and if he can’t,
that’s his fault.”
Mickey closes his eyes.
“One question.
It could’ve saved his life.”
I turn my head
from the sight of the pain
that’s twisted Mickey’s memory
and broken his soul.
I did this to him.
“He knows that’s not true,” I tell Krista.
“He knows I would’ve lied.
I always lied
to keep from pissing him off.”
He gives a bitter laugh.
“Yeah, or to keep from pissing off
Dad.”
Then Mickey freezes,
his eyes creasing harder than ever.
“Oh God.”
He clutches his elbows,
bends forward like he’ll be sick.
“He was afraid of me.”
Krista raises her hand.
“He still is.”
“Why? When?
I thought . . .
I thought we were friends.”
I try to remember
when Mickey and I were friends.