by Roan Parrish
“You know that’s not fucking true, Colin,” he says, his voice shaky. “I just didn’t have that much in common with him.”
At the first sign that Daniel’s upset, Rex steps closer to him and puts his hand at the small of Daniel’s back. Daniel leans into him for support, and my stomach clenches with that poisonous mix of fury and envy.
“I’m sorry,” Brian says to Rex, clearly way behind in the conversation, “but who the fuck are you?”
I stand up to face Daniel. He’s the same height as me but he’s built much slimmer. Daniel has that look on his face that I know so well. That vulnerable look that says, This is how you hurt me. Go ahead, it’s easy. And I want to punish him for being so weak. So easy to hurt. For being such easy prey that he turns me into a predator by default.
“Well, yeah,” I say. “What would Pop have in common with a stuck-up little faggot? He looked out for you and you didn’t even care enough to stick around.”
Sam says my name in warning, but I know he won’t step in. He never does. Never wants to get his hands dirty.
I’m like a heat-seeking missile trained on the tremble in Daniel’s lip that means he’s about to cry and the way he lowers his dark lashes over green eyes filled with hurt. I may be drunk but I could take Daniel drunk and one-handed. He’s a good fighter. Hell, he should be. I taught him. But his face is so easy to read that I can always tell when he’s going to strike. He’d probably do fine if he were fighting someone who didn’t know him, but he has no chance against me.
“What the fuck, Colin!” he yells. It’s the same thing he used to say when he was a teenager. He doesn’t even hit me. He shoves me, which he knows is a surefire way to get his ass kicked. He probably doesn’t want to actually fight, just look tough in front of Rex. Though I don’t know why he’s bothering since Rex looks like he wants to wrap Daniel up in cotton and put him in a box like a Christmas ornament so nothing bad can touch him.
I grab Daniel by the shirt and shove him into the far wall, figuring on a hit from Rex. But, though Rex is there in a heartbeat, he just pulls me off.
“Don’t. Fucking. Touch him.” Rex’s voice sends shivers through me. For a moment we lock eyes and his expression changes. Softens. Like he’s looked inside me, seen me for the monster I am, and instead of scorn, feels only pity.
“Um,” Brian interjects, “so, who are you?”
“Rex.”
“He’s my boyfriend,” Daniel says, and the word burrows into my chest, feeding on the ache there. I can’t take it. I can’t watch them together for one second longer.
“Well, I guess it’s obvious who the girl is, Danielle,” I say, and I don’t know why exactly I’m so set on provoking him.
Sam and I saw some stupid movie when we were kids where all the boys get turned into girls when a magic spell goes awry and, for a few months, thought it was hysterical to call each other girl versions of our names. Sam was Samantha, I was Colleen, Brian was Brianna, and Daniel was Danielle.
Pop did not think it was funny. And later, after Daniel told us he was gay, Brian started calling him Danielle again. Not even really to be mean. More… immature. But when Pop heard him do it, he was furious. He slapped Brian in the face and told him never to call Daniel that again.
Sure enough, Daniel lunges at me. I don’t even try and fight him, just let his punches connect. Goddamn Rex pulls Daniel off me before he can do any real damage, though.
“Fuck!” Daniel yells, and I want to say the same thing. Because when Daniel slams out the door like the sulky little bitch he is, he takes my distraction with him.
Rex lingers for a moment after Daniel leaves. When I look up, his eyes are fixed on me.
“He’s your fucking brother,” Rex says.
And he follows Daniel out the door. Two more people who can’t wait to get away from me.
I know what I have to do. There’s only one thing that will make me feel better that isn’t bourbon or the blade.
The phone rings four, five, six times, and I’m sure he’s not going to pick up. Why would he after what I said to him?
But then he’s there, and I almost can’t believe it. I was so sure he wouldn’t answer that I didn’t even consider what I would say if he did.
“Rafe?” I say. I sound bad. Shaky.
“Colin,” he says, and hearing it makes my throat so tight I can barely talk.
