A Third of Me (7 page)

I say I won't. I'm all ears for details.

“Before all that, I stayed at Brian's and woke up next to him.”

“What?” I nearly scream it.

“Wait, wait, nothing
happened,
okay?”
He goes on. “Brian passed out so I put him in his bed, and I planned to sleep on the couch but said fuck it and I guess I just crashed next to him.”

“Why are you trying to justify it? That doesn't seem odd at all.”

“Well,” he says, “what I did the next morning is what's so fucked up.”

I tell him to go on. I'm giddy! This is great!

“I kissed him.”

“You
WHAT?!
You–”

“
Not on the mouth!
Jesus, I swear you're getting the wrong idea already.”

“So…”
Oh go ahead, Lauren. Say it.
“How was it?”

He laughs some. “I don't know what came over me. I just felt… That's fuckin crazy, isn't it?”

“I don't know what to say,” I whisper. “That's incredible, Damon!”

“Well, I'll tell you right now that won't be happening again. He and I are friends. Friends don't sleep with each other and they sure as hell don't fuckin kiss each other. I just hope he didn't get the wrong idea and that's the reason why he moved me in with him.”

“Just let it be,” I say. “Go visit your folks and try to have a good time. Call me later.”

He says all right and we hang up. At least his gears are turning.

And good things are in the works.

Brian

I get into River City before noon. I'm relieved to see the house where I grew up, something so familiar and wonderful I can't wait to step inside. When I do, I'm hit with a powerful aroma of cooking meats and vegetables – pot roast. My favorite.

My mother is the most excellent cook living on this planet. Her delicious dishes are something I often miss while staring into my empty refrigerator. It's hard to cook for one person. I can cook a decent meal, don't get me wrong, but unless there are others to wolf it down, I'm stuck eating the same thing for a week. I bend down and wrap my arms around her because she's a good foot shorter than I am.

“How are you?” Mom asks.

“Great. Smells good in here.”

“Are you eating?”

“What?”

“You look thin. Are you eating well? Do you have money?”

I laugh and say, “I'm fine, Mother. And yes, I have money. I've been working for some time now.”

“But I know how you like to spend money.”

“Do you even know me? I'm a tightwad.”

She shrugs without humor, taking the roast out of the oven. I've been here five minutes and I'm already uncomfortable.

“Buddy boy,” Paul says, waking up from his nap on the couch. Unlike Damon, I lucked out with a cooler stepfather – although he enjoys the hell out of picking on me, but it's all in good fun. “Heard you got a new roommate.”

“Yeah, you remember Damon,” I say.

“Dark hair? The ladies’ man?”

“That's him.” I chuckle a bit but neither of them know why and that's fine. The joke is all mine.

I take my bag up to my old room and as I ascend the stairs, a lifetime of memories flood through me. Games of Monopoly, sleepovers, parties, toys scattered across the second floor hallway, my sisters (stepsisters actually) chasing me up and down these steps. I open the door to the room where I lived as a boy and then as a young man. The ghostly fragrance of moments passed, life lived without a care in the world. I sit on the bed for a long time just thinking, breathing. I use the bathroom and go back downstairs to shoot the bull with Mom and Paul.

I hear them whispering. They stop once they see me. Mom asks me to take a look at her computer. She's been trying to create an invitation for a party she's hosting for friends and can't get the program to print it correctly. I fix it within minutes and take my place at the bar while Mother delivers her feast.

I check my phone. No messages. I put it next to my plate and dig in without waiting.

“Talked to your dad in a while?” Mom asks.

“Not really,” I say. My dad's a good man. A simple man, but a hard worker and smarter than anyone I know. I should visit him more often.

“You should go see him while you're down here,” Mom says. “I'm sure Nick would love to see you.”

Nick is my seven-year-old half-brother. He was born a couple years after my father married a quiet but lovely woman named Alice. My dad and I use to spend a lot of time together when he was single, but that was a long time ago. And since then, there are a lot of things I discovered about myself that would probably destroy what small relationship we still have if he ever knew.

