Page 123 of Fault Lines
His father continued, “They’re letting me out soon. Early, for good behavior.” He paused, let the words sink in. “I’d like to see you. Not now, but when you’re ready.”
Nate’s hand shook, just once, and he pressed it flat again, willing himself still.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, but it was a lie. I could hear it, and so could his father.
“I love you, Nathaniel,” the man said.
The line went silent. For a moment, I thought the call had dropped, but then Nate slid his thumb and ended the connection with a final, absolute click.
He set the phone face-down on the bar, then reached for his beer with the slow, deliberate care of a bomb technician. He took a swallow, then another, each one leaving less of him behind.
I watched him, the swirl of pain and anger and something deeper, older, passing through his face like storm clouds. I wanted to say something—anything—but the words felt too small.
So I just put my hand on his back, let it rest there.
He didn’t move.
After a minute, he said, “I should have changed my number.”
I tried to smile. “You did. Three times.”
He huffed out a breath. “Persistent bastard.”
We finished our drinks in silence, the weight of the call settling around us like wet wool. The laughter from the pool table faded, and the only sound was the low hum of the fridge and the soft, sticky echo of Nate’s thumb drumming against the coaster.
He stood up, then, and for a second I thought he was going to leave. But instead he turned to me, eyes rimmed red but dry.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
I followed him, out into the soft dark, my hand finding his in the space between streetlights.
We walked home in silence, the world rearranging itself in the wake of his father’s voice.
I didn’t know how to fix it. Maybe I never would.
But as we walked, I squeezed Nate’s hand, and he squeezed back.
It was enough, for tonight.
∞∞∞
That night, after the bar, we went back to Nate’s apartment. He fell asleep first, like he always did, limbs splayed and mouth open just enough to let a small whistling noise escape. I lay awake for a while, listening to the night and the hum of distant traffic, feeling the day’s tension press down on my chest. Eventually I drifted off, somewhere between dream and memory, but it didn’t last.
I woke to Nate thrashing under the covers, fists clenched, sweat darkening the pillowcase. He jerked upright with a muffled gasp, sucking air like he’d just surfaced from underwater. He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, trying to squeeze the dream away.
I didn’t say anything at first. Just watched, letting him find the surface on his own.
He shoved the blanket aside and swung his legs over the edge, feet flat on the cold floor. For a second he just sat there, head bowed, the planes of his back catching the strip of moonlight from the window.
He reached for the bottle on the nightstand—whiskey, half-full, label peeled off—and poured a neat finger into the glass he kept for this purpose. The liquid glinted, gold and sharp, as he raised it to his lips and swallowed it all in one measured movement. I could almost hear the burn of it.
He set the glass down with a quiet click.
“Nightmare?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.
He didn’t turn. “Just a dream,” he said, but we both knew better.
I slid out of bed and padded over, the floor freezing under my feet. I sat next to him, careful not to crowd, and let the silence run its course.
