Love Somebody, page 22
“I don’t like this metaphor, Dad.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be one, but now that you mention it—”
“Please, no more!”
I shove him off the couch, and we both get enormous pieces of cheesecake and cry a little more about the relationships that hurt. In the background, the movie starts itself over again.
44
CHRISTIAN
Practice workouts with the rest of the team feel like the only part of my life that makes sense anymore. It’s comforting, in a way—my body is the part of me that never lets me down. I can make wrong assumptions all day long, I can try to be nice and screw things up, I can say the wrong thing and hurt somebody, but in the end, if I need to go somewhere, my legs will take me. If I have to run, my lungs will keep me going. If something’s hurt, it’ll tell me. It makes sense, in a way most other things don’t. It’s not doing so great at keeping me distracted today, though. On top of everything else in my life to freak out about, the universe decided to add one more thing, and it’s kept me so on edge that I haven’t been able to focus on school all day.
There’s an email sitting in my inbox. A reply, with Will’s name at the top. It’s been there for days, but I got the courage to open it only this morning. I had to lock my door and make sure Dad left the house for work before I felt brave enough. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting him to write back. And if he did, I thought it would be a rejection. He’d be right to reject me. But what I actually got was a lot more confusing.
Hey Christian,
First, I wanted to say that I’m really glad to hear from you. I was kind of hoping you’d reach out, but I know it’s complicated because of how I left. And just to get this straight right off the bat: I don’t blame you. I never have. The way things ended between Mom, Dad, and me was never your fault. If anyone’s apologizing here, it should be me.
I’m not gonna get too much into what happened with Mom and Dad, since it’s taken years and a lot of therapy to figure it out, but I think you deserve the basics. Honestly, it was never just one thing that we argued about. It was anything—my grades, the friends I hung out with, what I wanted to do for college, if I wanted to go to college at all. Whatever they didn’t like about me, basically, and there was always something they didn’t like. Nothing I ever did was enough. No matter how good my grades were, what classes I was taking or clubs I was in, there was always something I was doing wrong. I get that they wanted the best for me, but it wasn’t just that. Anything about me that wasn’t like Mom and Dad, or went against what they saw for me, they took as a personal insult. I was an “ungrateful brat” for not wanting to go to Babson, and “lazy” for not getting into soccer like you or Dad did. Do you remember that one really big fight, about a month before I left? I disagreed with Mom on some tiny political thing, and she called me a disappointment. Dad was pissed. He told me that if I didn’t do what they wanted or believe the things they wanted me to believe, after everything they’d done for me, then I was going to ruin my life. I told Dad that him talking about me like I couldn’t make my own decisions was hurtful. He laughed at me and said, “You don’t get to have feelings.”
I don’t mean to rehash this stuff, I’m sorry. I want you to understand what it was like for me back then. Mom and Dad were always harsher to me than they were to you. I don’t blame you for that, either—some kids are the favorites. But I was never going to be happy with them trying to control my life. I had to stand up to them. Maybe I didn’t exactly do it in the best way, but hey, I was a kid. And I’m glad I did it. I had to leave so I could find a way to make myself happy, and they weren’t going to let me do that if I kept them in my life. Just because somebody raised you, it doesn’t always mean they’re good for you.
I never wanted to cut you and Aimee off, too. I wanted to keep you guys in my life, but I never found a way to. There was no way to keep in contact that didn’t involve being in contact with Mom and Dad, too, and I … couldn’t do that. I still don’t plan on talking to them, for what it’s worth. But I do want to talk to you. You’ve been a victim in all this as much as I have. And honestly? I’ve really missed you.
We’ve got a few years to catch up on, huh? How are you? How’s school? You seeing anyone? Are Mom and Dad treating you guys okay? I want to hear everything, if you’re willing. It’ll be nice to talk to you again. And hey, if you’re ever in my area, maybe we could meet up! You don’t have to tell Mom and Dad, don’t worry.
Miss you, little brother.
—Will
I haven’t replied yet. If I leave it much longer, I feel like my chance will have passed, but the problem is that I have no idea what to say. How are you supposed to reconnect with a lost family member after years of no contact? What am I supposed to say about how Mom and Dad treated him? And how am I supposed to feel about all this?
The easiest option would be to leave it alone. Then at least I don’t have to worry about my parents finding out about it. Will seems like he’s been fine without me for this long, and wasn’t I fine without him? Wasn’t everything fine?
You know it wasn’t, whispers a voice in my head. Something’s been wrong with you and your family for a long time.
I force it to be quiet and try to focus on the workouts with everyone else. Keep my muscles moving. Breath moving in, then out. Monty’s noticed the change in my mood. I told him about what happened with Sam and Ros. I’m grateful he hasn’t given me any “I told you so”s yet. He’s too nice for that. He doesn’t know about the email, so I’m assuming he thinks my bad mood is just about girlfriend drama.
Still, I catch him watching me closer than usual during warm-ups. When Coach starts us running laps, he jogs up next to me. “You want to talk about it?”
