Page 35 of Bring You Back

Reyna paints her ass off. And her art actually means something. She deserves better than this.

Tommy gets to her before I do.

I’m parked at the curb of her house, right behind Tommy’s small, gray convertible, watching them together through my driver side window.

They’re alone—thankfully—the driveway vacant of Valerie’s and Randall’s cars. My head flops to the headrest with a relieved sigh.

Through the front window of the house, I spy my best friends sitting next to each other on the couch, the lamp shining from an end table. Tommy is telling Reyna some elaborate story with added hand gestures to make her laugh. And it works. But her laughter fades after each burst, her eyes staring off when he takes pauses. He’s helping, but she needs more.Ifucked up, and she needs me to fix it.

I should be the one fixing this. I shouldn’t want Tommy to be the one putting her back together. I shouldn’t want another guy coming in on the girl I’m supposed to see as mine.

Dammit, Tommy. Just do something. She’s right there.

He doesn’t give himself enough credit. He’s good for Reyna. Great, even. Better than me. He just needs to put his heart out there, give her the chance to see him the way he sees her.

But that would be too easy, wouldn’t it? Or in his case, too hard. Because what if he does, and then she doesn’t?

I wait until they’re turned away from the window, their focus now on the television before I pull off the curb.You’re welcome, I think with one last look toward the window. I tell myself that every time I fuck this up and Tommy steps in. I’m doing him a favor.

9

Grief House

Julian

“Can you do me a favor?” Mom says to Banks as I walk through the front door. She’s in her robe, cleaning dishes from a dinner I wasn’t part of. “Since you’re here,” she adds with a little contempt as she hands him a stack of plates. Banks was always her least favorite of my friends. She put up with him for me. Like everyone else.

They both look my way when I slam the door behind me. Mom sighs back down at the sink. “There’s some leftovers in the fridge if you’re hungry,” she says, probably in reference to her text that I didn’t get the chance to read or respond to.

I grunt in acknowledgment, my eyes locked on Banks. The sight of him back in my kitchen, talking to my mother, holding our plates, rattles me all over again. The universe is fucking with me. I ask for normalcy and it gives me the false sense.

“Get out.”

“Julian,” my mom scolds.

“You don’t want him here, either.”

She throws me a look over her shoulder, and Banks places the plates back on the counter. But instead of leaving, he escapes to the living room, flinging himself over the back of the couch and landing on the cushions with a contented sigh, my order for him to get out going ignored.

I shake my head at him and meet my mom at the island. “I guess you’re feeling better.”

“I’m not feeling worse.”

That makes one of us, I think as I trace my finger over an old scratch in the wood, then move around the island to busy myself with the plates Banks abandoned before my head can start rifling through memories. “She can’t stay here.”

“What are you talking about?” Mom drains the sink, suction cutting into the question, then eyes how I’ve chosen to put up the plates. I’m separating the already stacked pile and restacking, one by one, instead of setting the pile in the cupboard in one go. Like I normally do. She flips the water back on to rinse the leftover suds, jerking the faucet around with her next words. “Of course she can. She’s lost the only person she has. She needs somewhere safe. To feel protected, and cared for. I can’t even comprehend what she’s feeling right now.”

That’s my mother. Wanting to protect and care for everybody. Pain attracts pain. Pain attracts my mom. Other people’s problems distract her from her own. From her own, like me and my dad. From the fact that their lying has now carried over to my lying.

“This isn’t a grief house, Mom.” I restack the last plate, then look at her. “Let’s just find everyone who’s going through some shit in the area and haul them up.”

She reacts to my harsh tone by stepping closer and slapping the cupboard shut for my attention. I move away just before the corner can nick me. She reaches for my face. “I’m sorry, did I—”

“No.” I flinch away.

She drops her hand, then shuts off the still running water. “We’re talking aboutCamille,” she stresses, “not a random person off the streets.”

That’s an invalid argument, because she’s someone whowouldtake in a random person off the streets.

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