“Fuck,” Otter says, and
I don’t know how we’ve gotten to this point. He’s the levelheaded one that doesn’t say stupid shit that he doesn’t mean. Granted, I don’t have the monopoly on that, but it was cruel in a way that I’ve never heard from him, even if it was unintentional.
I turn back and glare at him.
He’s looking down at his feet, his socked feet because he doesn’t like being barefoot in the house. And they’re his ridiculous tube socks, and I’m angry at them for reasons I can’t quite explain, angry at everything about him.
We fight. We do. Everyone does. It happens. But we always fix it. And I have no doubt that we’ll fix this, but for the life of me, I can’t even think about how it’ll be all right. Because there is a little girl upstairs who heard something she shouldn’t have. And yes, she is strong and fierce and all the other things I didn’t expect but should have, but she is still a little girl, and sometimes, even though I know she doesn’t want us to know, she’s still insecure about her place here. Like she doesn’t quite believe that we want her as much as we do. Like she doesn’t think she has a home with us.
That’s Julie’s fault. I know it is. I’ve been fucked up a long time because of that woman, the gift that keeps on giving.
But maybe it’s also our fault, at least a little. Because as much as we’ve been trying to give her everything she needs, much of our time and attention has been focused on the twins. Maybe we haven’t been the best we could have with her. Maybe we should be doing more.
“That went well,” I tell Otter coolly. “Really. Good job.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know that—” Do you, Bear? it whispers. Do you really? “—but she doesn’t. For all she knows, you’re just like—”
“Don’t,” he snaps at me. “Don’t you compare me to her. I have never been like her.”
And because apparently things need to be made worse, I say, “You left once, Otter. Just like she did.”
He flinches like I’ve raised my hand to him, and that’s not something I’ve ever wanted to see. But that’s the hard thing about being angry with people you love: you know their heart well enough to be able to rip it still beating from their chests.
“Goddammit,” I mutter.
“It’s good to know you still think that,” he says woodenly. “That you still hold that over my head. Like I haven’t given up everything for you and Tyson.”
“Given up?” I ask, incredulous. “What exactly have you given up? Please, Otter. Enlighten me. What exactly have you sacrificed? Is there some other life you could be living right now that would make you happier? Tell me. Because I’d sure hate to think that something as little as your family was holding you back.”
“That’s not fair,” he says, and he’s revving himself up again. “Sometimes I get the feeling you think you have the monopoly on what a hard life is supposed to be. Yes, Bear, we all know things were shitty for a long time, but we all don’t still hold on to it. Why you haven’t let things go is beyond me.”
Oh, it laughs. Would you listen to that? Gosh, isn’t it funny to hear these things after all this time? I wonder what else he really thinks about you? Isn’t this fun?
“That’s not fair,” I mock. “Right. I’m sorry that my history is such an inconvenience for you. I’m sorry that I’m a little fucked up in the head, that the Kid still needs the bathtub sometimes because of the fucking earthquakes. I’m sorry that my mother decided to destroy herself so much so that her body gave out. I’m sorry that my little sister had nowhere else to go, so we had to take her in. But you know what? I can make things easy for you. You know where the front door is. Maybe that life you always wanted is still out there waiting for you. Please, don’t let us hold you back. I would hate to think you’d end up resenting us for not allowing you to have everything you wanted.” And it sucks, because when I get really mad, when I’m furious, my voice shakes and cracks, the fragile thing that it is. I’m desperately trying to hold on to my anger, but I’m just sad that we’re doing this. That we’re saying these things. That I’m saying these things.
He hears it too, the way I’m choking on my words, because he’s vibrating, jaw clenched. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this,” he says, which might possibly be the absolute worst thing to say. “I can’t be here right now. I’m going to say something I can’t take back, and—”
“Like what Izzie just heard you say?”
He’s moving then, out of the kitchen, and I follow him, just because I’m trying to decide if I should tackle him or throw something at the back of his head. He’s by the front door, and he’s sliding his feet into his shoes, grabbing his keys and phone off the table. The sun is bright when he opens the door.
“Fine!” I call after him. “Just go! Oh, and by the way, your socks look stupid because no one wears tube socks with shorts!”
And then he slams the door, like the mature, responsible, soon-to-be father that he is.
I hear his SUV start up and pull out of the driveway, the sound fading as he drives away.
“Stupid fucking asshole,” I mutter as I press my forehead against the door. “Stupid fucking Otter and his stupid fucking face.”
The jazz music is loud from upstairs, and I’m trying to calm myself so I can go upstairs and tell Izzie that of course Otter didn’t mean it. Of course he’s coming back. I know this. I know this for a fact, but my hands are shaking just a little, and maybe that awful voice in my head is saying, Yes, of course he will. But what if he doesn’t?
I hate that voice more than anything in the world.
I don’t know that I’ll ever be rid of it.
I take in a long, slow breath. And then another. And then another.