I shrug, eyes fixed ahead of me. “What’s there to talk about? I’ve barely seen Ros today.”
“Yeah, and you’re flagging hard enough that even Coach is starting to notice. I heard Adam talking about it earlier.”
Anger flares up in my chest. “Adam can say whatever he wants.”
“He could beat you out for the forward position, too.”
“So?”
“See, this is what I’m talking about, Chris!”
“Powell! Wells! Less talking, more running,” Coach Branson shouts from the other side of the pitch.
Monty shoots me a look, then lets one foot drag on the Astroturf and pitches forward, skidding hard on his knees.
I stop dead. “Monty!”
A couple of other players notice, too, and Coach calls out, “You good, Wells?”
Monty gets shakily to his feet, hissing in pain. “Twisted my ankle.”
“Let’s go to the nurse’s office.” I give him my shoulder to lean on and call out, “We’re going to get him some ice.”
Coach gives the thumbs-up, and together Monty and I hobble off the field.
As soon as we’re past the doors, though, Monty shrugs me off and starts walking normally.
I stare at him. “What are you doing?”
“You think I don’t know how to fake an injury? We play soccer, Chris.”
“Okay, but why?”
“Because I needed to talk to you.” We round the corner from the gym, just far enough that no one will accidentally see us hanging around, and Monty finally stops and turns to face me again. “Are you ever going to start fighting for things you want?”
The question takes me by surprise. I blink at him. “I … I don’t know what that—”
“You really like Ros, right?”
“Of course I do.”
“But you’re going to let both of you stay miserable?”
“What am I supposed to do? I can’t go back in time and make their conversation not happen.”
“No, but you can talk to her about it!” Monty runs a hand through his hair. “Stand up for yourself, Chris! Start saying what you want from people, and then actually try to get it.”
“I want everyone to get along! I don’t want Sam and Ros to hate each other, and I don’t want them to hate me, either!”
“Then tell them that!”
I wish I could get angry, but right now, I only feel tired. I don’t even know who I’m talking about anymore. “Yeah, because arguing with them is a great way to make sure they don’t hate me.”
Monty frowns. “You … asking for what you want isn’t arguing, Chris.”
I don’t have a response. My impulse is to deny that that’s what I was saying, but I can’t. Monty barely knows half of what I’ve been dealing with the past couple of weeks, but it doesn’t feel like that at all. It feels like he knew exactly what to say to punch me in the gut, to leave me winded and speechless and hurt. He found something I wasn’t ready to hear.
I think he notices how unbalanced I’m feeling suddenly, because he steps forward and puts a hand on my shoulder.
“I don’t know where you got that idea from,” he says quietly, “but it’s not true. You’re a really cool guy, Christian. People will still like you when you stand up for yourself—they might even like you more.”
There’s a tremor in my voice. “Thanks, Monty.”
“Except me. I’ll probably start hating you anyway.”
That forces a laugh out of me. “Shut up.” But I pull him into a hug, and he returns it as hard as he can. “You’re the worst.”
“Ouch, is this what the new, confident Christian sounds like? I take it back, actually. Keep being a doormat.”
“I will twist your ankle for real if you don’t stop.”
“Fine.” He pulls back and grins at me. “We should get some ice, though. So Coach doesn’t think I was faking.”
“Probably.”
We both turn and head for the nurse’s office, Monty bumping my shoulder affectionately as we go, and, to show him I’m willing to fight, I bump him back.
* * *
Maybe it’s Monty’s pep talk that makes me aware of something Dad says to me later that evening at dinner. We’re talking about finals, about summer plans and possible vacations, when he looks over at me and says, “You know, Babson has tours this summer. We should schedule you one before availability fills up.”
I nod and start to agree with him, but suddenly the new little voice in my head, the one from earlier today, whispers again.
Is that what you want?
“Sure,” I say carefully, measuring every single word. “We can do that. I should probably schedule a couple more college tours then, too.”
Dad frowns. “Why?”
“Well, it’ll be a pain if the tours are spread out all summer. If they’re closer together, there’s more time to—”
“No, I meant why would you want to look for other schools?”
Mom frowns, looking confused.
I take a deep breath. “It’s always good to have options. The school guidance counselors say we should apply to at least three colleges, and to have a safety school in case—”
“Your grades are fine for Babson,” Dad interrupts. “They’ll accept you.”
“Okay,” I say. “But it’s still good to have options.”
He stops eating and looks at me hard for a second. “Don’t you want to go to Babson?”
He doesn’t make it sound like a question. Mom gives me a warning look, like she thinks I’m about to start a fight. Next to me, Aimee hunches down in her chair slightly.
Inwardly, I wish I could do the same thing. My heart is pounding. All I hear in my head is old fights, my parents screaming and Will screaming right back. Everything in me is begging me to shut up. I still could. I could just say that he’s right and leave it at that, and we would move on.
What would somebody else do in this situation? Sam would fight back, of course. Monty would probably make some kind of joke. Ros would use logic to argue her own side. None of those sound quite like me.
