Pete doesn’t seem fazed that I just broke the law, irritated my dad, hiked through the dark woods and climbed almost three hundred steps at around one in the morning because he sent me an emergency message.
“You’re a good friend, Brody,” Pete says.
“Whatever, it’s fine, but why are you up here?”
“You know how everyone in life seems to have a purpose?”
I don’t understand the depth of his question. We’re sixteen. Who the heck knows what ‘purpose’ even means right now? “Sure, I guess.”
“Mine is to be mentally abused by my parents while they take their shitty anger out on me, night after night. That’s my purpose, Brody.”
I take a seat beside him, watching his legs swing back and forth. “Where are your shoes?”
“Don’t need them,” he says.
It’s like forty-five degrees right now, and the water is probably thirty. “Why don’t you need your shoes, man?”
“What’s the purpose of being a beating bag?” he continues. “To take the punches so someone else doesn’t have to?”
His voice has a robotic sound, like his brain isn’t contributing to the words he’s speaking. “This is your parents’ deal, not yours, bro. You can’t take this all on your shoulders.”
“You don’t understand,” Pete says.
He’s right. My parents have a good marriage. They hardly ever argue, but it isn’t like Pete needs to be a prisoner in their home forever. We’re going to college in a couple of years. “I’m sure I don’t, but this crap is temporary. You know that right?”
“Yeah, Pete says, it is temporary.” He pulls himself up to his bare feet, holding the wooden bearing to his left. His knees are shaking.
“Dude, back away from the edge. It’s dark and you’re too close.”
“Brody, I can’t do this anymore, bro. I’m sorry.” The words don’t resonate fast enough in my brain for me to comprehend what he is saying until he takes one step forward.
9
It’sseven and I’m parked at Breaker Grill, but I don’t see Journey’s Jeep. I’m questioning if she told me to meet her or pick her up, but I’m quite sure I would have made a better mental note of it if she told me to pick her up.
Maybe she’s the type who likes to make an entrance—it wouldn’t surprise me.
I lean back into my chair and reach for my phone to see if I have any missed messages or calls. One text from the last person I want to hear from.
Shithead Ex-Wife:Don’t forget Hannah’s backpack this time.
The last time was Thanksgiving break, and she didn’t need her damn backpack. I love when Kristy acts like the mother of the year after leaving her daughter in another state so she could go be with her pubescent boyfriend.
Tomorrow will be a half day of driving back and forth to Connecticut, and I’m not looking forward to it, just as I dread the weekend trips once every three weeks. Thankfully, I only have to drive halfway, but Kristy is the one who should make the trek the entire way back and forth since she’s the one who moved away.
It’s seven-ten. Come, Journey. Don’t stand me up. I compose a text to send her, hoping she doesn’t fly into the parking lot the second the message goes through.
Me:You said seven at Breaker Grill, right?
It only takes a second to see the message was delivered and read.
Journey:Oh shit.
Funny.
Me:You didn’t forget.
Journey:You didn’t shave.
