“I get it.”
“Do you?” he snaps.
“Your brothers call you a pussy for crying? They tell you you’re not a real man—suck it up, Garrison. What are you, a little pussy, a little girl? What kind of goddamn man are you?”
Surprise coats his face again, and he’s about to swing his head towards my brother. Since we’re on the ground the cabinets block our view.
“It wasn’t my brother who told me to just stop fucking crying,” I grit the words because I feel them like thick, black scars inside my lungs. Returning to that place hurts to breathe.
Garrison frowns. “Who?”
“My father.” And the scary part: I really love that man.
I always will.
He stops profusely rubbing his face, letting the tears just come.
I just want to reach in and tell him something, so I scoot closer and I breathe, “You’ll be okay. You won’t see it today, maybe not even tomorrow, but one day, you’ll wake up and you’ll want to live.”
“Are you sure?” His voice breaks.
“I’m goddamn sure. Look at me…” I wait for him to raise his head, his hair partially concealing his eyes, and I say deeply, “One day at a time. Can you do that with me?”
Garrison is quiet for a long moment, but then he nods repeatedly, letting this sink in. “…will you do something for me, if I move in with you?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
He deadpans, “I want you to kill someone.”
I glare. “You joke, but have you met me?” Could I kill someone? I don’t know—push me enough, and maybe, I think I could. It’s not a talent to boast about. It’s a huge character flaw, and I’ve been keenly aware that it exists inside of me.
Garrison erases the dry sarcasm this time. “Two days ago, I told my brothers that I’d never see them again. I don’t know whether they believed me. They rarely take anything I say seriously, but I told them. I just don’t want to talk or see them ever.” His throat bobs again. “So two days ago…I also left my parent’s house in a hurry and accidentally forgot one of my hard drives there.”
“You want me to get it for you?”
“Yeah…but just don’t…” His chest rises in a sharp inhale.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t hurt them. Alright. I know it sounds stupid as fuck, but they’re still my brothers. Even if I never see them again, I just don’t…just don’t do it.”
Don’t hurt them. Somewhere in this kitchen, I see my twenty-one-year-old spiteful self. Mad as hell. That guy would break Garrison’s promise without a second thought. He’d open this cruel book of retaliation and revenge.
I can sit here and I can think, I won’t do that because he told me not to. Because I know it’s wrong.
I wonder how many people meet the person they once were and feel like they’re staring at a stranger. I’m happy my son will never meet that man. I’m happy Lily has the husband she deserves. And I’m happy for me.
Because I finally love who I am.
“I won’t,” I promise Garrison, and I’m going to keep this one. “Give me your phone. I’ll go get your hard drive now.”
Garrison passes me his cell.
“What about your parents?” I ask him. “Do they know?”
“I’ve told my mom, but she just says it’s boys being boys…and my dad likes Davis the best. They don’t care about anything except making money, and ever since I got a job with Cobalt Inc., they stopped hounding me about ‘doing something with my life.’ If I never checked in, never returned their calls, they’d just think I was too busy for them, and they’d probably be proud.”
“Huh,” I say. “They sound like dicks.”
He chokes out a laugh. “Yeah they are.”
I scroll through his contacts. Garrison has a shit emoji next to the names of every brother. Three shit emojis next to Hunter’s name.
He’s the worst. I hover over his name to call him.
I think better of it and call Mitchell instead. As the phone rings, I ask, “Will they answer?”
He nods. “And miss an opportunity to pick on me?” It’s the nice way of saying to beat me up.
I get what it’s like not being able to use these specific words that turn you into a victim. Feeling like that word doesn’t fit your situation just right.
Abuse? No, not me.
Never me. It’s just this…it’s not that. It can’t be that harsh, raw thing.
But it is. And then what?
I put the receiver to my ear, and the line clicks. “What’s up?” Mitchell asks first. He sounds easygoing. You’d never think, this guy beats on his little brother.
Garrison watches me closely, his whole body tensing up.
I can’t change my voice, but I don’t go searching for words that’ll scalp Mitchell. “This is Loren Hale, from down the street.”
“Oh…oh wow, hey.”
I’m his famous neighbor. “Garrison left his hard drive at your parent’s place. He really needs it soon. Can you swing by and drop it in my mailbox?”
“Yeah, I’m on my way out tonight, so I’ll drop it in your box then. Does he know where it is?”
I cup my hand over the receiver, “Where’s the thing?”
“Basement table.”
I put the phone back. “Basement table.”
“Cool—oh yeah, I see it now…” he trails off for a long moment, maybe a full thirty seconds.
“Do you want to say something?” I ask.
He clears his throat. “Was…was he serious about the whole never speaking to us again thing? Is that why he had you call?”
Be like Ryke right now. One goddamn word response. “Yep.” I literally bite my tongue.
Mitc
hell is quiet on the line. “Can you tell him…tell him I’m sorry, and that I think this is a good idea for him?”
Another lump lodges in my throat and I swallow every other nasty comment that chews at me. “Sure.”
We both hang up, and I toss the phone to Garrison.
“What’d he say?” he asks.
“He’ll drop it in my mailbox. He’s sorry, and he thinks you never speaking to all of them is a good idea.” I shake my head at Garrison, confusion written across my face.
“You called Mitchell, didn’t you?”
“What is he—the nice one?” I know he’s only two years older than Garrison.
“Mitchell could’ve stopped them,” Garrison says. “He never did. Does that make him nice?…I don’t know. I never stopped my friends from breaking into your house. I never stopped myself from pranking you. We’re all the same. We’re all shit.”
No.
I lean forward, and I say as clear as I can, “This guy in front of me isn’t shit, and I’ll still be here when you finally believe it too.”
{ 11 }
February 2019
The Hale House
Philadelphia
LOREN HALE
A little body catapults on my king-sized bed, undulating the mattress and stirring me from sleep. Christ. I rub my eyes. The black chandelier with candles stays motionless above the bed. It’s too high for a rambunctious three-year-old to hit, but I still check to see if it swings.
“Wakey wakey! Eggs and bakey!” Moffy sings jubilantly and crawls towards me, dressed in blue and yellow Wolverine pajamas.
Lily dives further beneath the champagne comforter, burrowing like a frightened animal. I reach down for her, but she scoots towards the foot of the bed. Lil.
Moffy doesn’t notice the giant lump. He wobbly stands on the mattress and starts bouncing higher and higher.
I tug his pajama shirt, and he falls to his butt.
Sitting up, I position my deep red pillow against the headboard, the red top-sheet missing. Lily must’ve grabbed it.
I yawn into my bicep. “Moffy, what’d we say about knocking?”
“Umm…” His brows furrow in contemplation. His dark brown hair sticks up on the side, but my bed-head is probably worse. I watch him gawk at the ceiling, searching for some words. His baby-soft face reminds me of Lily, but she put my toddler picture beside our son’s as “evidence” of how much he resembles me. It was an eerie match, despite our different hair and eye colors.