Page 11 of When I Come Back
“You know what? Forget it. I’ll just call a car,” he says, moving to pull out his phone and step away.
“Come on. I saw a bar up the road.” I don’t wait for him to answer, just round the car and get in.
The bar is dimly lit with a few patrons scattered throughout, most staring at the football game streaming on the TVs above the liquor display. The floor has that permanent stickiness that doesn’t seem to go away regardless of how often it gets mopped from decades of beer and food spills. A country song plays at a low volume in the background. The bartender quirks his head toward the empty booths lining the wall on the left. I take it as an invitation to seat ourselves.
I slide in, the red vinyl squeaking beneath me.
“I’m going to piss and grab us drinks,” Brooks says and continues past where I’m sitting down a hall with a sign for the restroom. I pull out my phone, navigate to my recent messages, and reread the one I received earlier this morning.
That Girl From That Bar:Good morning, Care Bear. I can’t wait to see your face tomorrow.
I never responded.I’m such an asshole.
She’s been so patient with me. She’s seen how I’ve worked to learn to communicate first-hand, and I seem to be throwing it all out the window, but I just don’t know what to say.
Me:I’m canceling my flight back. I have to stay longer.
I send the message and start searching for my flight information. The reply is instant. She must have been waiting for me.
That Girl From That Bar:Everything okay?
Me:Yeah, just a complication with my parents’ restaurant, just met with their lawyer.
That Girl From That Bar:Do you want me to come out there?
Me:No, I’m handling it. Might be another week or so.
That Girl From That Bar:Okay
Fuck.She’s mad. One-word answers are a tell for her. I guess her patience does have a limit, but I can’t deal with that right now. I’ll just have to figure out how to fix it when I get back. Thinking that’s the end of the exchange, I go back to figuring out how to reschedule the flight I had booked for first thing in the morning.
That Girl From That Bar:I’m about to go meet with Sethy, I’ll let him know.
Me:Love you.
I watch as the message is marked read, but no response comes. Before I can give it much thought, Brooks plops two pint glasses of amber liquid on the table and slides into the booth across from me. The generous pours overflow onto the table, and he uses a couple of black bar napkins he brought with him to mop up the mess.
We sit in silence, avoiding eye contact, taking long pulls of our beers. Usually, I’m comfortable in silence. I’m not sure if it’s the circumstances or the fact Brooks has changed more than I had realized, but this doesn’t feel comfortable at all. It feels itchy, restless, and suffocating. He traces over one of the tattoos on his hand with his index finger, and I wonder if he’s feeling the same. I bring my beer to my lips again, I could just start talkingto make this feeling go away, but I honestly don’t know where to start.
“You know, they laughed at me when I told them I wanted to learn how to tattoo right before I graduated,” Brooks says in a low murmur looking off to the side at one of the TVs, not really watching the action though.
“Who?” I watch his profile, but it’s not giving me any hint as to where he’s going with this.
“Mom and Dad, who else? They actually laughed like I was standing there telling them a fucking knock-knock joke.”
“Fuck.” I swallow thickly a few times and shake my head. “I never knew about that, Brooks. I’m so sorry. I’m starting to think I didn’t know much of anything.” I look down at my beer and watch the small carbonated bubbles rise to the surface for a moment longer, thinking back to a night in early spring of my sophomore year.
15 Years Ago
(16 years old)
I lazily stroll home after spending the afternoon by the lake with Thea, my hormones still raging from our very long make-out session. We’ve been doing a lot of that since Christmas, when I found my balls and finally told her how I feel. As soon as I step into the house, my high disappears, and I sense the tension. It hangs thick in the air, stifling. Brooks has his music blasting in his room—something he does when he’s pissed. I don’t think much of it until I hear a loud crash from upstairs.
I run up the stairs, throw Brooks’ door open, and stop in my tracks. His room is trashed. The dresser is pushed over, clothes spilling out of the drawers—that must have been the sound I heard. The sketches and watercolors he’d created over the years that had been hanging on every square inch of wall space now litter the floor, torn down and ripped to shreds. Thewooden desk Dad built that Brooks uses as a space to sketch is nothing more than a pile of kindling in the corner. The bat he took to it—split almost in two—rests on top.
I step over to his stereo and turn down the volume. “Wh-what happened?”
“Get out.” Brooks stands in front of his window with his back to me. He’s breathing heavily. When I don’t move, he picks up one of the books on his windowsill and chucks it in my direction. I barely manage to duck in time to avoid it hitting me in the face.
