Fragile

by Skyler Snow

  Why did I feel so vulnerable in this position like he could read the loneliness, I did my best to conceal. I knew the move was supposed to make things better, but all it did was remind me that you can be surrounded by people and still feel alone.

  Was that how Tom saw me? Some lonely old guy? I wanted to ask him, but when I glanced over he was so intent on what he was doing. I didn’t want to break his concentration so I simply pressed my lips together and tried to stay still.

  17

  Tom

  The shadows that the light cast covered up his eyes and gave him a sad, grieving look like he could be trying to hide tears. Everything about it was perfect and I rushed to my drawing desk to snap a picture. Not that I didn’t trust him to hold it for as long as he could, but he would definitely need some breaks or he might get cramps. I didn’t want to make him miserable.

  Choosing a pencil, I quickly began to sketch, first just the basic shapes to make up his torso, the branches of his limbs, then circles at the joints. Then, it all began to flesh itself out almost on its own. The skeleton of a man I had drawn quickly became someone recognizable. Scott’s cropped brown hair and muscular body, hunched together to make him look weak. No, not weak…

  Vulnerable.

  Why this pose? Why not something else? Anything else? I thought to myself vaguely. I had a folder on my phone of different poses I wanted to try with him, mostly involving flexing. It was why I asked for his help, after all. I needed to work on drawing muscle groups, but this felt more important.

  It was how I saw him. How the last week we had spent together had painted him in my mind. A lonely man who was just barely holding himself together, trying to hide tears from the world. Of course, he wasn’t that anymore. In just the last few days he had improved immensely, but I still saw glimpses of it occasionally. It was both a burden and an honor to be the person he trusted so much.

  I drew his fingers digging into his shoulders like he was physically trying to hold himself together. His large frame seemed to have caved in on itself and left him a shell of a man. It was a beautiful image in that sad sort of way.

  I found my eyes flicking back and forth between Jack and my sketch of him and found, with growing satisfaction, that they were becoming more and more similar. I erased lines over and over again until they finally looked right and smudged the lead together to cast shadows. The adjustments became smaller and smaller and I spent more time just studying Jack and the sketch rather than drawing him down until I had sat there for nearly five minutes, just looking between the two.

  “I think it’s done now,” I whispered. I didn’t think it was quite true but I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to change about it either. Jack finally relaxed, rolling out his arms and neck. I hadn’t even noticed it, but he was shaking with the effort of staying still for so long and he had stayed quiet.

  How long was I drawing? As I sat up straight, I could feel a burn in between my shoulders that I knew would be bothering me for a while. My arms were cramping and a dull ache was clamped around my wrist like a pair of handcuffs. The time on my phone said I had been drawing for half an hour in complete silence, without a break.

  I winced to think how much worse it was for Jack, but he didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he walked over to me, still swinging his arms to stretch them out.

  “Can I see it,” Jack asked, “the drawing?”

  Jack always seemed so interested in whatever we did. Somehow he’d included me in that ‘we.’ He was constantly curious about what we were working on. Elliot was so shy about sharing his work and my work sometimes wasn’t suitable to be seen in the light of day. Still, Jack was always interested, always attentive.

  For once I was the shy one, I didn’t know if I wanted to let him see this. It was my personal perspective on him, and he might take offense to it. Or he might not like it. The thought made me pause.

  I wasn’t the type to get insecure about my art. I knew that I was good and I generally wasn’t shy about bragging on myself. But there was something about this drawing that made me…feel exposed. Also what the image reflected kind of made me feel inadequate. I was supposed to be helping, but I could still see that Jack was still hurting, despite all my help. Maybe because there was still that missing piece in his story that I couldn’t place. Maybe… because…

  “Yeah…I guess…here.” I handed the sketchbook over to him and got out of my chair to pack away my pencils. My back was turned to him and I could feel my face burning up. I didn’t want to see whatever reaction he might have to my art. Instead, I busied myself with putting the pencils and eraser away into my artist’s pack and zipping it up.

