“Yeah, well, we can’t all be a ladies’ man like you, Cliff. How’d you know?”
“Johnny paid me a few times to follow you.” He’s laughing, the bastard.
“What?” I say incredulously.
“I couldn’t do it myself,” Johnny explains. “I was too drunk, but I wanted to make sure you were being safe. Turns out you were just making suretheywere safe.”
“Nina was abused. By several men. I saw her in all of those women. I just wanted to make sure that, at least for one night, someone was looking out for them.” I’ve never talked about my Friday nights before.
“I know, and I’ve never questioned your integrity or character since. You’re a good kid. A good man,” says Johnny solemnly.
I want to open the door and hug Johnny, but my mind is still reeling and trying to process everything. I can’t do the father-son thing yet; there’s time for that later today.
I wait until I hear both of their bedroom doors shut and Cliff’s TV turn on before I rise and open my door.
Alice is standing next to the refrigerator, her hands clasped in front of her. She looks a little unsure and I realize how weird this all must’ve been for her, with me in my room and everyone else crammed in the kitchen. I wonder if she even knew who was in the room with her. Let alone the conversations she overheard. My mind is racing and I blurt out, “I’m sorry, Alice.”
Her face crumples and tears form in her eyes. “Toby.” Her outstretched arms are an invitation that I gladly walk into.
I hug her.
The hug lasts minutes.
It’s more than an embrace—it’s apologies for the past and promises for the future. It’s solace, and safety, and reassurance, and friendship, and want, and need, and acceptance, and forgiveness. It’s contentment. It’s love.
I’ve only ever felt like this with Alice. I never really knew what it was other than foreign. And disconcertingly lovely. I didn’t know what to do with it.
Her arms are wrapped around my back and the material of my sweatshirt is balled up in both of her fists like she never wants to let go. I don’t either. I kiss the side of her head and whisper, “I’m so sorry.” The hitch in her breath is the first signal she’s crying. I pull back and cradle her face in my hands, wiping away her tears.
Her bottom lip quivers. “Did you really want to kill yourself, Toby?”
I kiss her forehead before I whisper, “I had the pills in my mouth and you know what made me spit them out?”
A hiccupping intake of air precedes a fresh wave of tears. “What?”
“You. I heard your voice telling me, ‘You’re worth fighting for,’ and I guess I believed it might be true and wanted to wake up another day to find out. I wanted to fight.”
“You are worth fighting for,” she whispers.
“And I wanted to see you again. To talk to you. I don’t even know who your favorite band is. Or if you sleep with your socks on. Or if you’ve ever traveled outside of Colorado. I don’t know where you want to be in two years. Or if you like pancakes. I have so many questions. You’re the first person I’ve ever wanted to know everything about…I need more time with you.”
“Depeche Mode. Yes. Not yet. In a studio recording a Wonderland album. And I love pancakes but only if they’re unmercifully drenched in blueberry syrup.” Her small smile is lopsided because the sadness is still clinging to her. “You need to talk to someone, Toby.”
“I know. And I will.” I will. After tonight’s unearthing of secrets I know I’m not alone and that kind of changes everything.
She rests her head on my shoulder again. She’s tired.
“How was your show tonight?” I ask.
She shrugs. “We didn’t play.”
I stiffen reflexively because I suspect it’s my fault.
She must feel it because she rubs my back. “I came to see if I could persuade you to come with us around four o’clock and Johnny told us what happened.” Her chest rises and falls exaggeratedly with the pause. “I was a mess. So was Taber. We canceled.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again.
“Don’t be. People we love are more important than a gig. There will be other gigs. There will never be another Toby Page.”
