Page 7 of Under the Texas Sky
“You told me to be careful, and I told you I had watched enough YouTube videos to know how to do it. I should have listened to you.”
“Yes you should have. I tend to be right more times than not,” I reply haughtily, and we both chuckle. Because more times than not we’re both wrong.
“Yeah, you are. I’m just too dumb to notice sometimes…” He trails off, and I don’t know what to say.
I want to tell him he’s not dumb, he’s one of the smartest people I know. He always knows what to say and how to communicate when I don’t feel up to talking. He’s anything but dumb. He’s intelligent. He’s resourceful. He’s passionate. He’s so many things.
A dreamy look crosses Trent’s face, like he’s remembering. “My favorite part of that trip was being away from everything. Just the two of us. No expectations, no jobs, no rules that said we couldn’t eat donuts for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We were able to justbe.”
That’s Trent. Always content to be on his own, doing his own thing without worrying about what someone else thinks of him.
“We can go again,” I tell him, “but no catching crabs. And we won’t need to sleep in the back seat of our car either. We can actually afford a hotel room this time.”
It’s supposed to come across as a joke, but from the dejected look on his face, it fell flat. And now I feel like even more of an asshole.
“Trent… I didn’t–”
His mouth presses against mine- cutting off my words. His kisses bring me home. The gentle exploration of his tongue in my mouth, rubbing and coaxing. Reminding me how easy it is to be with Trent.
We can struggle, as long as we're struggling together.
CHAPTER 7
TRENT
Fuck. This sucks. And by this, I mean everything. Kian brought my journal over to me on Monday of last week, and it hasn’t moved from its spot on the dresser because I have no muse to inspire me to write. None of the words floating through my brain make sense, and they would sound even worse written on paper.
One whole week, and I’ve left Mitch’s house for AA meetings three times. Three times of sitting in the hard chairs listening to how terrible people’s lives were, and how that’s what drove them to drinking. Three hours of listening to some of the worst trauma I've heard in my life. It’s had me examining my own life countless times, from my first memory to my current, wondering why I thought my life was so horrible that I needed to use alcohol to cope.
That’s not how it works though, at least not by how the man who leads the group describes it. He always says, “There’s no right way to suffer,” as if that’s any consolation.
Everyone shares. They tell their stories, they comfort each other, and I sit on the hard ass fold-out chair resenting that I even need to be there.
There’s another meeting tonight, and I'm going to go. Because that’s my only goal: to change and be the man I need to be for Kian.
Kian. We’ve texted every night, and he tells me he loves me every single night before he falls asleep. He’s the only reasonI have the power to push through the withdrawal symptoms. They’re minor, compared to some of the people in the group.
Fatigue is the worst one, but Mitch doesn’t seem to mind if I fall asleep on the couch while we’re supposed to be working on the five-thousand-piece puzzle. He’s planning on framing it, but he has too much faith in us to get it done. It’s called the impossible puzzle for a reason.
“I’m ordering pizza. What do you want?” Mitch hollers at me from the living room.
“Pepperoni and sausage, with extra cheese.” The thought of the pile of toppings and extra cheese has my mouth watering, and my stomach rumbling in appreciation.
“Do you have money for those extra charges?”
“Put it on my tab,” I say. I would feel guilty, but this is Mitch. The man who I consider a father, because he’s the closest thing I've ever had to a parental figure. Someone who will call me out on my bullshit but also simultaneously spoil me by buying all my favorite snacks. Even when I haven't done anything to deserve the VIP treatment I've been getting.
I come out of the bedroom, closing the door behind me to keep a semblance of privacy in this house. Mitch is sitting on the couch in front of the TV, not watching the old reruns of the TV show playing. His back is hunched over the coffee table, separating puzzle pieces into different sections as if that’s going to help him figure out what goes where.
I stare at him for a moment, really studying him. He's not the same man he was when he first took me and Kian in. The deep lines in his forehead and at the corners of his eyes have spread, his skin wrinkling with old age. This year will be his sixtiethbirthday, and every year he gets older, I become more terrified of losing him. He’s the only family we have.
“It’s about damn time you came out here! I need help. This son-of-a-bitch is pissing me off.”
I chuckle and plop myself beside him on the worn, leather couch. The fan in the corner blows directly on us, rustling my hair. We sit in silence as I follow his method for separating the pieces. It isn’t awkward; it’s the kind of silence that comes from peace. From being in the moment, and not needing to speak physical words when the wavelength you’re both on is vibrating.
The doorbell rings, and Mitch stands up, putting his hands on the back of his hips and cracking his back. The loud pop hurts my own joints.
“Pizza’s here,” a joyous voice says.Oh! Kian!I'm so excited to see Kian that I hit the table in my haste to get up, knocking the pieces on the floor. Thousands of pieces scatter, and my heart drops.
