just...water. On both sides of the road. Water lapping between tall grass. Marshy water. There's a long-legged bird of some kind standing in it. It's a white bird.
The road tilts up. We're driving onto a bridge. I can see the glass sheet of the lake on both sides. I look out my window, looking at the shoreline. Trees and cliffs. It's pretty. Picturesque. If I tried hard enough, I could remember this view. What am I doing wrong? Hardly anybody after they do ECT loses their memories forever. It's supposed to be more temporary.
I swallow. Can't swallow. And my eyes are welling up and stinging. My fucking throat aches, too.
I look out at the bridge. Slats in it. When our tires pass over them, they make a sound.
Thunk thunk thunk.
"I know it doesn't look like much,” Josh says, “but it's a tourist destination. At least for fisher people."
"Fisher people," I rasp, trying to smirk.
"Well, they're not just men," Mills says.
"I know," I whisper. I'm trying to hide my freak out behind my shades, but I can't speak at normal volume. Anyway, it's just a matter of time. Before he says something. Because—be honest, Ezra—he already knows that something's wrong.
I take a deep, slow breath. Then I shut my eyes, and I just fucking tell him. "I can't go."
"What?" His hand tenses in mine, and I feel him loosen it—just as I feel him take a slow breath of his own. "What do you mean, Ez?"
"I want to see you at Christmas. But I can't see Carl. I can't tell him that shit. Not right now. Not at the fucking holidays, dude. I know you think he'd wanna know, but no one wants to find out their son that they lost touch with got treated like a POW and almost raped. Scratch that, just almost raped by Paul; the other incidents, I think one would classify as mini rapes, if nothing else. And then, said son was such a wreck that the kid's mother sent him inpatient, and inpatient was so alarmed that they did ECT? You think my dad wants that shit at Christmas, Mills? He doesn't. They want to see you. The one they know. So they can sit around and eat the ham and watch TV and just be normal. No one wants this fucking...trauma."
"I do," he says. His hand tightens in mine.
"But you're different.”
"Why? How am I different?"
We're on a road, not a bridge, that cuts through the lake. I don't understand. I try to look at it, to think on the mechanics of it. Calm myself down.
"I don't know," I choke. I swallow hard, and a tear drips. "Because you love me." It sounds like a question.
"I do love you. But your dad does, too. And my mom—she loves you. She loved doing things for you. She thought you were sharp and funny. When you left, I think she took it hard. Because she loved you too, dude."
"Yeah, but Josh, you just told me she took it hard. My dad, did he take it hard, too? Did he take well to the fact that I just left? I told him I wanted to be with my mom again. Did he blame you for it? What did he think of the whole fucking thing?"
"I know what he would think about seeing you, his son, again at Christmas,” Josh says. “He would be elated. He would hug you. He would love you with zero conditions, because that's who your dad is."
"Good. Then he can have a good Christmas. Maybe the day after Christmas. Something like that. If you really want me to see him, I will. Or Christmas Day. The evening. I don't want to fuck your Christmas up either."