What the fuck is his problem?
It only strengthens these newfound sensations moving through me. My arms tense down to my wrists. My stomach suddenly turns like it wants to hurl up the few sips of beer I drank at Eli’s.
I press my thumbs into my eyes and try not to think about the dull ache that’s moving into my cranial cavity. I get out of the car and make it up the porch steps. My goal is simple: get past Finn as quickly as possible.Get inside and remember how to breathe.
“You look like shit,” says Finn as I amble up the steps and unlock the front door. “I’ll be here if you need a little brotherly love,” is all I hear as I slam the door in his stupid face and trudge my way across the living room.
I stop in the kitchen for a quick drink, the old cookie jar I’m using to store my fighting money mocking me. I found it in the back of Mom’s closet when I was looking for my birth certificate. The mouse on the front reminds me of afternoons I spent watchingTom and Jerryas a kid.
I nearly choke on my water from trying to breathe through the onslaught of whatever this is and turn my back on the piece of ceramic.
Finn’s words pirouette in my head.
I’ll be here if you need a little brotherly love.
I’ll be here if you need a little brotherly love.
I’ll be here if you need a little brotherly love.
There is one person I need, but it’s not Finn.
THIRTY-THREE
COLSON
Somewhere in myhaze of setting down my glass and moving to Mom’s room, I end up with my phone in hand, the lock screen long gone as my fingers move over its brightness. I click open my messaging app and look at the last message she sent.
Merry Christmas.
Nothing has come through since. I never did reply to it, so she most likely got the message loud and clear that I have nothing to say. I wrestle with wanting to tap out a few quick words but find my thumb hovering over the tiny phone icon at the top of the thread and do the exact opposite of what I’ve been preaching.
I call her.
I fuckingcallViolet.
It’s late and the room is dark, but I sit back on the bed as my phone rings. I don’t turn on the lamp, too afraid that if I illuminate the space, I’ll back out and hang up before I hear her voice. And Ineedto hear it. I need it to invade my head. I need it to soothe away the tightness in my chest and the crisp, sharp pains moving up the hollow of my neck.
Just when I think it’s going to go to voicemail, I hear a hushed, “Hello?”
My eyes fall shut and a sense of relief washes over me. It’s easy to pretend she’s here with me when the room is so dark. I rest my head back on the wall and imagine her next to me. Her leg tossed over mine as she presses her cheek to my chest. The way she melts into me when I wrap her in my arms. The warmth that encases me when her subtle, flowery scent wafts over me and invades my senses.
I realize I haven’t said a word when she lets out a worried, “Colson?”
“Yeah, hey, sorry.” It all comes out in one hoarse breath, my heart beating wildly against my ribcage.
“You sound weird. Are you okay?”
“Been better,” I admit, pulling in a deep breath.
“Seems to be life lately.”
“Yeah.”
The line goes silent. I appreciate it when she doesn’t badger me over calling. She’s being way more patient than I’d be, especially this grief-ridden, heartbroken version of me. “Sorry, I just…I needed to hear your voice.”
“It’s fine,” she declares, even though it’s not. None of this is fine. Treating her like shit isn’t fine. Lying to her wasn’t fine, either. “This is what friends do for each other.”
I wince at that statement.
