Tom
It was almost nine o'clock,the office dark and empty. I was exhausted but I didn't want to go home. I couldn't. Couldn't gather the energy to peel myself out of this chair. Couldn't leave the slow process of drowning in this shallow pond of work. Couldn't walk to the T station without a light breeze knocking me to the ground. And I couldn't open the door to my empty apartment where I'd reheat a sad Pyrex dish of vegetables and fish and just be fucking alone—again.
No, the better option was hammering away at the email on my screen. Seeing that I was vulnerable and ranty, this was the ideal moment to draft an email to my sister. I knew it was a disaster wrapped in a tragedy and sealed with cyanide but I was filled with all these emotions, most of all a wailing, venomous hurt that wouldn't quit. And I needed to direct it somewhere. What better time to reach out to my sister than now, when Wes was as good as gone.
That part hurt. It cut deep, if I was being honest. Knowing my way around abandonment didn't make it better. The past two weeks since leaving Wes in the café had brought me right back to the worst moments of my childhood and flashed all the times I'd been discarded up on the big screen in my mind. Even when I separated out the massive issue of being forced from my homeas a child, I was left with a series of shitty relationships with people who regarded me as temporary and disposable.
For once, I wanted to be important enough to keep.
I could admit I still had trust issues too. For sure. I hadn't exaggerated when I'd told Wes I was selective about the people in my life. I had Shannon, the fiercest surrogate mother anyone could ask for, and I had the rest of the Walshes by association. My friends were the product of rigorous vetting. There was no room for toxicity.
And, for these perfect months, I'd had Wes. I'd lived the daydream and allowed myself to imagine a world where I finally, finally got what I wanted. But the trouble with me wanting it that badly was missing all the clues that Wes hadn't wanted any of it.
That much was clear. His silence spoke volumes. If he wanted to correct my misunderstanding, he could've done it by now. It'd been two full weeks without a word from him but the worst part was I was certain to see him at the wedding this weekend and there was nothing I could do about it.
I poured a lifetime of anger into that email, purging all the blame and pain and resentment I had inside me. It went on for pages upon pages, listing every injustice I'd suffered, every moment of my stolen childhood, every dehumanizing experience along the way. I called out her complicity in this, every opportunity she'd had to speak up for me, to help.
A knock sounded at my door. I blinked up, my eyes bleary after glaring at my screen. Riley Walsh leaned against the doorjamb. "Hey," he said. "Alex is covering for someone at the hospital tonight. She won't be home until tomorrow."
"Okay," I said, still blinking.
"Come on," he said, plucking my coat from the hanger on the back of the door. He held it toward me. "Let's get some food. Beers too. Food and beers always help. Especially on Mondays."
"Why?" I rasped.
He lifted his shoulders. "You shouldn't be all alone like this. It's not gonna help."
I glanced down at my screen. The hurt, betrayed part of me wanted to send that email. Fire it off, give Joy a piece of my mind without apology. The terrified perfectionist in me who hated conflict and feared the fall out wanted to save it in my drafts folder and tweak it until I could recite the missive backward and forward.
"Whatever it is," Riley started, jerking his chin toward my screen, "it can wait until morning."
The last unbruised sliver of me knew he was right. I could rage and blame all I wanted. I could call her out and scream about everything, and it would change nothing. I couldn't change Joy any more than I could change my mother—or Wes. They didn't want it. They didn't believe they needed it. They didn't believe I was worth it and I couldn't do a damn thing to change them. I'd changed myself—my thoughts, my habits, my reactions—and that was all I could do.
But I was dog-bite angry and just as hurt, and I hit Send.
"Since that's done…" Riley stepped up to my desk and pushed my laptop shut with one finger. "What are you in the mood for? I could do tacos, burgers, sushi—"
"Not sushi," I snapped.
"Burgers it is," he replied. "There's a place right off Tremont. You'll like it."
The best thing about Riley Walsh was he knew when to shut up. He didn't ask questions. Didn't probe. He just knew when life sucked and he didn't pretend it was going to suck less any time soon. Shannon was my surrogate mother but Riley was my brother and, as far as I was concerned, those two were proof choice mattered more than blood ever could.
24
Wes
I paused at the threshold,my backpack hanging from my shoulder, and I stared into the darkened room. A nightlight in the shape of a mermaid glowed back at me from the far corner. I moved closer to the crib, careful to keep my steps soundless. I couldn't pull off this dark-of-night escape if I woke the baby koala in the process.
Abby was flat on her back with her arms stretched over her head. She had no idea of the world's troubles or the complexity of being alive. She knew nothing of heartache or sadness or the unrelenting need to break away and be her own person without anyone around to comment on it. Her existence consisted of eating, sleeping, hollering for comfort. At least we had that much in common.
"You're leaving," I heard over my shoulder.
I pivoted, found Shannon shrouded in shadows. She was tucked into a rocking chair, Annabelle in her arms and a gauzy baby blanket draped over her shoulder. "I, uh, I didn't think anyone would be in here." I glanced back at the crib. "Other than the person who is supposed to be here."
"Abby was fussy," Shannon replied. "It was easier to rock Abby and nurse Annabelle at the same time than wake up Will to divide and conquer." She hit me with a brutal glare. "You're leaving and you weren't going to tell us."
"I have to go," I said, helpless to offer any better explanation.