  “This…this is really good.” Jack whispered and my heart raced at the words. It was so genuine and heartfelt and I didn’t know why but it made me tear up a little. I angrily wiped away my tears before turning around to look at him.

  Jack was holding up the sketchbook, looking a little stunned. Standing up straight, his head tilted to the side as he studied the drawing. My eyes traced every curve and dip in his body. The arch of his back, the muscles in his arms, his legs locked straight.

  Fuck, I don’t even have to pose him. I wanted to tell him to freeze this moment and start sketching him, then again I had a feeling that wasn’t something that would go away. I was fascinated by Jack, artistically. That was all it could be, right?

  Jack’s eyes flicked up to mine and the sketchbook went to his side and I found myself staring and staring and staring at him.

  “Tom.” He said his voice soft, barely above a whisper.

  How did he manage to say so much without saying anything?

  18

  Jack

  The drawing was beautiful. His talent, unquestionable.

  But even with all that it didn’t feel good to look at. In fact it was almost painful. I looked like someone that was bracing for a nuclear bomb strike, huddled and terrified looking all alone in the world.

  It was like being flayed open and laid bare. Everything I was feeling on display. He’d seen what I thought I’d gotten good at hiding. He’d shown how I’d been feeling for a while, but I didn’t think I was so obvious.

  And there was something else. Something about our dynamic had changed recently. He wasn’t nearly as teasing as he’d been in the beginning. He’d kind of stopped with the crude jokes and he shied away from talking about the elevator. There was something more genuine—was that the word—there now. Tom paid attention to me. Checked up on me. He kept track of what was going on in my life with an investment that was apparently out of character for him, at least that’s what I gathered from what Elliot had said the other day.

  I wasn’t blind, this thing between us had been building and building for a while now in those little moments when the air between us was charged. The fact that we’d spent more and more time together. The times we’d met up just for him to make sure I was doing alright. The way my heart skipped, walking to find him waiting already with my coffee order at the table. The late night walks we had shared a few times because the city seemed almost serene in the dark of night. The times he had reached out over the table holding my hand when words just weren’t enough.

  Somehow, without noticing Tom had become my safe place.

  “Tom,” I said his name again, “What is all of this about?” I let the hand holding the sketchbook fall to my side and I stared at him. I wasn’t even sure what I was asking. But I needed to know.

  His back was turned to me and I saw him freeze, and then I heard a little choked sound, and quickly reached up to his face.

  Fuck! Was Tom crying?

  He turned on his heels, shoving his hand against his eyes to wipe the tears away. Tom looked exhausted, especially now with his eyes starting to get bloodshot. His shoulders were slumped forward and his eyes seemed dull as he glanced away, but I’d still seen them. That brilliant blue dulled looked like the color of storm clouds.

  “Are you okay?” I asked slowly.

  “I don’t know,
Jack. I really don’t know.” He whispered. There was silence in the apartment as we both took a moment to assess the situation.

  Tom. Crying. It floored me. Since the day I’d met him he was always so upbeat and nonchalant if he wasn’t being intense as hell. This was new. I thought back to everything I’d said, but well I hadn’t said anything. So?

  I was shocked speechless for a moment because Tom was usually the picture of strength.

  But in this moment I could see that this bright, cheerful, young man who put on a performance any time he was around friends just to see them laugh and smile. Who took care of everyone in his life like they were all he had. Who would drive over at the simplest request at any hour of the day or night was way more vulnerable than I ever could have guessed.

  “Come here.” I put the sketchbook down on my chair and held my arms open for him. Without looking up at me Tom walked into them, leaning his head against my shoulder and letting me rock him gently. He’d stopped crying, but he continued to sniffle.

  Why did seeing him so sad make me feel like punching something or someone. Seeing him like this was like a jolt, I wanted to make it right however I could. He was always so happy, brimming with life, and ready with an intelligent snark filled comeback. And I wanted to help him. Make things better.

