Beautiful Boy(52)

     



 

I couldn't breathe.

"If I don't walk away now … if you don't find the courage to fight for  yourself and continue to place all the weight of this battle on me, I'll  be the one dead in the end. I'll be the one suffering. And I refuse to  do that. You seem to think I'm the key to your salvation. But really,  it's you. And if we don't realize this or acknowledge it, nothing will  ever change. And I'll be the one dying in the trenches of your pain."

The rain had completely soaked through my clothes and left my skin  chilled. I shivered, but I wasn't entirely sure it was because of the  water.

I grabbed her wrists and pulled them away from me, holding them between  our bodies. "Just go, Novah. Save yourself." And then I let go of her  and walked away.

I walked away from the only thing good in my life.





I have no idea how I managed to make it through the next two days. I  couldn't sleep and I had no appetite. I barely spoke to anyone, except  Mike when he came to my office Tuesday morning.

I apologized to him for my behavior and for upsetting Shari, but other than that, I only listened to what he had to say.

Well, "listened" is a loose exaggeration.

He pretty much gave me a bunch of psychobabble about what he believed to  be my problem. I couldn't keep track of the amount of times he told me I  would never get over the self-loathing if I didn't do something about  it. I wanted to question his method of treatment, but decided to keep  that to myself. I'd insulted him enough and didn't need to further  destroy the friendly relationship we'd built.

Before he left, he asked me once more to reconsider his offer to go cage  diving with him. To shut him up, I told him I'd think about it. But  honestly, there was nothing to think about. The last thing I wanted to  do was sit on a boat with one leg and shoot the shit with people who had  no idea the struggles I lived with. Hell, even Mike had no idea the  darkness inside my head. Just because he'd lived through some of the  same experiences doesn't mean he understood mine.

I left the office a little earlier than usual to get ready for my  father's banquet dinner in Tampa. It was about two hours away, but I  knew traffic would be heavy. So I gave myself plenty of time to get  there without having to rush.

What I really wanted to do was get in bed and stay there forever,  covered in blankets and shrouded in darkness. I didn't want to paint on a  smile and mingle with plastic people. But I'd promised my dad I would.  And he needed my support.

So I sucked it up and went.

I couldn't be the man Novah needed, and I more than likely wasn't the son my father needed, but I didn't have a choice.

It wasn't until I walked into the banquet that I realized what a huge  mistake I'd made. It wasn't the people or the suits, nor was it the  atmosphere I'd grown up around. It was my father. It was his words that  left me wanting to run as far away as I could.

"Don't fuck this up for me."





Twenty-One





After getting inside and greeting my mother, I decided to keep to  myself. The last thing I wanted to do was piss my dad off by either  saying the wrong thing, or, as he said, "looking miserable." So I stood  along the far wall and observed everything going on around me.

Every now and then someone would come up to me and try to start a  conversation. I did my best to sound upbeat and encouraging, but most of  the time, they said the same things.

"You must be proud of your dad."

"How excited are you?"

"Are you looking forward to the White House?"

My answers were various versions of the same response. Did they honestly  expect me to say I wasn't proud of him, or that I wasn't excited? It  didn't matter if I thought it was the worst idea since reusable condoms.  I still wouldn't say it. I only wished they'd stop asking such  ridiculous questions.

Eventually, one of the hired photographers came around. He stood next to  me against the wall with a bottle of water, so I assumed he was there  to take a break. Since I was tired of random people coming up and asking  questions I didn't care to answer, I decided to talk to him in the  hopes it would ward off intruders. I only meant to look busy; I had no  intention of actually carrying on a decent conversation.

It started with me asking about his camera. I didn't even know what had  possessed me to do so, but for whatever reason, the question came out.  He let me hold it as we talked about different models and their  functions. When he started asking me questions, I found myself opening  up to him.

"What kind of photography are you into?"         

     



 

I peeked through the viewfinder and scoured the room through the lens.  "I've always been partial to nature, except I've recently learned to  love the art of people."

I didn't elaborate on that. He wouldn't understand if I told him about  Novah and how seeing myself in her photos did something to me.

"Family portraits and such?"

"No … not exactly." I lowered the camera and studied the functions as I  spoke. "It's the eyes. If you get the right shot, you can tell so much  about a person in them. Like a story."

He took the camera from me when I handed it back and then wrapped the  strap around his neck. Not once did he look at anything other than me as  we talked.

"You know, most people never really identify with the exact point of  their passion. Take photography for example. We know we like the art. We  know we thoroughly enjoy being behind the lens, capturing moments on  film that will last a lifetime, well beyond typical expiration dates.  The problem is, photography isn't just about one thing. You can take a  picture of just about anything or anyone-it's limitless-so most of us  aren't in touch with the exact purpose of our skill."

His words silenced me as I thought about them. It seemed so absurd  someone wouldn't know exactly what it was they liked about something,  but then again, I couldn't really argue. After all, I'd always loved  taking pictures, yet it hadn't been until recently that I found myself  pulled into one aspect.

"I think it's amazing you know what it is you like to shoot, and why  it's so important to you. Just having that on your side means there  won't be anything holding you back. You can usually tell the truly  gifted artists from the ones with natural yet unrefined talent."

I smiled and nodded, my words turning to knots in my throat. "I'm not  really a photographer. I actually own a small loss-prevention security  company back home. It's just a hobby I had in high school I've recently  picked back up."

He slapped his hand on my shoulder and let his grin spread wide on his  face. "It doesn't matter if you make a penny or spend a penny doing it,  so long as it's something you love. Hobby or job, it doesn't matter."

"Thanks, man."

"No problem. Listen, my break time is over. I should get back to work,  but it was nice talking to you. Best of luck in whatever you do." And  then he left, smiling at the crowd.

I stood frozen in place, letting his words circle around in my head.  Sometimes you meet a stranger, and that's all they are to you-a  stranger. But every now and then, you meet someone, whether you get a  name or not, and they change everything. With one look, one word, or  once sentiment, it's as if they've shined a light on something in your  life and given you the chance to see it differently. That's what he'd  done for me.

But before I could bask in the glory of acceptance, my father spotted me  and strolled over. I could tell by his gait, along with his stern  expression, he wasn't pleased, and I could only assume it had something  to do with me.

"Are you the help now? Shouldn't you be out in the room talking to  influential people instead of standing in the corner all alone or  conversing with the ones who have been hired to work? How exactly do you  expect to support me if you isolate yourself?"

My hands fisted at my sides. I didn't want to lose my patience with him  in the middle of his big night, but he was testing my resolve. What I  really wanted to say was, "Why can't my support be enough? Why do I have  to convince people who I'll never see again that I'm on your side?" But  I didn't.

I chose to keep my thoughts to myself and walked past him. He's the one  who'd told me not to fuck up his night, and that's what I was doing by  keeping to myself. Now he wanted me to mingle, which only introduced the  possibility of me ruining his time. I didn't argue, considering it  wouldn't have done any good.

With a fake smile plastered on my face, I roamed around the room. When  people would ask, "Is there a chance we'll see you in a political office  one day?" I had to bite my tongue. I would've liked to reply with, "Not  a chance in hell," but decided "No, I'll leave politics up to the old  man" sounded better.

Luckily, I hadn't been thrown to the wolves for too long before my mom  came to my rescue. She helped field a lot of questions for me and eased  the worry that had begun to drag me down.