“Oh.” I try not to read too much into that, because for all I know, it could really be nothing, even if Dom seems to think otherwise. “You’re… welcome?” Great, now I sound like a complete idiot. That’s just super.
Dom watches me. It makes me nervous. He’s got the whole cop-stare thing going on, and I’m pretty sure he can intuitively know everything bad I’ve done in the past four years without me having to say a goddamn word. My mouth desperately wants to fall open and babble to fill the silence, but somehow I’m able to keep it shut and stare right back at him, the only sound in the room Ben muttering to himself and scratching the crayon over the sheet of paper.
I break first. Of course I do. “What?” I ask nervously.
He shakes his head. Looks away. Whatever was there is gone. “What are you doing here, Tyson?”
And that’s the real question, isn’t it? What am I doing here? What do I want to happen? And whatever I want, does Dom want the same thing? He hasn’t kicked me out, not yet, but that doesn’t mean he won’t. He could very easily turn this around and tell me to leave, that it doesn’t matter that his son talks to me like he’s known me all his life. That Dom has known me practically my whole life. That none of any of that matters. That I should go and disappear back where I came from and never bother him again, because can’t I see he has his own life now? Can’t I see just how full it is? He has a son with a disability, and here I am, standing in front of him, pathetic words ready to fall from my lips. Can’t we be friends again? Can’t we forget the past four years ever happened? I need you. I don’t want to need you, but I think I do. I want to know everything.
And it’s all about me. Again. What I want. What I need. I can’t breathe on my own, so here I am, ready to ask Dominic to help me do it. How egocentric am I? How positively selfish of a person am I? I came here with the foolish idea that I could get what I wanted from this and, really, nothing more.
“Nothing,” I mutter. “I should probably go.” My face feels like it’s burning, and it takes everything I have to keep from running from this house, this neighborhood, this town, this world. Anywhere at all that he could no longer see me like this, this selfish little boy. This self-centered Kid.
He sighs and looks like he might speak. Instead, he shakes his head again and steps out of the doorway. Now’s my chance. Now I can run and forget that my throat is constricting or that it’s getting harder to breathe. I’ll find a bathtub (somewhere, anywhere) and wait for this earthquake to pass, because they always do. Some are worse than others, and some seem to stay for longer than they should, but they always pass, and I will beat this one like I will beat every one that comes after. I don’t need him to breathe. I can do it on my own. He shouldn’t have to carry me along with everything else. I’ll figure it out. Somehow. Some way.
And so I move to leave. I can’t even find the words to say good-bye to Ben, who is oblivious to the weird static charge in the room. Or maybe he’s not and doesn’t know how to respond. Or just doesn’t care. The last seems more likely.
Get out. Get out. Get out.
So many things to say. Of course, I say none of them. How cliché this is. How so like my brother am I or, rather, how he used to be. He said nothing and almost lost everything. It appears I will do the same.
I can’t look at him as I walk toward him. I can’t think of a single thing to say as I walk by him. For a moment, my arm brushes his, and it’s like every single nerve in my skin is firing off at once and shrieking THIS IS IT! THIS IS IT!
He reaches out and grabs my arm. His fingers bite into my skin. There is so much pressure I’m sure the bones will shatter into tiny pieces. I relish it because it cuts right through the earthquake, and it’s like he knows. It’s like he knows every little thing I’m thinking at the moment, even if I don’t quite understand it myself.
The pressure increases.
He says one word and one word only:
“Don’t.”
Don’t what? Don’t come back? Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out? Don’t ever let me see you around here again?
Don’t leave.
He tightens his hand, and I have to stifle the groan that wants to rise. It hurts, but the earthquake is almost gone. As my mind clears, I can hear how heavily he is breathing, almost like he’s panting.
“Dom—”
“Don’t.”
So I don’t. It’s that simple.
Minutes go by. I hear him mutter, “You run. You always try to run.”
Eventually, he loosens his grip. His breath evens out. He drops his hand, and we stand side by side, our arms brushing together, and I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know if I should know.
Ben says he’s hungry without looking up from his crayons. He asks if I’m going to eat with them, and he wants a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Ursidae,” he says. “Mustelidae.”
Bear. Otter.
This is not their story.
This is my own.
I SIT in the kitchen, seated at the table next to Ben. He’s staring down at the sandwich in front of him. He touches it once. Then again. Lifts the bread to see the peanut butter. Sets it back down. Stares at it some more.
“He’ll eat it,” Dom says, sitting across from us. “Eventually. He just has to decide that he wants to eat it.”