  “What’s wrong? Can you tell me what’s wrong?” I wished I could use the humor he did to make everyone feel better and have them open up to him, but since that was more his thing I figured, short, simple words. There was no point in trying to comfort him for a problem I had no clue about.

  “I don’t know.” He whispered, his voice shaky. “I don’t know. I want—” He shook his head. “I want to figure out why you’re staying here. Why did you move here?”

  Was that really it? I had thought that it was some joke like him taking shots at me which honestly I had come to expect, even enjoy. I didn’t think that it had actually been eating away at him. Why on earth was it bothering him so much?

  “I’m not really sure myself. But I’m happier here.” I hoped that my answer would help to calm him down but if it did he didn’t show it. The next few minutes passed slowly, with me tracing patterns on his back to calm him down. The soothing motion of my finger against the fabric of his shirt seemed so loud in all of the silence. It took awhile but Tom finally took a deep breath and nodded, stepping away from me.

  “I’m sorry about that. I’ve just been thinking about it a lot.” He sniffed and pulled back, “But you don’t have to tell me.”

  I studied him, and he seemed to be doing his best to pull himself together. But he still was not the Tom we usually got.

  “I moved here because everyone I care about is here.” I held Tom’s gaze, “Everyone.”

  The light that he usually radiated had dimmed and it was disconcerting to see. I didn’t like it. I wanted to see that crooked smile and twinkle in his eye. I wanted him just the way he had been from the moment I met him. Since I moved to California, there was a part of me that still couldn’t figure out.

  Or maybe you just don’t want to face the truth.

  “So do you wanna talk about it?” I offered.

  Tom shrugged, walking over to his space he started to clean it up. Even though he already had. “It’s a lot.”

  “And you got me,” I said. Tom looked my way. “You listened to me when I needed it.” I grabbed his hand to stop him cleaning and pulled him to me again. “Tell me everything.”

  Tom chewed his bottom lip. “Can we have a drink, first?”

  “We can have what ever you want.”

  Finally, a small smile appeared on his face and my heart jumped seeing him happy again. I missed it, even for the few short minutes that it had been gone. Still I had a feeling it would take a moment to return Tom to full wattage.

  There was something lurking he needed to get off his chest. This was a conversation that had been buried deep and I was sure it was going to get messy.

  We left the area and walked into the kitchen. Tom’s apartment was small, but comfortable. The worn cabinets had been repainted in a teal color that he seemed to enjoy and there were photographs of his friends even hanging in there. I stopped and pointed one out.

  “Hey, that’s us.”

  Tom stopped and smiled at the picture. “Oh yeah, when we hung out at that new cafe downtown. I had it printed out and hung it there. You look like such a dork.” He smiled and walked over to the fridge. “What would you like to drink?”

  “Whatever you have is fine,” I mumbled, still staring at the picture.

  I remembered that day. It was the day before I’d gone back home. Tom had invited me out to a new cafe opening and we’d ended up talking for hours. Again. In the picture my arm was slung around him, a whipped cream mustache above my lip that matched Tom’s. He’d insisted and who was I to refuse? We looked so carefree there. I hadn’t told him I’d be coming back because I was still unsure. I still remember the sad look on his face and the excitement when he saw me again.

  “Here you go,” Tom handed me a glass. I sniffed it, pulled a face and he laughed. “It’s just vodka and cranberry juice. I don’t feel like being my fabulous mixologist self.”

  I waved a hand. “No, no. It’s fine.” I sat down and waved a hand to the other seat. “Come on, stop stalling.”

  Tom sighed. “Am I that obvious?”

  “Oh yeah.” I smiled at him and sipped at my drink. “I know you’re not just worried about me and coming back here. I’m not that important,” I teased—you wish you were though—I ignored the whispered voice, “So, what’s going on?”