“Rafe, I… can you come over?” I manage, cringing at the words.
“Are you in trouble?”
There’s tension in his voice and I can imagine what he’s thinking. That I’m bad news. That all he ever does is help me.
He sighs. “Have you been drinking?”
“I—”
“Tell me the truth, please.”
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“Are you sure it’s me you need?”
I almost laugh, because though he sounds like he thinks he’s laying down some truth, it’s pathetic how much I need him.
“Please, Rafe. Could you…?” I look at the clock. It’s before nine. Not too late. “Do you think you could come over? I won’t drink anymore, I swear.”
I don’t know what I’m going to do if he says no. My stomach and chest are so tight that I don’t even notice I’m crouching on the floor, hunched around the phone, until he answers. The pause is interminable.
“Okay.”
It’s not enthusiastic, but it’s there.
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you. I’m sorr—”
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes. We’ll talk then.”
I take a shower and brush my teeth until my gums bleed, then put on clean sweats and drink some water, trying to sober up before he arrives.
He knocks on the door exactly thirty minutes after we got off the phone.
I feel a momentary surge of hope just looking at him, but it’s immediately extinguished by the memory of the last time we were here and the things we said.
The second Rafe shuts the door, Shelby comes galloping over and climbs him like a tree, licking his cheek and butting her little head against his neck. He’s caught off guard and laughs for a moment. She’s so glad to see him it makes me sick. I haven’t done right by either of them.
“Rafe, I—”
Rafe closes the distance between us in two steps.
“What happened?” he demands. The second he touches me, my throat gets thick. He takes me by the elbow and leads me to the couch, sitting next to me. He puts Shelby in my lap, but she jumps off immediately.
“She hates me,” I say.
Rafe runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “She doesn’t hate you.”
“Pop died.” Rafe freezes. “And Daniel’s here.”
“What happened?” Rafe takes my hand between his, and it’s like a dam breaks with his touch. I’m not even really drunk anymore, just exhausted. Tired of hurting and tired of being afraid. Tired of trying to be without Rafe and tired of not being what he needs. Just so fucking tired. My eyes blur with tears, and I squeeze his hand so hard it’s probably painful.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “Please don’t hate me. Please.”
His arms come around me hesitantly, and he strokes lightly up and down my spine. I don’t even have the energy to be embarrassed that I’m crying. I just want to feel something other than the choking fear of this creeping darkness.
Rafe sighs. “I don’t hate you,” he says softly. “I was upset before. Angry, yeah. But I never hated you.” He brushes his fingertips over my lips and up into my hair. “What happened with your dad?”
“He had a heart attack in the shop. Day before yesterday. He died in the hospital. I… I’m all…. I don’t know….” I shake my head. I’ve wanted to talk to Rafe every day for two weeks, but now that he’s here, I barely have the energy to speak. I just want to be near him. “Can you forgive me? I said fucking awful things. I didn’t even mean them.”
His expression is serious but he doesn’t seem angry. “Are you sure you didn’t mean them?”
I cast my mind back, desperately trying to remember everything I said. It’s hard after I spent two weeks shying away from every thought of them.
“What I said about Javier. I’m sorry for that. The rest… I guess I… I guess I probably did mean it, but I didn’t mean to say it so awful.”
Rafe nods and squeezes my shoulder. “Me too. I meant what I said, but I said it all wrong. I’m sorry for that. Let’s not worry about it right now. We’ll talk about it later. Okay?”
I nod, intensely relieved that there will be a later. Rafe leans in slowly, stroking my lips with his thumb. I kiss his thumb and his mouth goes all soft. He moves his thumb to brush my cheek and kisses me softly.
“Will you stay? Please. The funeral’s tomorrow morning. I just—” Fuck, I just really don’t want to be alone.
Rafe stands up, pulling me with him like I weigh nothing, and touches under my eyes. “Looks like you could use some sleep.”
He’s stripped down to his underwear before I realize I’m just standing by the bedroom door, staring at him. He’s like a luxury car: everything’s perfectly balanced, his lines are beautiful, powerful. He’s… he’s fucking beautiful.
