He nods, apparently satisfied. Then he’s gone.
And I wait for them to come back in, wondering just how I’m going to say what needs to be said to them. My family. My brother. My almost-father. The love of my short, albeit extremely complicated life. It’s going to be difficult.
But then saying good-bye always is.
28. Where Tyson Breathes
Six Weeks Later
WE WALK along that little section of beach, Dom and I. Hand in hand, because this is who we are now. And I think this is who we’ll be again, once I get my head on straight. It’ll take some work, but I’m motivated now. Not just for him. For myself.
I haven’t told him I love him, but I think he knows. He has to. I can barely keep it off my face every time he says my name. Every time his lips find mine. His skin against my own. The feel of my heartbeat under his hand. The play of the morning light against his bare back. The rough dark stubble along his cheeks. The way he smiles. The way he makes me smile back. He has to know. Even if I can’t find the power to say it, he has to know. I belong to him just as surely as he belongs to me. I’m gathering my courage.
The wind is cold this morning. The waves are white-capped and choppy. The sky is overcast, with bits of sun and blue poking through before being covered again. The fog is dissipating. The seagulls cry above as we walk through the sand. The tracks left behind are close together. Big ones and smaller ones. Like they’ve always been.
He says, This is going to be hard.
I say, I know.
And we walk on.
The wind whips up around us, curling up my legs and arms and through my hair. I huddle closer to him. He’s warm. My head bumps his shoulder. He smells good.
He says, You don’t have to do this.
I laugh. So you’ve said.
I just….
I know.
But—
Dom.
A boat, out in the sea. The sun catches its white sail and flashes brightly.
I’m on the verge of something here. A precipice. I’ll either fly or fall. It could go either way, because some days are still harder than others. There’s no magical cure, no matter how much I wish it. Bear cannot fix me. Otter cannot fix me. Dom cannot fix me. And it’s unfair to think any of them could. Only I can fix me. Silly boys. They insist I’m not broken. And maybe I’m not. Maybe it’s just something as simple as being off track. Maybe I’ll never get to be exactly how I want to be. Maybe I’ll crash and burn and everything I know and love will fall down around me. But I can’t know until I jump. And I can’t be who I want to be for them until I do. Is it selfish? I don’t know. Maybe.
Probably.
What if you don’t come back? he asks. He lets go of my hand and wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close.
I will. I try not to let him feel that I’m shaking.
How do you know?
Do you love me? How odd, that. To be able to ask that aloud and to know the answer even before it’s said.
Yes.
That’s how I know.
The sand is warm beneath my feet. I step on a shell and it pinches my skin. Farther ahead, I see a kite flying high in the sky. It’s green. I can’t make out yet who’s flying it. They’re still too far away. I imagine it’s a little boy with his mother and that nothing else matters to them but this sunny day and the sun and the sky and the kite and each other. Those are what matter to them right at this moment. Those little, monumental things.
What did Corey say? he asks me.
That I’m crazy. And that’s putting it lightly.