A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(15)

"It's okay, Mr. Winters. I'm here to help," Wes says, and I wave my other hand to get his attention.         

     



 

"Don't bother. He won't remember any of this," I say.

"I remember everything!" my dad interjects. I shake my head no, because  he's just mirroring our conversation. He never remembers this. He only  remembers the things I do wrong.

I climb into the truck first, and Wes helps my dad onto the seat,  buckling his safety belt for him and shutting the door carefully around  his feet. I shake my head to myself as Wes rounds the cab and climbs in  next to me, his body pressed against mine. I wish I could enjoy this  instead of survive it.

Jim's isn't far from our house. It's why he goes there. He walks-every  Saturday, practically jogging on his way there in the late afternoon and  filling his body with whiskey until he can no longer see. Sometimes he  can get back home on his own. But that's happening less and less.

I keep my eyes focused out the windshield as we pull along the curb of  my house. I'm done being sick, but my head is starting to pound now. And  I'm not drunk enough to forget any of this, which makes it all hurt  more.

"I'll go get the door," Wes says through a slow, steady breath. I feel  his chest lift next to me, and I wish we were attached so he could  breathe for me too. He closes the door behind him, and in the time he  walks around the front of the cab to my father's door, my dad lets the  word bitch fall slowly from his lips. I'm glad Wes didn't hear it,  because he wouldn't understand. I know my father doesn't mean it-he  doesn't mean any of this. He's drunk, and when he's sober, he's strictly  indifferent toward me, but never hateful. The hate only comes out when  it tangles with him missing my mom and blaming me.

"Come on, Coach," Wes says, pulling my dad's arm over his body and  lifting him from the truck. My dad fights the help when his feet hit the  sidewalk, and he swings his arms wildly. I climb out and move to him,  and he shoves me away too.

"You're not even mine!" my dad seethes, his eyes having a hard time  focusing on my form as he wobbles backward on his unsteady legs,  tripping in our dead lawn. I know it's a lie, because as soon as my  mother left, my dad followed through with a blood test. It still hurts.  It hurts every time he says it.

Wes steps closer to me, and I pull my arms around myself, holding one hand up to the side, urging him to just let this all be.

"It's fine," I say.

I always say it's fine. My mantra-fine.

I'm a liar.

"We're home now, Dad. Time for bed," I say, treating him like a toddler.  I reach for him again, and he shrugs me off, standing sloppily on his  knees and eventually pulling himself back up to his feet. As much as I  want to hate him, I can't. I miss him. And I don't like Wes seeing him  like this.

"You waste your time," my dad says, holding his unsteady finger at me.  For a brief second, his eyes fade into reflections of the man lost  inside, and they tear. I think for a moment he's going to cup my face  and reach for me, but just as quickly, that warm feeling is gone, and he  bends forward, vomiting on himself as he collapses into sleep on the  ground.

"Fuck!" I yell so loudly that my voice reverberates off everything  around me. I grip at my hair and close my eyes, but all they do is  twitch, fighting to stay open. I couldn't escape my nightmare if I  tried.

Wes has my dad in his arms in seconds, and I part my lips to protest  because I'm ashamed, but give up quickly and let him carry my father  inside. I drag my feet behind them both, unlocking the door and nodding  toward the long hallway in the back.

"Last room at the end. Just lay him on the bed," I say. Wes marches down  the hall, setting my father on top of the quilt my grandmother gave  them when they first married. It was always my mom's favorite, and the  fact that it's all he'll put on that bed is so telling of the many, many  things wrong in this house.

Wes starts to pull my dad's shoes off, but I touch his arm lightly. He freezes at the feel of my fingertips on his skin.

"Really, just leave him. He'll erase all of this in the morning," I say.

Wes's jaw is working with his thoughts, but eventually he nods slowly as  he swallows and faces me, his eyes holding mine. They're full of pity.

"Don't look at me like that," I say, turning and walking back to the front door to guide him out.