But maybe, somewhere between the three, is the thing I would do.
I reach into my pocket, where a little round piece of plastic rests next to my skin.
“Babson’s a really good school,” I say, keeping my tone light. “It’s obviously going to be on my list. But Massachusetts has a lot of great schools, so I want to do some research and make sure I’m making the best choice for me.”
Mom flicks her gaze between my dad and me.
He narrows his eyes. “Did that Ros girl say something? Is she trying to get you to go to the same school she is?”
“No, Dad. She doesn’t even know where she wants to go to college yet, remember?”
That stumps him for a second. Meanwhile, I’m holding on to the Go piece in my pocket for dear life. I’m being so, so careful not to sound angry—not raising my voice, not saying anything confrontational. No reason to argue, but still telling them what I want in the safest way I can. This may not technically be fighting for something I want, but it sure as hell feels like it.
Mom tries to change the subject. “Aimee, are you almost done eating? You can’t push your food around your plate—”
“Where’s this coming from, Christian?”
That’s the third time he’s spoken over me or Mom in the last couple of minutes. I do my best to make my expression look pleasant. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve always wanted to go to Babson.”
You assumed I wanted to go to Babson. “I still do. I’m just being careful. I want to make sure I know about my choices so that I can make the best one for my future. Isn’t that what we both want?”
I’m waiting for him to yell at me. He and Mom never needed much reason to start in on Will, even though he never exactly tried to avoid it. If there’s a part of the conversation to turn into an argument, then this is it.
I don’t know what makes this different. Maybe it’s that I tried to keep everything as nonconfrontational as possible. Maybe neither of them is in the mood to fight. Maybe it’s because it’s me.
Whatever the reason, after a long silence, Dad breaks eye contact and shrugs. “I still think we should schedule the Babson tour first.”
“We can. I’ll look into it after dinner tonight.”
The energy at the table relaxes. Mom goes back to eating, and Aimee gives me a relieved look.
I grin at her, still shaky, not sure if that was victory, but happy that I did it anyway.
* * *
My email’s open again. A cursor is blinking in an empty text box, and I can’t say I have the words to fill it just yet, but I’m going to try. Will deserves that much from me, at least.
What would talking to Will again look like? I don’t know where he lives, or if I could even visit him. I ignored him for so long. Is it even possible to be something like friends again, let alone siblings?
I run my fingers across the Go piece in my pocket and think about having more of my big brother to hold on to than a little piece of plastic.
Is that what you want?
I still don’t know who that little voice belongs to. It’s not Sam, or Ros, or Monty. It’s not me, I don’t think. Not yet. But maybe someday it could be.
What’s that phrase Sam uses? “Fake it till you make it”? I guess it means that if you pretend something long enough, that makes it true.
I don’t know how well that works, but I’m definitely willing to try.
45
CHRISTIAN
I text Ros and ask her to meet me at the park. It’s short notice and it’s late—nearly dark out—but I don’t think this can wait. It’s waited long enough as it is. I wasn’t sure she’d agree, but thirty minutes later, she’s there, at one of the benches under a tree that’s starting to grow new leaves.
When she sits down next to me, her posture is stiff, and she’s being careful not to touch me.
“So … I know about the message Sam sent you,” I tell her.
Ros nods. “I figured you did.”
“I’m not mad,” I say.
She laughs, but it doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s funny. “Yeah?”
“If anything, I feel like you’re the one who should be mad.”
“Why, because you and your ex-girlfriend Cyrano’d me?”
I frown at her. “We what?”
“Cyrano de Bergerac. It’s an old French play.”
When I stare at her for another few seconds without figuring it out, she sighs.
“I mean, because you both lied to me?”
Oh. I wince. “Yeah, because of that.”
“I am mad. I’ve been mad since the party.”
“So then, why are we still together?”
Ros pauses, chewing at her lip. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
There’s a heavy silence. In the twilight, the hollows under Ros’s eyes look even darker.
“If I’m being honest,” she says, “I think part of me wanted to hurt Sam a little. Make her feel as embarrassed as I did.”
She doesn’t say anything about wanting to hurt me, and somehow, that makes it worse. “And how’s that working out?”
She looks away, twisting her shirt hem in her hands. “Not great.”
“Doesn’t feel great on this side, either.”
“No, I know, I … sorry.”
“You’re not the one who should apologize first.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Listen, you’re right—Sam and I lied to you. Pretty much since the beginning. We tried not to make it too obvious, and I felt bad about it sometimes, but that doesn’t excuse anything. Sam was … there for most of our conversations. She heard a lot of private things she probably shouldn’t have. Sometimes you thought you were talking to me when actually you were talking to her. That’s a crappy thing to do to someone. I was scared, and an idiot, and I shouldn’t have done it. I’m really sorry.”
Ros sighs. “I don’t get why you did it, Christian. What was the point?”
“Because … I was nervous. I screwed up that first meeting so badly I thought I didn’t have a chance without some kind of help. I wanted to impress you.”
