A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(53)

My anger fuels the walk home, only when I reach my house, my feet keep  going. By the time I push open the creaky door in Kyle's garage, my  emotions have started to mix, and I'm so sick to my stomach that I pass  directly by Kyle and the tangled web of cords for the video game console  into the back bathroom. I slam the door closed behind me, but Kyle  catches it with his hand, and when the contents of my stomach rip from  my guts, Kyle quickly pulls my hair around my shoulder and places a hand  on my back.

"I'm fine," I growl, standing back up, jerking away, and running my sleeve over my mouth.

Kyle stares at me, slowly crossing his arms. I flinch at him and squint my eyes-game face.

"My mouth tastes like shit," I brush past him, my steps picking up as I  move to his dad's liquor cabinet, which is always unlocked. I pull the  vodka out along with a glass and begin to pour. A hand grabs my wrist  the second the glass touches my lips.

"Stop." I close my eyes and breathe through my nose. Wes doesn't yell.  He doesn't pull or push. He gives me a quiet command, but even his hold  on my wrist is just a touch.

"I can't … " I swallow hard in the middle of my words. "I can't handle this."

His hand moves along my wrist until it reaches the small glass, pulling it from my grasp and setting it on the table.

"You can," he whispers in my ear.

"She's gone … " I barely finish before the cry hits my chest with the  force of a freight train. I double forward, my legs giving out again,  and Wes's arms wrap around me from behind.

"I got you," he says, sliding one arm down to my legs, lifting me  against him, and carrying me to the Marley sofa. I press into him,  wanting to press so far, so hard, that I disappear. And I cry-an ugly  cry that makes me choke.

Wes holds me. Kyle sits next to him and rubs my back. And my family-my  friend, and my heart-let me be, holding me up when it starts to be too  much, and pushing me through the barriers until I finally feel like my  lungs can handle the sting of taking a breath.

An hour passes before I can speak again. I look at Wes, and let my head fall with the disappointment shadowed in my eyes.

"You knew," I say, the words heavy while quiet.

His eyes narrow on me, but his expression is soft-sincere. He nods  slowly, and I let the weight of my head fall completely to the cushion  next to me as he does the same. We stare into each other as I try to  understand.

"You didn't tell me," I say.

"It wasn't mine to tell," he responds.

I feel the weight of the sofa shift behind me as Kyle stands. He moves  around the couch, closing the liquor cabinet doors as he passes, then  moves to a chair opposite Wes and me. He sits down, his hands folded and  his elbows on his knees as he leans forward. His eyes are serious.         

     



 

"You knew too," I say to him.

He offers the same quiet nod-the movement barely there, but just enough for me to understand.

"Your dad let it all out at practice. He … he had a pretty heavy breakdown  the next day, and he begged us not to say anything," Kyle says.

I hear him. But I don't really hear him. I stare at him, until he grows  so uncomfortable with the weight of being my center of focus that he has  to stand and leave. My eyes move to the empty pillow that was behind  his back instead, and I stare at the buttons and worn threads until my  eyes burn from not blinking.

Eventually, the sickness of my life overcomes me, wrapping around me  like a heavy blanket. Kyle's house is always my escape-it has been for  years. But even it feels foreign now.

"I want to go home," I say, still staring.

"Okay," Wes says, his voice a quiet hum next to me. Neither of us move.

"Take me," I say.

"Okay," he says again.

After ten more minutes of nothing, I stand to my feet, and Wes rises  with me. He pulls my hand in his, each finger weaving through mine, and  he guides me out the door, raising my bag of equipment over his arm and  tossing it into the back of his truck. He drives me home, and walks  around to my door, lifting out my things from the back and holding the  door open for me while I climb out.

"I need to be alone," I say, my focus on the ground, on the hundreds of  steps before me that I have to trek to make it into this house, to pass  my father, to lock myself in my room.

"I understand," he says. I don't let myself look him in the eye. If I  do, I'll reach for him to hold me, and I won't be able to ask him to let  go again.

