Bombora (37 page)

For a moment I’m speechless as Phel makes moves to storm out of the bedroom, up and casting about for his pants, but then a stuttering protest finds its way past my lips. “You’re not the only one who’s lost everything.” Halfway to the exit already, he glares at me. As the door slams, I shout belatedly after him, “And I’m not the only one who’s fucked up around here these past few weeks either!”

I’m left alone with my cheeks flaming and my stomach somewhere in the vicinity of my knees, while the rest of my organs try to force their way up into my throat. Another drive-by argument brought to you courtesy of Phelan Montague Price.

For a while I continue to sit there, apprehensive of what I’ll face when I finally emerge from the bedroom, though I know Phel is probably no less afraid of having to look at me. I used to think he became so adept at running away midargument because he loved me and was scared I might say something true or hurtful that he was powerless to refute, like
I’m leaving
or
I don’t love you anymore
. He never realized I probably spent a fair bit of time terrified of hearing the same things from him, because a part of being in love is caring, more than you’ve ever cared about anything, what that other person thinks of you, and the possibility they might not always be around.

But now I’m not so sure. Phel sure doesn’t seem too worried about my leaving; in fact, he seems hell-bent on proving that’s what he’s wanted since the second I showed up in Cardiff. He might have slammed the first door in my face, but I’m pretty sure I’ll find him holding the next one open for me on the other side, ready to dead bolt it behind me after I’m gone.

M
IRACULOUSLY
—or not, depending on how you look at it—I don’t have to confront Phel on my way out of the house. He’s already gone. I doubt he made it very far in such a short time, but the message is clear that he doesn’t want me going after him or trying to resolve what we left unfinished in the bedroom. For once I’m not much inclined to try. Just how many damn people am I supposed to chase down this morning, huh? I gotta say, though, this is the first time I never felt it necessary to go after him with a million apologies at the ready. This is a fact that hits me with all the subtlety of a sack of bricks. As I was sitting in that bedroom, I felt a hundred miles farther away from Phel than ever before, farther even than when I thought I would never see him again.

Although I think it’s still too soon to attempt going back to the house to find Hugh—since, knowing him, he won’t be ready to look at me—I also think there’s a reasonable chance he’ll have escaped to the beach. Or at least I’d rather he be out blowing off some steam in the surf than the alternative; still don’t wanna think about it. Hugh is a get-out-and-find-something-to-take-your-mind-off-it kind of guy, rather than the type to sit around and brood, and I suspect he does a lot of his best thinking out on the waves. I wouldn’t mind it so much right now either, but to be honest, I don’t feel drawn to the ocean the same way Hugh and Phel do. I like being in the water, but I prefer to feel my own two feet on solid land or see it racing past me beneath the wheels of my bike, especially when it feels like everything else is falling away. So home it is. I can’t really think of where else to go.

Except that when I trudge home and walk into the living room, I can’t bring myself to sit my ass down on the couch and count the minutes until Hugh comes home. A bit too much like counting down to the executioner’s axe, if you ask me. Part of me wants to pick up the phone and demand that Phel be here—no fucking way is he off the hook on account of his beef with me—but I’d also kind of prefer to gouge my own eye out with a toothpick. Whether that’s anger or embarrassment talking doesn’t matter. I won’t call him. But hanging around with a finger up my ass ain’t much my style either, so I recruit Callie, who’s been pretty much ignored all morning, poor girl, and decide to go spend some quality time with the other love of my life, the one who never talks back or kicks my ass to the curb.

Being in Cardiff, where everything is just about within walking distance, I haven’t given Lucy the kind of TLC she deserves lately. She’s not particularly dirty, just dusty from sitting in the driveway all these weeks, but a little soap and water never hurt anyone, especially not with all the care I’ve put into her detailing. Besides, pampering my baby always manages to take my mind off everything from indigestion to the colossal fucking smoke show my life has recently become. Phel used to make fun of me for how much I babied my bike, but I didn’t give a shit then and don’t give a shit now. Hugh’s not the only one who uses escapism and diversion as a means of getting his shit sorted out, and this is better than the way I used to handle stuff, which was to throw myself into as much sex and alcohol and women as I could get my hands on. While sex and alcohol don’t seem like such a bad deal right about now, part of the problem is I only want to fuck and drink if I can do it with Phel.

I go wash the fucking bike.

It’s a warm enough day out, if a bit windy and overcast, and within minutes of filling a bucket with water and soap and going to work on the pipes, I’m starting to sweat. I strip off my shirt, as much to stay cool as to avoid soaking myself through with the hose. I can already feel it working, the tension draining out of me, bringing me to that quiet place where I can think about where I am and what I have to do without feeling suffocated. Fuck meditation: give me a sponge and some quality Ducati time and I’m calmer than a Hindu cow. Well, almost.

I’m maybe halfway through scrubbing the rims when Callie gets excited and starts running around with the goofiest of expressions on her face. I peer around the end of the bike and see my brother’s mile-long silhouette loping up the street. His surfboard is tucked protectively under one arm. I stop what I’m doing and get to my feet, balling up the rag in my hands and tossing it into the bucket so he can see I’m open and—what? Unarmed? If Hugh wanted to end me, he could clunk me over the head with the surfboard and that’d probably be it. I know he won’t, despite the fact that we’ve exchanged our share of punches over the years, but hopefully he’ll get the picture I’m ready for whatever he wants to dish out.

Instead he just comes up and stares at me for about a minute before he scritches one hand behind Callie’s ears and disappears inside the house with her in tow, not even a word spoken. What the hell?

When he doesn’t come back out again in the next few minutes, I try to throw off my growing sense of unease and go back to washing the motorcycle. Then I hear his voice from the front door.

“Nate?”

