“You said you have more to lose. I’m assuming you mean Silas. But also I’m guessing there’s more. The acceptance you got from your family. Well, most of them. The identity you seem to be cultivating. This new life you’ve been building for yourself that doesn’t revolve around cleaning up your parents’ messes. What are you going to do about it?”
I make a few noises, but I don’t think any of them qualify as words. The point he’s trying to make is lingering at the edge of my consciousness, but I either can’t or don’t want to really see it.
Another big, cinnamon-scented sigh comes out of Tristan before he gives me a leveling expression.
“Look, I’m not going to pussyfoot around anymore. You are becoming self-destructive.” He looks me in the eye and enunciates every word like I’m a child. “You’ve always been a little off the rails, which I can definitely fucking empathize with, but recently its stepped up a notch. I get it. I like to drink and fight and fuck as much as the next guy. Probably more than the next guy, let’s be honest. But when that stuff becomes the thing you need just to feel normal, you have a problem. There’s a difference between indulging your baser urges and being crippled by them, you hear me?”
Getting scolded has never been one of my favorite pastimes, and normally kickstarts my anger faster than anything else. The urge to do the complete opposite of whatever that person wants me to do is all-devouring. And especially now, with the words Tristan’s saying making it feel like he’s peering directly into the most raw part of me. I take in one deep breath after another,resisting the urge to call him an asshole and start a fight so we can stop fucking talking about this.
I’m sure he can tell, but as always, he’s unperturbed.
“I’m not giving you a hard time. Remember when my cunt mother showed up to suck me back into her web of misery? I’m telling you, I get it. I get how it feels to be immediately transported back in time into a much more fragile, scared, and angry version of yourself, while everyone around you expects you to keep acting like an adult. My point is that you have to stay one step ahead of that feeling, or it’ll consume you. So find some way to work it off. Come here and shoot. Take up fucking boxing once your hand is healed. Run a triathlon like a masochist. Read stories at the peds unit. I don’t give a fuck. But you have to put that energy somewhere, or it’ll just keep eating at you.”
I open my mouth, but he cuts me off before I can speak.
“And no, drinking doesn’t count. Neither does riding your bike, unfortunately, as long as you and Silas are still fighting about it. That’s just more fuel for the fire.”
This time, the mention of Silas’s name clicks, and I put two and two together.
I turn to look at Tristan, my expression sharp.
“He talked to you. Didn’t he?”
Tristan’s face remains impassive.
“What do you think?” he asks.
There’s a pulse of anger, but I try to release it before it can take hold, and in its wake I crumple in on myself.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice quiet, guilt creeping in from all sides. I can’t stop myself from bringing up a thumbnail to chew on, because what’s one more bad habit right now, really?
My whole mission most of the time is to make things easier for Silas, and it looks like I’ve been doing the opposite recently. “Fuck, I’m an asshole. I should never have put him in this position.”
Tristan holds one hand up like a stop sign.
“Don’t do that. He’s your fucking partner. He’s supposed to worry about you and hurt when you’re hurting. That’s normal. You running around pretending to be king shit of mental health and ignoring your issues because you think he’s the only one allowed to have problems—that’s what’s fucking you both over. Come on, you know this. It’s common fucking sense.”
Oof, this is just one dick-punch of embarrassment after another. “Yeah,” I say, because I can’t muster anything else. Then I think about it for another few seconds and pull on my big boy pants. “Thank you, Tristan. I know I need a kick in the ass sometimes.”
He reaches over and ruffles my hair like we’re in the after part of an anti-depressant commercial. It’s cheesy and embarrassing, and I yank my head out of his reach even while he grins at me.
“Good talk,” he says, reaching to give me another condescending pat before I slap his arm away.
“Yeah, yeah, can we go? I’m hungry.”
This time, he actually does start to pull out of the parking lot.
“Sure. I’ll buy you some food. But you have to promise me to keep your face out of a liquor bottle for at least a week, until you and Silas sort your shit out. Promise me that and I’ll get you the most disgusting, overstuffed cheeseburger we can find.”
“I can buy my own food, Tristan, I’m not destitute. Well, not anymore.” He stares at me. “Fine, fine, I promise. Let’s go.”
A little voice in the back of my head reminds me of what Micah said at the hospital, that unburdening myself to Tristan doesn’t count as a big enough step in the right direction. As if I can afford therapy after the amount I spent on Silas already. Or, frankly, think about it without immediately getting angry.
I don’t need therapy. This is enough. I feel lighter already, and I’m going to apologize to Silas as soon as I get home.
Everything will be fine.
Chapter Seventeen
