Page 89 of The Art of Drowning

“I have a job to get back to, Cal. People who are counting on me.”

He scrunched his brow. “Did I do something last night? I know I drank too much, and it was stupid. If I did something to upset you, I want you to know that I’m sorry.”

I shook my head. “It’s not that. You were fine. I mean, as fine as a drunk person can be when they’re decidedly not fine.” I took my hands off the steering wheel and put them over my face. Part of me wanted to scream and rage and let all the complicated shit out of my chest that had been tangled up there ever since that funeral. I never should have gone.

The other part of me was filled with cement. My limbs were heavy and everything was hard and slow and just exhausting. In my head, reuniting with Callum was this fairy tale. Like a movie montage set to my favorite song. Slow motion laughter. Kisses in 4D. Swelling orchestral sounds in the background as we went for our happily ever after.

I pulled my hands off my face, but I couldn’t look at Callum. Not full on. I kept him in my peripheral vision. “It wasn’t supposed to be this hard.”

“What wasn’t?”

The caution and the fear in Callum’s voice made me turn my head. I had to face him head on. I had to make him see. “Seeing you again. It was supposed to be good. In my head, it was always good.”

Callum went white, then green. “Is it… not?”

“Parts of it are good. A lot of it is complicated. Some of it is bad.” I raked my hand down my face again, certain that I was fucking this up. “Seeing you again was good. The situation has made it complicated, but not knowing what we are, what you want us to be, if anything, that part is bad. I won’t fault you for anything that happened when we were a couple of dumb kids or anything that went on in between, but…” I paused to take a breath. My body felt fragile as rice paper, and I waited to be crumpled up into dust. “I feel like a stalker, Cal. I had to track down where you live. I basically forced myself back into your life because the door had been opened a crack, and I needed to know what was on the other side, but I can’t… I can’t be the only one walking through it, Cal.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His hand clenched and unclenched, but I didn’t miss the way his chin wobbled. He was still hung over as fuck, still unsettled from everything that happened, and maybe I was an asshole for doing this now, but it felt like if I didn’t say it now, it would never get said.

“It means that, yes, I know you have a lot going on, but it’s me who tracked you down. Me, who calls you. Me, who makes sure you’re okay. Me, who drives you back to your hometown to confront your family. Me, who looks after you when you’re drunk. Do you know the name of my business, Callum? Or what I do? Or my best friend’s name? Do you have an actual plan on how we’re going to make this work? Do you even want it to? Or am I just easy?”

“Damien… I…” Callum’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. “I love⁠—”

“Don’t say it.” I cut him off. “Don’t.”

He paled. “I care about you, but I don’t have a fucking map for any of this, okay. For a dead brother and parents who basically stole me from their dead best friends, and a guy I missed like oxygen telling me that I’m a selfish prick.”

“I never said that.” My voice took a dark turn.

“You might as well have.” Callum fumbled for the door handle, but I hit the lock button again to stop him.

“Callum, I just want…”

“What?” He whipped his head around to face me. “What do you want? Tell me, Damien, because I’ll tell you what I want. I want parents who didn’t lie to me and a brother who didn’t hate me, and I want the guy I’ve spent practically my whole life in love with to love me back.” When he reached for the door handle again, I didn’t stop him.

He was half out of the car before he turned around. “Are you really just going to drive away?”

“I think it’s best, don’t you?”

Callum’s face twisted, telegraphing rage and pain, and in that moment I hated myself for hurting him. But I couldn’t be the only one to keep walking through that door.

“I’m going to go inside before I say something I can’t take back.” Callum got out of the car and slammed the door then stomped up toward his house. In the window, the shadow of a cat appeared, and I thanked the universe that he at least had Crudinski to go home to.

Callum didn’t look back and that hurt the most of all.

It hurt all the way home, where my stupid pet rock waited for me. Once upon a time, it had been a funny joke, but now it made me feel like I was the joke. Except I wasn’t laughing.

I made a grilled cheese sandwich to appease the hunger pangs and then took a shower. My phone stayed silent and though I wasn’t surprised, I was hurt. Too hurt to hole up at home all night and be miserable and sad and alone.

On my way out the door, I grabbed my pet rock and tossed him in the trash. Then I drove straight to Bowie’s house. He lived in a cute little bungalow that used to belong to his gran. He’d looked after her until she passed and she left him the house, much to the irritation of every single surviving family member.

The lights were off, but I didn’t need to knock. I let myself in using my key and relocked the door. I took my shoes off and lined them up, and then I crept through the house to Bowie’s room. It was dark and quiet, and for a second I thought about leaving or just curling up on the couch instead.

“Get your ass in here,” Bowie’s sleepy voice said. The bed squeaked a little when he shifted around to make room for me.

Stripping out of my shirt and pants, I left my briefs on and Bowie lifted the blankets so I could crawl into bed with him.

“Sometimes I wish it could’ve been you,” I told him as he pulled me into his arms. He was warm and smelled like his expensive bath soap. Life would’ve been so much easier if Bowie and I loved each other in a romantic way, rather than a platonic soul mate kind of way.