I’m back on my feet again in less than a second, shoulders tight with anticipation. “Yeah?”

“Can you come in here for a sec?”

Swallowing, I nod; makes sense he’d want to do this inside, where none of the neighbors can hear. Back into the bucket goes the washrag. “Yeah. Okay, Hugh,” I tell him. “Be right—”

He’s gone again before I even finish my sentence. That’s also a bit weird, but I suppose the guy is upset enough that I can cut him some slack, and mostly I’m just relieved to see him steady on his feet and showing no signs of intoxication. Of any kind.

Inside, I find him huddled on the living room sofa with his head almost between his knees, while Callie, picking up on his distress, prances around nervously and flashes us both worried looks. Normally one of us would be trying to soothe her, bartering for calm with comforting pats, reassuring words, and the odd doggie treat, but considering my brother’s demeanor is why she’s all worked up, he’s the one I’m most concerned about. Not knowing what to expect, I sit down next to Hugh, close enough that he knows I’m here, but not so close he’ll feel hemmed in.

Silence floats between us for an agonizing few moments until I find my balls again and manage to start, “So listen, Hugh—”

But that’s as far as I get, again, before my brother’s head comes up and he says, “Nate, stop.”

My mouth clicks shut and I can’t do much else besides stare at him helplessly.

Now that Hugh’s looking straight at me, I notice for the first time since he found us at Phel’s house that he looks like shit, tired and pale and like he went three rounds with a tsunami. Considering he just came back from surfing, maybe that last one ain’t far off. He takes a deep breath. “I know you’ve got a lot to say to me, Nate, and trust me when I say I want to hear it. No way am I letting you off the fucking hook—you
or
Phel. But right now….”

“What?”

I see my brother take a long, deep swallow, like he’s physically trying to hold back vomit. “Right now I need you to sit here with me for a little while. We don’t have to talk, but we can if you want, as long as it’s about anything other than you or Phel or the incident from earlier I’d really like to just bleach from my mind, okay? That’s all I ask.”

A shiver travels down my spine and makes all the hair on my arms and legs stand on end. I try to hide the shudder that follows. “Hugh, what—” Voice catching, I dare to ask, “Did you… did you go out and do something? You know… something—”

“No.” At that, he looks away and purposely won’t meet my gaze again. “But I really want to, okay? And for the first time in a while, it went a hell of a lot further than just wanting to come home and have a beer and try to unwind. I wanted to obliterate all of this morning and everything else along with it.” He doesn’t say any more than that, but he doesn’t have to. His meaning is pretty clear, and suddenly I’m the one fighting back vomit as the realization that I fucking drove him to this drops in my stomach, even though Hugh will claim otherwise till he’s blue in the face. “Just sit here with me awhile,” he says again.

Not knowing how to respond, I reach over and put an arm around his shoulders, and he lets me. His hand drops to my knee for support. Though his fingers tighten around the cap of bone a bit more than is comfortable, the last thing I can think about doing is complain he’s squeezing too hard. “Okay, I’m not goin’ anywhere,” I eventually force out. “We can talk about anything you want. Let’s just sit right here, Hugh.”

Despite the offer, we don’t talk, except when I notice Hugh’s eyelids starting to droop after about an hour and I suggest he go to sleep. Reluctantly, he does, curling his large body up on the couch with far less awkwardness than I should ever expect from him. Within minutes he’s asleep, probably worn out from surfing and whatever fight is going on inside him at this very moment. Watching him sleep makes tiredness overcome me, too, but I’m still too restless and would feel bad nodding off when he asked me to keep watch. Obviously he can’t do any damage while he’s asleep, but symbolically, I need to stay awake, keep an eye on him. If Phel comes by, and it occurs to me he might, I want to be able to send him home, since I know Hugh probably won’t, not even if he’s still spitting mad when he wakes. Much like his brother, Hugh has a hard time telling Phel no.

I do, however, allow myself the luxury of slipping into the kitchen for a snack when lunchtime—even a late lunchtime—comes and goes. I debate waking Hugh up to make sure he gets something to eat, then decide against it since he probably spent most of last night sleepless and worrying about Phel like a damned fool. Hugh needs the shut-eye, and a guilty part of me supplies he might be more amenable to conversation about the past couple of days’ drama if he’s well rested.

After a quick snack of peanut butter sandwiches, which makes me feel twelve again but manages to calm my jumpy stomach, I find myself sitting there at the kitchen counter, staring into space. I have no idea how much time goes by with me spaced out like that; it could be ten minutes or a whole hour. I don’t snap out of it until I realize I’ve been holding my cell phone in my hand almost the whole time, clutching it in my fist like I’m either about to throw it or crush it like a beer can. My aching knuckles alert me to the fact I’m doing it at all, but I don’t have to think real hard about why I took it out, even if I never acknowledged my own hand reaching into my pocket.

At first I hesitate, but after that it’s a lot easier to dial the 740 area code than I would have thought, seeing as how I’ve avoided it all this time. The remaining digits follow practically on their own, memorized so long ago I don’t have to think about which buttons I’m pressing. I deleted the speed dial setting before coming to Cardiff, to reduce the temptation of calling at every moment of weakness and doubt. I notice I’m starting to get a bit light-headed and lean my arms against the countertop for support. The rings stretch out for what feels like a century each, one after another until I know the answering machine’s going to come on if someone doesn’t pick up in the next two seconds.

Someone picks up.

This is okay, I tell myself. It’s not a betrayal if I’m doing something I maybe should have done a long time ago.

There’s a long pause before anything is actually said, but then Emilia tentatively asks, “Nate?” and I breathe an incredible sigh of relief.

“Yeah, Em,” I answer raggedly. “It’s me.”

Phel