“You coming in here?” he asks, lifting the covers.
I nod. “Lemme just brush my teeth.” I don’t want even the slightest taste of beer to linger if Rafe’s going to kiss me again.
In the bathroom, I risk a glance in the mirror. Dark circles are under my eyes, which look almost violet from the redness of crying, like an old bruise. There’s an actual bruise on my cheek from where Daniel hit me earlier. My hair is the longest it’s been since high school and it’s a mess. I’ve only seen myself with a buzz cut for so long. I look like a different person with it longer. Softer, maybe.
When I slide under the covers with Rafe, he plucks at my hood. “You’re sweating.”
I kick off my sweatpants and pull my sweatshirt over my head, feeling better when the cold air from the open window hits me. My landlord sets the heat way too high.
“You not been eating?” Rafe traces my collarbone with his finger.
“I dunno.”
His gaze immediately goes to the cuts on my chest and he runs a finger over them, jaw tight.
“It’s been bad,” he says, and I nod, closing my eyes. He leans over me and presses a kiss to the cuts on my chest. “Okay.”
He pushes the blanket all the way off so he can look at me. He runs a finger over the scratches Shelby left on my arm, and I throw my other arm over my eyes. There are warm kisses on my stomach and my hipbones. Hair brushing my thighs.
Looking down my body in the light from the window, I can see that he’s right. I have lost weight. My stomach muscles are almost cartoonishly defined and my hipbones jut unhealthily beneath them. The muscles of my thighs are tight, but my knees look knobby and too big. I’ve never liked the way I look, but at least I’ve always felt strong, ever since the summer before high school, when I started lifting weights. Now, though—god, I look a mess. I move to pull the covers up so Rafe doesn’t have to look at me.
He lets me pull them up, but he keeps a hand on my stomach, stroking gently. He kisses my cheek, then rolls onto his back next to me, relaxing into the mattress.
“Who hit you?”
“What? Oh. Daniel.” Rafe tenses. “I deserved it.”
He shakes his head but I guess he’s not going to fight me on that right now. I turn over and rest my cheek against his shoulder, wanting to absorb as much of his presence as I can before the inevitable moment when he leaves.
“I was terrible to him. I just—I don’t know why he makes me so mad. Even when he doesn’t do anything. He—I look at him and I….” I shake my head. “And he brought this guy. His boyfriend. They were standing there, in Pop’s living room. Like it was nothing. Like, now that he’s gone, Daniel can—fuck, I don’t know, man.”
Rafe runs his hand along my ribs. When he speaks his voice is gentle. “Maybe you get so mad at Daniel because he gets to have something you don’t.”
“I mean, his boyfriend’s handsome and all, in a lumberjack-y way, but you’re way hotter.”
I can feel Rafe’s smile. “I mean that Daniel gets to be honest about who he is and who he cares about to his brothers. He accepted the consequences of the truth and he told it anyway.” The words cut, but Rafe wraps his arm around me, pressing me against him, and kisses my temple. “I think sometimes the people we get angriest with are the ones who have the things we want the most.”
“So, then, who do you get angriest with?”
He rubs my back, shifting me closer against him. “My sister,” he says finally.
“Gabriela?”
He shakes his head. “Luz.”
“But I thought you guys got along really well?”
“We do. But when she calls me to fix something for her or she wants me to give her advice…. It’s not that I mind fixing things for her. I don’t. And I like that she wants my advice.”
“So… what, then?”
“I guess I’m jealous that she has me to go to,” Rafe says slowly, like he’s still thinking it through.
“You mean you’re jealous because you want… yourself?”
“No. Well, yes. I’m jealous that she has me to call because I know that I’ll always be there for her, and I…. That’s what I want. Someone I know will always be there for me.”
His voice sounds smaller than I’ve ever heard it, and it puts a lump in my throat.
“My sisters are there for me. I know that. But they have their own lives. They have kids. They’re not….” He shakes his head again, dismissing the subject. “So, the funeral’s tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want me to come?”
