He exhales the smoke from cigarette number eight from his nostrils, his eyes distant. “So, it was my fault,” he says. “It’s like…Jimmy was the curtain in front of me. He was out there on the stage, performing, getting all the applause, and I’m just back there behind him, letting him have the spotlight. Glad to do it.” He takes a long drag. “Then he was gone so the curtain parted, and there I was. Spotlight’s on me now, and I’m not…” He shakes his head. “I like it backstage, you know? Behind the scenes.”
He’s got his hand in mine, but I think he’s forgotten about it.
“And it wouldn’t have happened. Everything would be exactly the way it should be if he’d just gotten the chance. If he’d lived, if I hadn’t gone out—” His voice catches and he sucks his cigarette down to the filter.
I give it a minute, rub my thumb over his. It’s still raining, lighter now, I hear it.
He finishes eight and lights up nine.
We’re quiet for a bit.
And then I speak without really thinking. “How was it your fault again?”
He looks at me as if I’ve lost my marbles. “I was outside. I scared the horse.”
I shift, my hip bumping his. “I know. But so was he. And there had to be something broken in the stable for the horse to get out.”
“It’s like dominoes, pal, and I was the first one.”
“No,” I shake my head. “Life isn’t dominoes. It’s a chessboard.”
“Does it have to be a game at all,” he mutters.
“It can’t be your fault,” I say. “If you didn’t know what was going to happen. In chess, if you just move a piece, but you don’t plan it out, whatever happens after that you can’t control.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Yes, it does. It wasn’t purposeful, you didn’t know. And don’t let it take the important thing away—your brother protected you. He loved you.”
I see his eyes blur as he takes another drag.
I say it again. “Helovedyou.”
I don’t know if anyone’s said that to him. It’s not like Pops sat down with me after Mom died and reassured me. It’s not like he said she loved me very much or offered me any sort of comfort. His fingers were gripping the bottle the very next day, his skin sallow, and the ashtray full.
When Jean Valjean died, he left the world loving those around him. A daughter that wasn’t his. A son that wasn’t his. It’s a rule, I think, you can’t die without loving someone before you go.
“And I love you,” I say, so simply, it’s like I could be telling him it’s almost stopped raining, no big deal, I say it to fellas all the time.Pal.
He looks at me, and he doesn’t say it, but I can see it. Far behind the blue irises there’s a steady warmth. I never imagined I would say those words in this way, in a place like this, or with someone like him. I imagined it as something you whisper after you make love, wrapped up in someone’s arms. And he’s just made love to me again, so I need to say it now. Before I lose my chance. And I feel like I’m growing wings already, and I’ll be lifted into the heavens and gone and he can say he knew me when. He can say out loud I was his pal and keep the rest locked inside his heart.
He kisses me. He kisses me for a long time, long after the rain has stopped, and it gets hot under the horse blanket. My fingers are on his face, trying to memorize every ridge of bone, every curve of flesh, trying to take it all in because this could be the very last time, and it seems he knows what I’m doing because he does it too. The two of us trying to etch each other in our memories, in this time, in this place. Because he can’t promise me a thing, and I can’t ask for anything else.
Because we both know I’m never going to let him go.
The bus station stinks of gasoline and rubber.
It’s bustling for a weekday and it wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t so hot. The grass outside of his farmhouse was starting to get crunchy, and his brother’s hand was sweating when he gave me a fond farewell.
It’s as if we’ve taken a long walk and come to a cul-de-sac. Problem is, the road disappeared behind us as we moved along. There isn’t much you can do when you can’t retrace your own steps.
I clutch Aunt Amy’s suitcase in one hand, her Tupperware in the other. His mother washed it out, gave it back to me, with the same blue eyes he has, a dishtowel slung over one shoulder. I ponder on the kindness of strangers, of hospitality, of long journeys that circle back.
His arms brace against a metal railing. He makes some remark about one of the buses, about the drivers, what a job that would be. Part of me wants to just go now, just get this part over with, so I can have my time to mourn alone. The other part of me wants him to take me somewhere, ride off into the sunset, to a lakeside cabin where memories and love are made.
Now that I’ve told him, my shoulders feel unburdened. My throat feels clear. I think even the stars will shine brighter tonight. I don’t have any expectations or delusions about what he can share with me. What he can say, what he can feel. It’s enough to know that he has something of mine that he can keep for always.
But I want to know the obvious. “Are you going to come back?”
