Spill Over (8 page)

Girls lying on their side
are
the sexiest thing
s
ever. She looks soft, her shoulder curving down to her waist, and the steep curve
back up
of her hip. I reach out to put my arm around her, and pull us together. But that’s not for me and Gem. That’s different, for someone I love.
And I like Gem, but she knows what we are, and what we aren’t. And as good as it would feel, I know it would give her wrong impression. It starts to tap into my thoug
hts that what we did last night might
also give her that same impression.

How do we
know that the physical stuff doesn’t count, an
d that the emotional stuff does?
It’s just something that’s sort of understood. At least that’s how it is with my guy friends, and until Amber, I haven’t really ever had a friend that’s a girl.

My damn phone beeps again. I’m
still
messed up. Drunk, high, something. I answer. “Hello?” But my voice doesn’t sound like me. It’s all warped or something like from a satellite phone.

“Crap, it’s you. Your dad’s so worried.”

“Amber?” I ask. I mean, who else would be calling at some insane hour to say something about my dad.

“Yeah. Are you okay?”

“I’m really, really, really, wasted.”
I close my eyes. It’s
better than the ceiling coming in and out of focus.

“You sound it.” She has this whispering laugh, and I close my eyes.

“Guess I sorta screw
ed
up, and now everyone’s worried about me, huh?”
Only it’s really
Dad who’s worried, because Mom’s not here anymore.
Her name sends waves through me, and I never really got the reprieve I wanted.

“Something like that.”

I breathe enough of the weight off my chest to talk.
“Why did you call?”

“I’m the only other person your dad knows, who sort of knows you.”

Right.
What on earth am I supposed to say to Amber?
“Wha-cha reading?” I ask.

“That’s what you want to talk about?”

“Yeah.” I’m still on my back wishing that the room would hold still.
Wishing Mom was here. Wishing I still felt whole.

“I’m…
I’m reading a memoir from this guy who has Asperger’s and toured with KISS?”

Her voice is slowing me down, helping me focus
, helping me relax
.
It’s the first thing that’s dulled the pain ripping me apart.
“Can you read it?”

“Now? On the phone?”

“Yeah.” My body slumps down
, relaxes into the bed
. “But I might not stay awake for long.”

There’s a short pause
,
and she actually does it. She starts reading. Her smooth voice
tells
this man’s story, and it’s crazy interesting. His writing voice isn’t stellar, but it’s honest. It’s him.
It feels better than anything that’s happened to me all night.
I’m drifting back off, but I can’t tell her to stop, her voice is…

- - -

I don’t know if it’s morning or not, but
my whole body aches, churns and swims
. 
Gem
.
Shit.
I’m pretty sure I remember Gem sleeping
next to me,
but now she’s nowhere to be seen.

I’m
still
dressed
.
That’s good.
Do I want to know what happened? I’ve never passed out like that before. The though
t of it kind of freaks me out—
not knowing what ha
ppened
.
P
hone
’s in my hand
and
wallet’s still in my pocket
. That’s
also
good.

I stumble into the living room. There are a few
people passed out on the couches, wrapped in blankets
from last night. I start to look for my suit jacket, but don’t really care. I never want to see the damn thing again anyway.

Dad’s probably pissed. Mom would be pissed, but she’s not
around to be pissed anymore.
She’s stuck in some damn metal coffin.

I keep trying to blink the scratchiness off my eyes, but it doesn’t work.

My feet stumble me into the elevator
, and I hit the button for the lobby. When I step onto the sidewalk, I know where I was. I was at Gem’s house.
Probably shoulda figured that out when I was still inside.
Or, maybe I did, and just don’t remember.

Fortunately for me, h
er
building
’s
next to mine. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I slide it out. Twenty missed calls. Eighteen from Dad and two from… Amber? Amber’s name pricks at my chest.
We talked. Didn’t we?
I asked her to read to me. The air leaves my lungs. How
crazy
does she think I am?
Then Gem
’s smile and large brown eyes hit my memory
.
I’m immediately defensive.
What the hell does it matter what I did with Gem last night?
Amber’s barely even a friend.

I’m nuts.

“Morning, Mr.
Preston
.” A man opens the door to my building.

Now I
gotta get my ass upstairs to sleep off the rest of this hellish feeling.
The elevator feels like a
roller-coaster and every second feels like an hour. I just need to lie down.

My key fumbles in the lock until the door jerks away from me, revealing a scowling Dad.

“What the hell
happened
to you?”
His
voice is the most animated I’ve ever heard.

“I’m going to bed.”
I rub my sandpaper eyes again.

“Look, Antony.
I’ve tried to be really understanding about all of this, but you ca
n’t be gone all night
with
out letting me know where you a
re!”
The door shuts behind me.

“Sorry, Dad.” I rub my hand over my face. “I’m fine.”

He stops,
takes my shoulders, and looks
slowly between my
eye
s
. “What did you
do
?”

