Olive Juice

Because if that’s why he was here, if that’s what Phillip wanted, he’d have no choice but to give it to him, and then it would all be over. He’d be left with nothing.

He expected for Phillip to say please again.

He’d do anything for Phillip when he said that.

Even agreeing to end everything.

But Phillip didn’t do that.

He came down one step, then another, then another until he was standing just above David. They watched each other for a moment, eyes searching, David unsure of what he was looking for. But then Phillip reached down and took David’s hand in his, fingers intertwining. David gripped him tightly, and Phillip tugged him along, making David follow him up the stairs.

David did.

The wood creaked under their feet.

The rain pitter-pattered along the overhang above.

They were at the door, and Phillip didn’t let go, even as he fumbled for the keys. David tried to pull away, but Phillip wouldn’t let him.

He took a step out of the way when Phillip pushed the screen door open and watched as he slid the key into the lock. It clicked, and for the first time in a very long time, David watched as the door opened to the home that he’d built with his family, only to watch it crumble down around him.

He was overwhelmed.

He was consumed.

He breathed.

He ached.

He lived.

And God, the little death that followed when the door opened was extraordinary. It felt like he was being twisted inside out, like he was being torn apart and it was too fucking much, he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t fucking—

Phillip pulled him across the threshold.

And yes, he breathed.

It smelled exactly the same, like wood and furniture polish. Like those little cartridges that plugged into the sockets that promised to make a room smell like Hawaii or fresh linens or a forest caught in the throes of autumn.

He was having trouble catching his breath.

Phillip closed the door behind them, still not letting go.

There was a light in the kitchen, and David could see the outline of the table in the dining room. He didn’t want to go in there. He didn’t want to see the papers he would have to sign. He was not above begging and pleading.

But Phillip didn’t lead him there.

No, he pulled David toward the stairs, and up they went, the steps creaking under each step, the one near the middle squeaking obnoxiously as it always had.

And here. Oh, here was their story, set along the stairway on the wall for anyone to see. The framed photographs that were their lives together, showing that this had once been a family home, with a history that went back decades.

Here they were in the midnineties, both of them with terrible pencil-thin mustaches that made them, in Alice’s words, look as if they would hit on a girl by telling her that her hair smelled nice before asking her name.

Here they were, David and Phillip and Ronny and Keesha, and she’d been so pregnant then, looking like she was ready to pop at that very moment. She’d been smiling, radiantly so, but she looked tired, like she was done with everyone and everything. Funnily enough, she’d given birth twenty-three hours later to a little girl with a full head of inky black hair.

Here they were, at a party somewhere, Phillip sitting on David’s lap, both of them smiling, smiling, smiling.

Here they were, at a picnic in the park, Alice atop David’s shoulders, hands in his hair.