My heart starts to race. I don’t want to fight again, but I… I just can’t deal with worrying about Brian and Sam asking questions about who Rafe is, and I—
“Hey,” Rafe says, “calm down. I’m not trying to fight. I’ll be there if you want me there. If you don’t, I won’t. It’s as simple as that.”
I nod. “I want you there,” I say. “But I can’t….”
“Okay,” he says. “It’s okay.”
All I can do is nod. I throw an arm over his chest, hoping we can stop talking. Rafe rubs my back, and I twine strands of his hair around my fingers. It’s the kind of wavy it gets when he braids it wet from the shower.
After a while, I kiss his neck and slide my hand down his chest to his stomach. I feel his intake of breath, and his hand tightens on my back. With a hand on his cheek, I turn him to me so I can reach his mouth. The kiss feels so right—familiar and warm—and I deepen it.
Rafe turns on his side so we’re facing each other and kisses me, softly at first, then more urgently. This. This is what I need. I need to forget everything except the feeling of Rafe against me, his mouth on mine, his hair between my fingers, his hands on my skin.
“Rafe,” I murmur into the kiss. “Please. I need….”
“What?” He strokes my cheek. “Anything.”
“You—I… I need you.”
I try to pull him on top of me, needing to feel that he’s really here.
“Yeah?”
I nod. He’s studying my face, and I try with every last bit of energy I have to show him how much I want him. How much I need this.
“Okay,” he breathes, and relief rushes through me.
“You’re so handsome,” he says, kissing my neck. I snort, and he covers my mouth with his fingers and goes on. “I didn’t think about it until the kids started talking about it, but I can see what they mean.” He runs a finger down my cheek, over my chin, down the bridge of my nose, and over my eyebrows. “I watched the show. Supernatural. Last week.” He looks a little embarrassed at this confession. “I was missing you and… anyway, I see the resemblance.”
He kisses me before I can argue with him, sliding a hand under my neck to control the kiss. It’s hot and hard and I pull him down on top of me. My exha
ustion evaporates, replaced by need. Our hands are everywhere as we kiss. Rafe is like a tornado and I meet it with everything I have, until we’re straining together, sweaty and shaking. Until I’m obliterated. Gone.
Somehow last night with Rafe, I forgot everything. I forgot that Pop is dead. I forgot that, in the last few months of his life, I didn’t even notice anything was wrong because I barely saw him. I forgot that he died terrified and alone in a room of doctors. I forgot that I’ll never see him again, that I’ll never have the chance to earn his respect or… or…. But now it all comes rushing back.
Brian is a mess when I pick him up. He’s in Pop’s bed, eyes red and clothes stinking of beer. We meet Liza and Sam at the cemetery, and after a few minutes, Daniel walks over slowly, Rex at his side. They both look put together and pressed. Daniel doesn’t even look sad. His green eyes are clear, and though he’s a little pale, he mostly looks impatient, as if this is all just an inconvenience to him.
And with him is Ginger, his best friend. The two of them put their heads together, and when Ginger says something, Daniel looks over at me with a half smile on his face. As if it’s not bad enough that Ginger told Daniel about my tattoo, it looks like they’re laughing about it. I’m still furious with myself for going to her to ask about getting it covered up in the first place. She was the only female tattoo artist I could think of, and it seemed less embarrassing than having another man see the butterfly. My stomach clenches.
During the funeral, I can’t look away from the coffin. Pop’s coffin. The words being said about Pop don’t matter. This guy didn’t know him.
Hell, I’m not sure that I knew him. I wrack my brain, trying to think of things I know about him.
I could read his mood, sure, since it was necessary to surviving in his house. Tell when he was pissed off and I should leave him alone. When he was in a good mood and I could approach. When he wanted to teach me something and when he wanted me to figure it out for myself. I know what beer he liked, and what rum. I know which teams he rooted for and which radio stations he listened to. I know his socket wrench of choice and which brand of oil he’d recommend to a customer.