And that kind of secret is very hard to keep.

Damon

I get on the horn once I roll into town. I call up some of the old friends from high school and plan a little shindig in back of my aunt's place. We build a bonfire and Roger Eakes brings a keg. Only four people show up, but it's enough for a party. But it's not quite a party yet. I get a boom-box from the shed and plug it in. Still not a party.

Others come by, but they don't stay long. Then Tyler Dorsey shows up with some chicks.

Now it's a party.

But wait. What's that? Is that guilt? Amber Childress and Laura Peters rock their way over to me. Why does this feel so threatening?

“Hello, ladies,” I say, finishing my beer. “Where've you been hiding?”

“You're the one who left us, Mr. Loveless,” Amber says. I fucked her once in the back of my car on some back road out in Cullman County. Or maybe that was with Laura. I can't remember.

I make sure they each have a sweaty cup of panty-dropping brew before throwing on a new CD. Something to make these bitches grind.

You might be wondering why I didn't invite Brian, and the answer is simple – this isn't his scene. But there might be another reason why I don't want him here.

Brian's ghost whispers in my ear
I'm jealous of
them
.

Amber puts a hand on my back, my ears tingle.

“I heard about what happened to you, Damon,” Amber says. “If you need someone to talk to, I'm here for you.” I know she doesn't mean it. She wants something from me. I won't lie. I want something from her, too.

“Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now” blasts through the stereo, echoing across the trees and into the night. I get this sick feeling and have to go inside. I splash water on my face and stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. The scar is healing up nicely, but I wonder if there are other scars I can't see, scars that might take longer to repair.

I try not to think about it.

Before I even make it to the back door, Heather Meeks stops me.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I say, backing up.

“I heard you were in town. I just wanted to see how you were.”

“Really.” I push past her but she grabs my arm. “You need to get out of here,” I say, ripping my arm away, making sure she sees the fire in my eyes. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“But I have something to say to
you.
Just listen, please. It's important.”

“No. No, I can't. Can't do it right now, Heather. Just go. Go away. Now.”

I don't even say goodbye to everyone. I disappear. I drive the back roads looking for peace. I do this for hours. I finally pull off Highway 7 and park near the Sand Mountain Church. I recline my seat and try to think of absolutely nothing. My breath is the only thing I hear.

I'm so fucking confused. So many thoughts and feelings rolling around in my head, my heart. I haven't been this fucked up emotionally since… Well, since me and Heather were together, which ended really fucking badly. Getting over that took way too long.

But things have been better since I've closed myself off. Right?

I'm not so sure. It's like a part of me is reviving because I
have
let someone in. Just a little, but I have. And I didn't even know it was happening.

Brian

I'm ready for the best sleep of my life. I haven't slept in this room in many years, and I right now I'm snuggled up in total darkness with childlike innocence.

Then my mind starts to wander.

Life has been no picnic, but it has been without regret. I would not be who I am had certain events not transpired. My life force reaches out to another, one certainly wakeful at this hour, controller in hand, lost on the battlefield in some video game. I thank God for my family and friends, and for that one soul I long to entwine with my own. Gaelic culture calls it the
anam cara
, or soul friend.

Love has been challenging, fooling me with disguises and clever tricks, but I have not been without it for a moment's time. I am loved and deeply grateful. The one I wish to give my love has not been as receptive as I had hoped, but he loves me in the capacity in which he is able.

I miss him now. My thoughts turn to him frequently, and a smile escapes me without hesitation. I have no shame for my feelings, only shame for the situation that separates us.

My consciousness starts to give way to a joyous dream world when my phone beeps. It startles me into wakefulness and now I'm pissed. I'm so close.
Just breathe and relax and–

Another beep. I grunt and reach down for my phone. I read it with one eye open. It's from Damon. It says:
I'm outside your mom's house. Can we talk?

