“No, James. I don’t hate you.” I move my hand on his back again. As much as I am confused and out-of-my-mind angry, he has still done something brave by telling me this.
“I’m really, really sorry. It was really fucking dumb of me, and I wasn’t thinking. I was just so mad about everything, and it snowballed, and I didn’t know how to get out of the lie, and…”
I shut my eyes and continue to rub his back. In my head, I am screaming,You son of a bitch! You fucking little shit!Instead, I think about how Chris managed that Thanksgiving fiasco with Sabin, how he was able to handle his brother so coolly when he probably wanted to throttle him. No good would come from screaming, so I speak calmly. “I understand. I know what it’s like to get stuck.”
I am holding back tears, for him and for me. James is in horrible pain, again, and now so am I, and I’m stuck parenting my brother when I could really use a little fucking comforting myself. Life is not fair, but it is what we have to deal with. And we are going to deal with it so that we can live. No, so that we canthrive.
“Why does it still hurt so much?” he asks. “Why can’t we just move on and deal?”
“I know. We’ve been grieving for more than four years, but not grieving well. And now, it seems, it’s time.”
There is no set pattern to grief, despite what every stupid psych text has told me. There is no time frame that dictates when and how you’ll feel what you feel. You just get to deal with hell however, and whenever, it hits you.
“We’re going to get through this,” I tell him.
“It’s so hard to be home,” he says. “It’s too hard.”
I picture Chris helping me to breathe.
I stroke my brother’s hair and think for a few minutes. Finally I ask, “Do you want to go back to school a little early? Do you have someone you could stay with?”
He nods and wipes his eyes again.
“I’ll change your plane ticket. It’s not a problem.”
“Are you mad that I want to leave?”
“Of course not. School is where you’re probably the most comfortable, and you should be wherever will help. I know this house doesn’t feel like home.”
“I’m so sorry,” he tells me again. “I’m going to make this up to you. I don’t deserve how nice you’ve been or now nice you are being now. I ruined everything.”
“It’s all right.” In disbelief over what has just transpired between us, I drop my head back on the couch. “We’re going to be okay, you and me. One day, we’re going to be okay.”
But we are not okay now.
18
HIM AND EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM
THE FLIGHT BACKto school feels interminable. I wish the Boston-to-Madison trip could happen in an instant because I just want to be back in my dorm. The weather does miraculously cooperate, though, so at least I am not made to suffer through countless delays that end in a cancellation. By the time I land, I am nearly desperate to get to Matthews. Because I have no one to pick me up, I accept that I’ll have to pay a small fortune for a cab to deposit me back at school.
James left Boston yesterday, the day after our talk, and I took one day to shut down the house before I caught my flight. I didn’t bolt, though. Returning to school is not about running away. Being in my parents’ house for that long was hard, especially coupled with James’s revelation. It’s going to take time to deal with my brother’s lie and what it did to me. There’s no way to fix things between us overnight, or even in the next few months. I’m going with the assumption that I’ll forgive him when I’m ready. I feel good because I made major progress in more ways than one over break, but it was time to go. Had I stayed any longer, I could have undone the good things, the “successes” that I can add to my mental list. They are hard won, and I am not giving them up.
Only when the cab is a few miles from the dorm do I realize something. Something crucial.I cannot fucking get into the dorm.It won’t reopen for another week. How could I be so dumb? Last year I heard someone in one of my classes bitching about getting locked out when he came back early because Matthews temporarily changes the locks or something, so I know that my key won’t work.
I direct the cabdriver back to downtown Madison while I do a fast search on my phone for a hotel. Fuck it. I’m going to stay in the nicest, most expensive hotel I can find for the next week. No homework or trekking across a frozen campus—instead, lots of bubble baths and room service. After filtering my search results by price, highest to lowest, I call the first one, the Madison Grand Hotel and Suites, and book a room. Technically, I book a suite.
Despite the rather generic name, the Madison Grand is indeed grand, and the staff is extremely gracious and professional as they check me into my room, asking about my day of travel, whether I’m hungry, whether there is anything else they can get me. Something to eat? Extra pillows? Towels? Dry-cleaning? I’m sure they are thrilled to have a six-day suite booking at this dull time of year, and I laugh as I acknowledge to myself that I enjoy how they fuss over me. Hotel staff are not supposed to be substitutes for parental love, but I’ll take what I can get. I need pampering, and if I want to imagine their concern for my needs is the equivalent of parental caretaking, I will.
After my bags are delivered to my suite, I unpack almost everything. I hate living out of suitcases, and this suite is going to be my home for six days. The dark espresso furniture is modern and sleek, and the massive window overlooks the sparkling lights of the city.
In the bathroom there’s a whirlpool tub with shutters that unfold to overlook the bedroom, allowing for a view through the suite’s windows of the night sky. After a raid on the vanity basket of high-end products that will surely cost me plenty, I run a warm bath and soak for twenty minutes, trying not to think of anything but the sensation of the water. I shave everything that should be shaved, plus a little more, and wrap my hair in some weird mud product that is supposed to enhance the shine. Later, I rinse off and refill the bath with clean water and turn on the jets. Holy crap, this is awesome.
The swirling water dances over my skin, danceseverywhere, and before I know it, my hand is between my legs. The chaos and emotion of my trip home weren’t exactly conducive to arousal, but clearly my body is needing to compensate for that down time. This tub could hold another five people, but I’d settle for just one more. I’m aroused enough, and I could probably make myself come, but I take away my hand after a few minutes. There is nothing particularly interesting about this for me right now.
It is notmytouch that I want.
I know I shouldn’t fantasize about Chris, but I can’t help it. Giving in to my ache, my fingers move between my legs once again. My brain starts running a movie reel of what Chris and I could do together, how I would touch him, how he would sound and move. I brace my foot against the side of the tub as I shove a finger inside myself. Flashbacks of Chris doing this to me heighten the feeling, and I move faster. It’s easy to conjure up exactly what he did to me against the door to my room, exactly how he affected me. I remember his sound, his touch, and every graphic, perfect word that he said to me. I think about his hand between my legs, how he got me so totally wet, how I could feel his hard cock press against me when he held me tight… I imagine what it’d be like to feel him inside me, how he might feel and sound and move… What he might say to me.…