He doesn't leave until I'm inside the house. Even then, I don't hear the  truck pull away. I want him to go. But I also want him to stay there,  ready-just in case.

My father is sitting in his chair. It's spun around toward the window,  and he's leaning back with both of his hands behind his head. He's so  still that if it were any other day, I would assume he'd passed out per  his usual routine.

"I have questions," I say.

His hands move from his head, but he stays facing the window. I don't  think he can look at me-he's not ready for the judgment. And I have  judgment.

"Where was she? Was she … with family?" I swallow hard after I speak,  adding my own mental addendum to my question-was she with another  family?

"Kevin was there. They had … married," he says. I hear the heartbreak in  his answer. I don't hear the usual blame that comes along with it.

Kevin. The man I only met once-when my father barely missed me trying to kill him with his car.

I hate Kevin.

"Was it … I don't know … fast?"

I don't know how to talk about cancer. I've never had a relative battle  it. My grandparents, my dad's parents, both are alive and healthy. My  dad's problems are all self-made, and none of my friends have dealt with  something like this.

"She battled for a year," he says. His answer strikes something deep  inside me, and a tear forms fast. I wipe it away and turn my head to  look for my door.

"Did you go to her funeral?"

My dad is quiet for several long seconds, and I spend the time imagining  her-what she must have looked like. Did she lose her hair? Did she have  chemo or surgery? Was she thin and frail or strong, like I remember  her? Was her hair still blond and her eyes hazel, like mine?

"No," my father finally answers. "It … "

His shoulders rise with expectation, and I hold my breath waiting for  him to offer more. To say he didn't go because there wasn't a funeral.  That he didn't go because my other grandmother told him not to, or out  of respect for Kevin or a million reasons. He doesn't have one though.

"No," he says again, leaning back in his chair and pulling his hands behind his neck once more.

I stare at his knuckles. They're dry and cracked. His hair is thinning.  His body has taken so much abuse. I stare at him and think about her. My  mom is dead. I can't remember her. She didn't want me. And I'm left  with this man.

I'm left with a shell.

"Are you going to get sober?" I ask, my belly thumping with adrenaline and nerves. My chest squeezes.

"I'm trying," he says.

I exhale quietly, running my hand under my eye to dry the last of the  tears I'm allowing myself today. After a few minutes of silence, I nod  to myself, and retreat to the quiet of my room. I drop my things on the  floor by my door, kick my shoes from my feet and crawl on my hands and  knees up my bed, folding half of my quilt over my body as I roll to the  side.         

     



 

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I don't look right away. It's Wes, and  I don't know what to say to him. After long enough, though, I realize I  don't need to know. I just need him.

I'm still outside.

I read his text and my lips smile automatically.

I write back. Thank you.

Do you want to talk?

I think about his offer. I think about the millions of questions  spawning millions more in my heart and head, and then I think about  uttering them aloud. I can't. There won't be any answers to them. The  questions are all for a woman who was supposed to love me more than the  air she breathed. Now she's dead.

No. But … don't go. Maybe just text me about stupid things.

I picture him reading my text, propping his leg up against the door of  his truck and tugging his hat lower, trying to think of something funny  to write. My text box flashes dots for nearly a minute while he thinks  and types. Eventually, his message comes.

Do you think there's going to be a lot of gum on the slide Friday?

I laugh out loud, and the gleeful noise surprises me. I cup my mouth,  and cry with the mix of sweetness of his text and the sadness coming to  rule me.

Your dad just left. I waved to him. He didn't look up at me.

My smile falls away and my hand rests against the bed with my phone  clutched in it. My phone buzzes again, so I tilt my hand just enough to  read his words.

Do you want me to come inside?

My body shivers from being alone. I reach my other hand to the side to type.

Yes.

In less than a minute, Wes pushes my door open, slips inside, and locks  it behind him, climbing into my bed next to me and wrapping me in his  arms. I exist there until the sun disappears and Wes kisses my head  goodnight.