He's slow to follow me, and when he reaches the door, he pauses again,  his lips opening with the intent to speak, but no words coming. His eyes  stay on me for a few more seconds, and I dive into them, finding the  familiar. I don't even care if it's make believe at this point. I'm  dizzy, and I'm my own mess, and something about Wes makes me feel  better.         

     



 

I give in, and I step into him, letting my forehead press deep into the  center of his chest as I bring my limp arms around him, my fingers  gripping the fabric of his shirt on the back. His chin slowly falls to  the top of my head and his own arms circle me tentatively at first,  until finally they lock around me, his palms sliding in slow tender  circles along my skin. I'm overcome with his strength and the feel of  his embrace, and I do something that I regret the moment it starts.

I cry.





Four





Sunday was for hiding. Taryn called to check on me. She knows the  Saturday routine. I told her I was fine, but not feeling well. I wasn't  feeling well. As much as Saturday nights numb things for a few hours,  they also suck to remember the next day. The bad parts greatly outweigh  the good.

The one solace was Wes. By the end of Saturday night, when he finally  stepped away from holding me and typed in my phone number, texting me,  begging me to call if I needed anything, I was satisfied with him simply  being him, not some ghost from my past. I didn't call him. I wouldn't. I  don't want to need him. I don't need him. But I think of him. I think  about him a lot.

When Monday came, everything in my life reset, just like it always did.  My dad left for school early, opened the gym, and Taryn picked me up so  she could meet TK after he was done lifting. The routine carried through  the week, and my father and I were cordial, at best, when we passed  each other coming and going from our house. Saturday's scene a blur to  him, and just one more in a long line to me.

It was … fine.

I'm also starting to get comfortable with life in the library early in  the mornings. It's peaceful in there. I suppose an empty room can be  that way, but being in there without being forced to go there feels  nice. I've even started reading again-something I loved to do when I was  young, and quit when stories weren't offering enough of an escape from  my reality. A few teachers who have seen me in the library have even  commented on how proud they were to see me working hard. I let them  believe whatever they want, because it feels good, even if I'm just here  because I have nowhere else to go.

Last semester, I would kill time smoking while sitting on the abandoned  brick and wood scraps in the alley behind the school. Sometimes, I'd  miss most of my morning classes smoking and drawing with a marker on the  brick wall. The tardiness always landed me in detention, which brought  me to the library anyhow. I'm just skipping steps now. I also haven't  smoked in days.

I guess I'm quitting too.

The week has been on a pleasant mode of autopilot. I'm actually excited  about softball, and I'm almost enjoying my teammates. Almost. They're  still young and bubbly and insistent that I let them braid my hair  before games. With ribbons-ginormous ribbons. I doubt I'll ever  understand the ribbons. But for the first time … well … ever, I considered  saying yes.

I spend practices working hard, and watching Wes with my dad in the  small breaks in between activities. He's like a compass for my eyes,  drawing my gaze to the point where I seem to know where he is and what  he's doing at all times. Wes and I have only talked a few times, in our  first period English class and in photography, which so far has been  nothing but lecture. I have yet to take a picture. Wes never brought up  what he saw, and when I thanked him, he shook his head and gave me a  look that said I needed to forget about it too. What I didn't tell him  is I'm normally good at forgetting those moments with my father, but I  can't seem to shake this last one-and it's because of him.

My father loves Wes. It's different than when he works with Kyle, and I  think Kyle sees that too. I can tell it's hurting him. A year or so ago,  Kyle was the golden it boy. He hasn't been that boy in months, and he  was starting to get used to it. Seeing my father fawn over Wes has  brought things back to the surface. I haven't said this to my friend  yet, but I think my father would have favored Wes no matter what Kyle  had said or done. It's about what they're both capable of. My father  looks at Wes like he's his own-he sees himself, only better. He's even  skipped the bar every night this week, instead watching slow-motion  video he's taken of Wes and going over new workout techniques online.