I write back
I'll be right out.
My parents are asleep, so I sneak out the front door and into the pouring rain. I splash across the driveway and slide into his passenger seat. I'm grateful it's warm inside.

“What's up?” I ask. His gaze is distant, staring straight ahead into the night, the rain shadows swirling down his face.

“Do you remember what you told me back in high school? How you felt about me?”

My heart erupts into chaos. Words are something I've forgotten how to use.

“How you said you were in love with me?” He continued without looking at me.

“Yes.” It comes out as a breath, barely a whisper.

“And you still feel this way, right?”

I nod.

“What’s that like?”

“What do you mean?”

He looks down. Tear collect at the corners of his eyes. “I don't know.”

“Why do you ask?”

He waits a long time to speak then says, “Because I…feel…something.”

“You feel something,” I echo. “What are you feeling?”

“Something I've never felt and it's freaking me the fuck out.” He looks at me.

“What can I do?” I ask, honestly concerned.

“I want you to make it go away. I can't, I won't give into it.” He composes himself. “It's funny. I've always wanted a girl to love me the way you love me. But I get tired of women too quickly. It's fun for a while, then I just…”

“Let them go,” I finish.

“Yeah. I just want to have a little fun then move on. It never gets past a certain point because some of them want to settle down and I don't, or maybe I just don't want to be tied down. I don't want to answer to anyone. I like myself too much.”

I'm not sure where this is heading, but I have the urge to run away.

Then he says, “Guys are more loyal than girls, you know?”

I nod slowly, watching the rain.

“I just…want someone who really knows me and cares about me the way you do. But you and me,
we
couldn't – oh God.” He wipes his face with his arm.

“Couldn't what?”

“Brian, I like
women
. I love pussy. I want to get a hot girl naked and sing in her snatch. You know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“But if we – you know – then I couldn't get that.”

“I see what you mean. I guess you need to decide which is more important to you.”

“I know. Even if it did work, there's my family and your family, and this whole town would be out for our scalps. It would destroy everything.”

“Would it? Do you really think that if you can eventually fill that hole inside you with all these–”

“Hey, fuck you. You don't know what it's been like for me.”

“You don't know what it's been like for
me
.”

I reach out very slowly and rest my palm over the top of his hand. Our hands don't touch, but it's electric. I bring it down steadily. His hand is cold and sweaty. I think he laughs some. I can't really tell. Then his fingers fold over mine. His lungs surrender heavily.

“Jesus, Brian,” he says, trying not to let his hand shake. I squeeze it.

“It's okay.” I lean over, wiping away the tear trails on his cheek.

“Well I just wanted you to know. I’m better now. I'm about to head back to the apartment.”

“I'll pack up and go, too.”

“All right, I guess I'll see you in a few hours then.”

I squeeze his hand once more before he puts it on the gear shift. We say goodbye and he leaves. I watch his tail lights fade away into night, beyond the heavy veil of rain slicing at my body.

It’s happening. It’s really happening.

I throw my stuff in my bag and burn rubber. Pedal to the metal, baby. The next three hours drag by while I'm scanning through radio stations, thinking about what awaits me when I get home. It took me an hour to calm myself enough to get on the road, so he's probably there waiting for me now. I'm sure he is. We'll talk for hours and I'll confess everything then we'll be together just like I've always dreamed, oh yes, it'll be beautiful, oh my God, can you believe it!

I fumble with my keys trying to unlock the place. I go inside and see him pacing the living room. His face is red and his gaze runs straight out into nothingness. I can tell that he's been crying some more.

I approach him then notice the empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table.
Uh-oh.
“Damon?”

He stops and lowers his head.

“Look,” he says, “I'm not as good with words as you are, but–”

“I'm sorry, I know I–”

“No,
I'm
sorry,” he says looking at me with bloodshot eyes. His breath reeks and I think I smell cigarettes, although I've never seen him smoke. He sits down in the floor and crosses his legs. I do the same. We sit there in a silent powwow for an excruciating five minutes before he says, “I'm an asshole. I've always been an asshole.”