  Tom shrugged. “It’s been a hard month. Year.” He frowned and let out a breath, “Lifetime, if I’m really being honest.” He drank down a few gulps of his vodka and I raised a brow. “Don’t judge me,” he shook his head.

  “I’m not.” I reached across and laid a hand on his. “Now, tell me what’s going on.”

  Tom glanced down at my hand and sighed. Slowly, he turned his hand over and gripped mine.

  “I got a call from my mom a few weeks ago. She’s still out partying, drinking, doing drugs, shacking up with some random fucking guy she barely knows.” His brows knitted. “If I’m lucky he’ll ditch her and she’ll come sob on my couch for a few months. If I’m unlucky he’ll beat her ass and I’ll have to be the one to scrape up the money to fly out to Vegas to save her.”

  I stared at Tom. He’d said all of that as if he was reading off a grocery list, but it was all so fucked. Looking at him you would never know.

  “Are you serious?”

  Tom shrugged. “Yep. welcome to my life, since I was fourteen isn’t it fabulous.” I could tell he was snarking to cover his feelings. “Back then there was no escape, and I had to deal with all of it firsthand. At least now I’m free…can live on my own and not worry about it. That is until she calls me. And she always calls.”

  I twisted the glass back and forth in my hand. “What about your dad?”

  “Dear ol’dad.” the way he said it, it could have been a four letter word, and none of the good ones. “They divorced when I was seven. And he took off, never saw him again. It was me, mom and a string of her lovers for years.”

  “I’m sorry.” I had to tamp down my anger, because that wasn’t what he needed. But I was pissed. Why have a kid if you weren’t going to take care of them. I’d bent over backward to make sure Elliot had the world, even going so far as squashing my dating life. How could anyone be so irresponsible?

  Tom shrugged. “It’s okay.” He polished off his drink and smiled, but it was frayed at the edges. And he couldn’t hide the pain this time. “At least it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

  And then Tom started crying again. I hopped out of my chair and wrapped my arms around him. It was clear he’d been dealing with way too much and it was all boiling over. I understood now why he was so kind, considerate and loving with his friends. But did anyone ever listen to him?

  Who was there for Tom?

  19
>
  Tom

  “This is nice,” I sighed softly.

  We were eating Chinese take out in styrofoam containers, sitting at a bench looking over the water. The sun was setting and the city started to hush into its nightly rhythm. Jack had dragged me out of my apartment and insisted on buying me food and comforting me. I glanced at him and found that he once again was watching me closely.

  “I’m glad you think so. Eat up, Tom.” Jack spoke softly. I could never get tired of how kind he was with me. I nodded chewing forkfuls of noodles and staring out onto the water. It was quieter now and the soft sound of rushing water could be heard if I sat still.

  The last few hours had passed in a complete blur. My breakdown in my apartment, Jack listening to everything I had to say and then us ending up here. He had spent the entire afternoon with me and I had never felt so comforted or supported. For once, I felt like someone was taking care of me.

  “Feeling better?” Jack asked.

  I nodded without even thinking about it, but I was feeling better. At least my extreme numbness was an improvement to being teary and emotional. I’d had a good cry and now Jack was making sure that I was hydrated and eating. That’s all I really needed for the moment.

  The conflicting emotions had disappeared a little whenever I saw Jack. My stomach had been in knots when he announced that he was leaving and they were in the same knots when he moved back into the city. Yeah, maybe I had some trust and abandonment issues.

  I was drawn to him, constantly asking the same questions as if they might produce new answers.

  Why did I want to draw him? Why was he always in the back of my mind since I met him? Why—Why did I feel so awful when he moved here?

  “I’m jealous.” I whispered, stunned. I was jealous. Jealous that the reason that he chose to live in this city was completely for Scott and Elliot. I wasn’t ever mentioned in his answers. I wanted to be the reason that he would go through all the trouble to live here. I wanted to be part of that intimate circle of people that he called family.