“Something I’ll never do again, okay?” I jerk away from his gaze and stumble into my room.

“Antony.” Dad follows and sits on the bed. “I know you don’t want to, but we’re leaving for DC tomorrow. Do you want to sort through some stuff here first?”

“No.” I fall
face first in my bed. “I’m keeping the apartment. I can afford it. I’m coming back here for school.”

“Mom thought you’d go to Harvard
, or to Paris
.”

“I’m coming back to New York. Harvard
and Paris
was before she
…” but I can’t finish it. “It’s different now.”

Dad relaxes next to me. I feel it. His hand rubs up and down my back. I open my mouth to tell him to stop, but I can’t. After a few minutes, I start to let myself relax and drift off. One of these days this nightmare will be over.

- - -

Something’s different. Dad and I are different. I now see the grief on his face, and even kind of recognize that some of it’s for me. I pack a bi
g bag of some stuff to take
back
to Seattle
. I even grab a picture of M
om, even though it feels so final
—
taking a picture
. It’s one none of the networks have. One of Mom and I that she took with an outstretched arm last year in St. John’s. Our faces are tanned and smiling. Our dark brown hair is so the same in color that our heads blend in together. Same eyes. Same smile. Part of me.
Or am I part of her? The last part left?

It’s just another one of the shitty feelings that I push down and in, hoping my body will absorb the painful chaos that’s
eating at me.

- - -

Arlington is
horrible, but amazing
. The soldiers give me chills. Even though Mom was against most of the wars our country fought, she was good to the soldiers. Anytime there was an opportunity for her to donate some time, she would. Every time. She deserves to be here.
Dad’s arm is around me
, and I don’t stop it. I know we’r
e met by some important people, but I don’t
care who they are or why they’re here. Mom’s good frie
nds from the Today Show are
here.

I hug
them all
tightly. They were almost as much her family as I was. Am. I am.

This is real, and there’s no escape. Of everything in this mess that
’s
too horrible to be happening, it feels like I need to force myself to be present, to
be actually here. M
y chest says otherwise, pulling it all in and down.

Most everyone is ushered away before they lower her into the ground. I sit. Still. Once again tears streaming down my face. Once again, tears streaming down Dad’s face.
Buried. Mom. It’s all real.

We walk down the hill, past numerous graves of numerous people. I wonder if any of the family they left behind hurts as much as I do. Mom’s smiling face hits me again and again. The one that was her real smile, the one that almost never made it onto TV, and when it did, it made me remember
how much she loved her job
.

“When can we go back to the boat?” I ask.

“
N
ever thought
I’d hear you say that, but yeah.” He puts his arm over my shoulders, “L
et’s get back to the boat.”

My body starts to shake,
and I have to suck in a few odd breaths,
but I manage to hold it together
. If I can hold it off
. The pain. M
y body will continue to absorb this. I’m sure of it.

Seven

I don’t mind being back in Washington
because it’s everything New York’s not.

None of my old friends are here. Nothing here reminds me of Mom.
Just the weight in my chest that I’ve decided might never go away
.
Well, and the fact
that she sent me here and right now, being upset with her is a lot better than some of the other feelings I’ve been dealing with.
I text
Gem to tell her that she really hel
ped me out when I needed it
.
She texts me back and says she misses me.
It kind of makes me feel like shit because I like Gem, but mostly I like what she does for me.
What kind of guy does that make me?

I haven’
t b
een out since we got back,
a week ago
, maybe two
.
I’m sure this is lame and pathetic of me, but I don’t want to be part of anything that will make me
wish Mom could be a part of
. I can’t imagine it. Not yet.

Dad’s on the deck of the boat talking with Lynn. There’s no such thing as privacy on a boat. That, and, they’re right above my room on the bow.

His
voice is quiet, but I can
make out every word. “Part of m
e was scared to death he’d
wa
nt to live on his own out there. It’s
not that I don’t think he can do it, because
I know he can, but the stuff available to these kids…
especially the ones with money…”

“He came back with you, though. That’s something, right?”

“I think he’s
using this as an escape
for right now. And that’s okay.
I’d rather him spend time here for a bad reason than to not spend time here at all.”

“You’ve missed him.”

“
Yeah, a lot
. He
was always so much like his mom. I knew she’d do great with him, give him things I couldn’t. And she did.”

Part of me wonders if thi
s is some of the reason he
took off. I’m still not ready to ask, not ready to hear his answer. What if it’s crap?

“You have a
lot to offer someone, Harris
.”

“Hmm.”

Why didn’t Dad ever say anything? About how much he missed me? It’s so weird. We have genetics in common, and that’s really it. Well, and writing I gue
ss. But we don’t write the same.
I’ve read enough of his books to know that much. He’s a lover of the
suspense.
I love language. Words. Dad loves them to get his story out. This is why I don’t tell people I write. What kind of guy admits to loving the way certain people put words together?