Page 135 of Beneath the Stain
Trav ran his finger idly around the rim of his empty beer mug. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, laughing a little. “I promised your brother I’d be here, whether or not we were a thing. You can ask me any day, and I’ll tell you this important shit.”
Kell nodded and drained the last two inches of his glass. The bartender came over and took Trav’s card, and they met eyes, both of them aware that the sobering time had come.
“What I’m going through with Grant, it’s gonna hurt,” he said. “The guy was our brother for most of our lives.”
Trav grimaced. “Understood.”
“But what you and Mackey are gonna go through?” Kellogg sighed and stood up. “I get why my brother became an addict,” he said after a minute. “I mean I donow. But I’m telling you, there’s not enough beer in the world, Trav. And I don’t got no other remedies, yanno?”
Trav took his card back and signed for the tip, nodding at the bartender with finality. He and Kell were still in their shirtsleeves, and it was still pissing rain, and Blake hadn’t texted them yet, which meant Mackey and Briony were still out in it.
“You don’t have to,” Trav said after a minute. “If me and Mackey can’t work it out on our own, it wasn’t meant to be.”
“Now that’s just bullshit,” Kell muttered. “There’s meant to be and not meant to be and there’s just being put under the pressure cooker until you explode.”
Trav smiled at him. “Kell?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t let anyone tell you you’re stupid. Ever. And if they insist on it, let them talk to me and I’ll take them out.”
Kell’s answering smile was a little sad, but sound. They turned and walked out of the bar more than friends—brothers.
Trav thought about Heywood and wondered bitterly if he’d ever really known what that meant. His brother was working in the ER right now while his wife minded the kids. He knew this because Heywood texted him when he was bored. When they’d been in Europe, Trav had texted him random pictures:Mackey in Rome—the cats loved him. The guys on the Eiffel Tower—they didn’t see it last time.
Suddenly Trav had a terrible, terrible yearning that Heywood meet Mackey and the guys. His brother had been a little shit when they were kids, but it didn’t seem fair, somehow, that they should grow up and be such separate people. The Sanders boys—plus Stevie and, from the sound of it, Grant—might have been dysfunctional and claustrophobic, but at least they had had each other.
Halfway back in the rain, Trav’s pocket buzzed. It was Blake—Mackey and Briony had come back. They were having a Doritos party in Trav’s room.
OMW
Trav raised his face to the rain and closed his eyes, letting the relief wash over him.
Thank you, God. Thank you for letting him be okay. Thank you for bringing him back to me. Please, let him stay.
They walked back into the room to find Blake, Jefferson, and Stevie playing each other on their DS3s while Shelia, Mackey, and Briony cheered them on. Mackey’s hair still dripped down his back and into his eyes, but he was wearing dry sweats, and when Trav walked in, Mackey grabbed two pairs of sweats and T-shirts for Trav and Kell.
Trav took them gratefully and passed Kell his. Both of them looked uneasily at the girls, who rolled their eyes and waved their hands and turned back to the games. It felt cowardly to go to the bathroom after that, Trav reflected, smiling grimly to himself. Propriety was a weird thing.
They changed and hung their clothes up in the tiny mildewed bathroom and towel-dried their hair. When they were done, Trav sat on the bed and Mackey sat in his lap, just like when they were at home and the guys were playing something on the big screen. They started rooting for their favorite characters and listening to Briony’s acid commentary, passing the tiny bags of Doritos Blake had apparently gotten from the vending machine when Mackey had shown up hungry even though they’d already eaten. Nobody mentioned the tour, nobody mentioned Grant, nobody mentioned the terrible, rip-roaring fight that had torn through the little hotel like a touched-down tornado.
And nobody went back to their beds either. Mackey slept between Briony and Trav in one queen-size bed; Jefferson, Stevie and Shelia took the other. Kell and Blake took the floor, using the fluffy blankets Trav had bought them in Albuquerque because the nights dropped surprisingly cold and the bus just didn’t seem warm enough.
The room was close and humid between the rain and the too-many bodies, but nobody wanted to split up just yet.
The last person who had left was dying.
When gentle breathing and soft snores echoed in the tiny room with the peeling paint and the bald carpet coming up from the moldings, Mackey rolled over in Trav’s arms and nuzzled his chest.
“You awake?” he whispered.
Trav opened one eye. “We’re not doing that right now,” he said, sure that they were clear on this one thing.
“Yeah, I gotcha. I just wanted to say….” Mackey sighed so deeply Trav’s arms rose and fell with his chest. “I wanted to say I don’t know if I’m sorry—I can’t think of anything I said that was meant to be mean or shitty, so I’m not sure I can be sorry for it.”
Trav felt a smile tilting at the corners of his mouth. If Mackey Sanders loved you, it meant he didn’t hold back a goddamned thing. Trav could deal with that.
“Understood,” Trav murmured.
