Page 39 of Little Bird
Gabe’s room is right on the other side of the door, which means that from here, I can hear what he’s doing in there.
And it sounds like he’s crying.
Taryn
I hold my breath, turn the bathroom light off, and crack the door open, bending to put one eye up to the opening. Beyond the door, the room is dark, but moonlight shines through the window, outlining the furniture in a glowing silver that gives the space a strange, illustrated look. I feel like I’m looking at a room I’m not supposed to be in. Trespassing on something so personal I can’t even see it completely.
Which is ridiculous. When I lived here before I spent more time in this room than in my own. I know where everything is and how it got there and slept in his bed most nights of the week. If I had a nightmare, this was where I came.
And when he had nightmares, he used the code we’d created to tap on the wall and let me know he needed me.
Of course that happened more rarely, and for all I know, everything is different now. I still run my eyes over the bed, though, looking for the telltale lump that would mean Gabe is in his bed. Because I can still hear him crying quietly, and that used to mean he’d had a nightmare.
He’s not in his bed, though, because the blankets are flat, the bed still made. He never even got in, then, though he must have come up here hours ago.
I curse, wishing I’d looked at my phone at some point in the last hour. I don’t know what time it is but I feel sure it’s somewhere past midnight, and if he hasn’t been to bed, it means he’s been up on his own, sitting in his room in the dark.
Probably overthinking.
I move on from his bed and look to the chair by the window, then the couch we dragged up here at some point so we could at least pretend that when I slept in his room, we didn’t both sleep in his bed. It was a lie, and I suspect our parents knew it. But we were kids, and hadn’t understood at the time how wrong it was for us to be sleeping in the same bed.
I hadn’t understood until my last night here what might have happened if we’d let things get out of control.
I jerk my head sharply, turning away from that thought, and keep looking. I can’t see him anywhere, though, and turn to using my ears instead. His sobs are quiet but distinct, and though I can’t tell precisely where they’re coming from, they’re muffled.
Ah. Of course.
They’re muffled because he’s in the closet. It had always been our favorite place to hide from the world.
Evidently some things don’t change.
I step into the room, less cautious now that I know he can’t see me, and make right for the closet. The door is closed but not shut all the way, and I gulp, because now that I’m here I’m not sure what I’m going to do next. I can’t go in there and comfort him without letting him know that I’m here, and I’m not entirely sure that he’ll accept me if I offer myself.
Four years ago, I knew.
Right now, I have no clue. This is the boy who’s been doing his best to shut me out at every opportunity and telling his friends that I don’t matter. That I’m nothing but his ex-stepsister. The girl who’s imposing herself on his peaceful life.
Except he’s also sitting in his closet crying in the middle of the night. That doesn’t exactly imply a happy world.
I wonder if he’ll let me save him, the way I used to.
Honestly, the question doesn’t even doesn’t matter, because I’m going to try. I can’t not.
I put a hesitant hand out, push the door open, and find him sitting on the floor against the back wall, his face tipped up to the ceiling and shining with tears in the moonlight from the window that his grandfather very oddly decided to put in a closet. He looks incredibly young, his eyes closed and one hand covering his mouth, and it takes everything I have not to run to him and take him in my arms. This boy was once my best friend and my whole world, and though I don’t know what’s wrong, seeing him in so much pain feels like someone has put my heart in a paper shredder and hit start. When I look at his other hand, I see that his fingertips are tapping on his knee in a broken, inconsistent way.
He’s tapping out the code we used to use on the wall when we needed each other.
God, what could be so bad?
“You may as well come in,” he says. “I heard you come into the room. You’re not exactly quiet.”
The tension leaves my shoulders and I huff out something that wants to be a laugh and doesn’t quite make it. “Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude.”
He opens his eyes and they’re dark in the closet, as if the pupils are completely blown out. But I can feel the wryness of the look from here. “If I didn’t want you here, Taryn, I would have tried a lot harder to stay quiet once I knew you were in the room. I need you. Please.”
That’s all it takes. That one small admission, the vulnerability making his voice rough and raw and honest. I fly to him like he’s grabbed the thread attached to my heart and drop to my knees, opening my arms to gather him in as quickly as I can. He’s far bigger than he used to be and way broader than I am, so my arms only reach partially across his back, but I pull his head down on my chest and hold him there, one hand rising up to wrap around the back of his head and cradle him.
And I send all my best energy from my heart right into his, breathing him in and remembering everything I know of this boy in the space of a heartbeat.
