“So… um… listen, buddy. We’re going to have to clean it out,” he says sadly, and I grip the edge of my desk as darkness clouds my vision. “What do you want me to do with Charlie’s stuff?”
My eyes flick to the photo of Charlie on my desk, and his smile fails to warm me. I think about all of Charlie’s things in his room. His octopus stuffed animal and his little red fire engine hat that had a light and siren on top that he loved to wear wherever we went. His little tennis shoes with Velcro straps and purple dinosaurs on them.
“Son?” my dad says gently. “What do you want me to do?”
I blink hard, trying to focus. Giving a little cough, I try to clear the emotion from my throat, but it doesn’t work. “Pack it up… give it all away to a charity or something,” I rasp out.
My dad is silent for a brief moment, and then he murmurs, “Okay. I’ll call you again in a few days to check in on you.”
“Okay,” I say absently, my mind already shutting down from this conversation. “Cheers.”
But then I abruptly call out to him, “Wait.”
“Gavin?”
“Just wait… don’t give it away. Hold it at your house if you don’t mind. I’m not ready…” I start to say, but then my voice cracks.
“I understand,” my dad says with only the grace that a parent can show to a child in pain. “Don’t worry about it, okay?”
“Okay,” I tell him.
We talk for a few more minutes, then my mum jumps on the phone to say hello. We carefully skirt around talking about Charlie, and when we disconnect, I’m relieved the conversation is over.
Setting my phone down on the desk, I scrub my hands over my face, and then through my hair, where I scratch at my scalp. I feel itchy all over and resist the urge to scratch at the skin on my arms. I wait for sadness to seep in, but as I look back over at Charlie’s photo, I feel anger surge through me.
Hot, acidic, burning, lava-like anger builds, roiling and racing through my body. I want to hurt someone… lash out at them. Make them feel what I feel, so maybe if by sharing the burden, it will hurt me less.
I briefly think about Savannah downstairs, obliviously immersed in her own little world, and the urge to break her cleanly in half to alleviate some of my own misery takes root. I could walk downstairs right now and with a few seductive words have her begging me for it. I could bend her over the couch, fuck her hard, and then tell her to get the hell out of my house because she wasn’t any good.
Yeah, that would crush her… demoralize her beyond repair probably.
And I’d feel good for a few minutes after, I’m sure.
But then I think about having to see the pain in those soft, brown eyes and the anger turns directly inward at me, punching me in my stomach with the force of a nuclear bomb.
Hurtling out of my chair, I grab the edge of my desk and pull upward as hard as I can, toppling it over and sending my laptop and Charlie’s photo crashing to the floor. I don’t give a moment’s thought to neither the laptop nor the precious manuscript I had been working on, but immediately run around the overturned desk and grab the frame that holds Charlie’s picture. The glass is shattered, causing dark, fractured spiderwebs to obscure his smiling face.
A knock sounds at my door, as I pull the picture in tight to my chest.
“Gavin… is everything okay?” I hear Savannah call out.
“It’s fine,” I tell her, and my voice catches. Clearing my throat, I call out again. “It’s fine. Go away.”
“Are you sure?” she asks hesitantly.
The anger flashes hot, and I yell, “Sod off already. I said I’m fine.”
She doesn’t answer me, and I can hear her footsteps fall softly away from the door. Leaning back against the wall, I bang my head against it once.
Fuck… when will this ever end?
It’s amazing the way people will fawn all over you when you’re paying $140,000 in cash for a car.
Here’s your Perrier, Mr. Cooke, with a slice of lime.
Can we run out and get you some lunch, Mr. Cooke?
Is it warm enough in here for you, Mr. Cooke?
Can I strip you naked and ride you hard, Mr. Cooke?
Okay, that last one didn’t happen, but the receptionist that sits behind her black, lacquered desk and gushed over him for ten minutes before asking for an autograph most certainly was asking that in her mind. I could see it in her eyes.
To give him credit, Gavin takes it all in stride, waving most of them away with an impatient hand. He gave the autograph to the bleached-blonde receptionist, but barely spared her a glance and assured everyone he didn’t need anything but his car.