The Long and Winding Road

by T. J. Klune

  That didn’t leave much room for Tyson.

  “Not kicking you out,” I say. “There’s the foldout couch.”

  He scowls. “Yeah. The one that feels like it’s bad-touching you whenever you lay on it.”

  “I offered you bunk beds,” I remind him.

  “I’m not a kid.”

  “Eh. That’s really not true.”

  “Dom wants me to move in with him.”

  I tense up. He feels it, he has to with my arm around him, but he waits. “I know. He hasn’t been… subtle.”

  “I don’t think he knows how. He’s like Otter that way. He wants something, so he goes for it.”

  I sigh. “That can’t possibly be healthy that we’re both with guys like that. What does that say about us?”

  “We have impeccable taste.”

  “Right. Maybe I’m not ready for you to go.”

  “And maybe I’m not ready for you and Otter to have kids.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You already told him you’re moving in with him?”

  He nods slowly. “It’s… it would have happened. Eventually. I was already planning on commuting for the classes I wasn’t going to take online. And it’s just down the road. I’ll be over here all the time. So much so you probably will get sick of me.”

  I laugh quietly. “I’m already sick of you, and you’ve only been home a few hours. But Izzie will need it too.”

  “Bullshit. You love me.”

  “Yeah. We all have our faults, I guess.”

  We’re quiet for a time, each of us a little lost, I think. Because things are changing, and even though I wanted it—craved it, even—it’s still scary.

  Then he says, “I wish she’d loved us more.”

  And my heart breaks at that. Because no one should ever have to go through life finding out what it felt like to have a mother’s disdain. I pull him closer. “I know. Sometimes—I don’t think she knew how. And that’s not on you. Or me. That’s on her.”

  “But—”

  “No, Kid. There is nothing you could have done differently. There is nothing you should have done differently. This—all of this, everything that she ever was, that’s on her. That’s never on you. She didn’t have it in her. I don’t know why. Maybe she was broken. Maybe she was wired differently. Maybe she just wasn’t capable of it. I don’t know. But it’s not on you.”

  “She fucked us up.”

  And that’s hard to hear, because it’s probably true. “We got past it, though, huh?”

  He scoffs. “Did we? Once an addict, always an addict, Papa Bear. And my head’s still a little fucked. So is yours.”

  “Otter says it adds to my charm.”

  He’s trying to stay serious, but I can see the smile curving along the edges of his lips. “He’s biased. So is Dom.”

  “Yeah. We’re lucky like that.”

  The smile fades. “She did this to us.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe we did it to ourselves. And you know what? Maybe it doesn’t matter. We are who we’re supposed to be now. Everything that’s happened to us, it’s—it hasn’t been easy. I know that. But we’ve made it through, and we’re whole, Kid. We are. Things are good. Or they will be. It’s scary now. I’m scared. But I also know that I want this more than anything else.”

  “Izzie too?”

  I hesitate, but only for a moment. “If that’s what she wants.”

  “She does,” he says, sounding convinced. “Even if she doesn’t say it, I know she does. She wants to be here, even if we forgot about her.”

  “We didn’t—”

  “Didn’t we?”

  He has a point. “There was nothing we could have done. You know that. Erica told us that. Unless there was evidence of abuse, she—”

  “We have scars,” the Kid says. “Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”

  I sigh. “We’ll do our best, okay? That’s all anyone can ask of us.”

  “I hate her.”

  He’s not talking about Izzie. “You don’t,” I tell him. “Because you aren’t capable of hating anyone. That’s not who you are.”

  He shakes his head furiously. “I am. I can. You don’t know that about me, and that’s okay, but I do. I hate her, Bear. I hate her for everything she’s done to me. To Izzie. To you. We could have—”

  “We’ll have to take care of her.” And I’m not talking about Izzie either. “You know that.”

  He feels like he’s thrumming, like everything under his skin is all electric. “We don’t owe her shit.”

  “No. But it’s the right thing to do.”

  “We—”

  “Ty. You know it is. There’s no one else.”

  “She wouldn’t have done the same for us. You know that.”

  “All the more reason for us to do it. Because we’re better than that.”

  “We don’t have to be.”

  “We do. We will. We are.”

  “I hate it. I hate her.”

  I don’t know what else to say.

  “Bear?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think I’m going to be sad now,” he says, his voice breaking just a little. “Is that okay?”

  “Yeah, Kid. That’s okay.”

  He cries then. It’s quiet and soft, and it’s only a moment later that my neck is wet. The sky is streaking further, and there’s the first couple of stars appearing overhead. I watch them as a tear slowly slides its way down my cheek. It’s just one, but it’s more than I told myself I would ever give over her again. But it’s there, and I’m the strong one. I’ve always tried to be. Because I’m his big brother. For the longest time, I was all he had. It’s not like that anymore, and we’re being pulled in different directions. It was always going to happen one day—that’s the downside of inevitability. But it’s here now, and though we both know I’ll never let him go, I am going to have to take another step back. He’ll be within reach. Always. But it’s still another step away.

  THE GREEN Monstrosity is quiet. It’s late, and everyone has gone home. Ty has gone home too. To Dom’s house. He was smiling and laughing by the time he left, and sure, we hugged a little harder than normal before he went, but Ben was on Dom’s shoulders, and Ty’s hand was in his when they walked down the path toward the front gate. The Kid looked back, just once, and that was it. He was gone.

  Izzie’s asleep, but only after wrangling a promise from Tyson that he’d come back tomorrow. “Yeah, kid,” he’d said to her. “I’ll be back. We got stuff to do, you know?”

  She’d rolled her eyes. “And then maybe you can get the rest of your stuff out of my room. There’s still a PETA poster on the wall. I don’t know how you aren’t embarrassed by it. I know if I were you, I’d be embarrassed. But I’ve never been a meatless wonder under the thrall of a terrorist organization that disguises itself by claiming to advocate for the rights of animals.”

  “There’s three of them now,” Creed moaned in the background. “Why are they like this? I already got used to Bear and Ty, and now I have to do it again?”

  I thought it’d take longer for her to get used to Otter and me by the way she’d stared forlornly at the Kid as he left. But then she’d turned to us and said, “I don’t have a lot of stuff. I never needed it. But I like books. I don’t have money, but I promise I’ll do chores or whatever you ask of me if you could get me some books.”

  Otter and I had been speechless before we both nodded, stumbling over ourselves in trying to reassure her.

  “Like, Twilight books?” I’d asked her before glancing at Otter. “Is that what girls read these days? Twilight?”

  “I think so,” Otter said. “But aren’t they supposed to be terrible?”

  “I think most of the stuff for teenage girls is supposed to be terrible.”

  “We’ll buy you Twilight tomorrow,” Otter told her.

  “Oh my god,” she moaned, her face in her hands.

  Otter a
nd I high-fived, because we were already so damn good at the parenting thing.

  But she must have still been exhausted, because she was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. I didn’t know—well, I didn’t know anything about her, not really, so I fretted for a moment about whether or not to shut the door or leave the hall light on in case she needed it.

  I kept the light on and left the door open a crack.

  So it’s quiet now. The Green Monstrosity is creaking, as it always does, and Otter’s finishing up in the kitchen. I’m on the couch, trying to think about everything tomorrow will bring.

  I jump when Otter’s hand runs through my hair. He’s standing behind the couch, and I tilt my head to look back at him.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey, yourself,” I say back.

  “You look like you’re a little lost in your head again.” He knows me.

  I shrug. “It’s… a lot.”

  “Today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know. Tell you what. All of that will still be here tomorrow, right?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “So let’s just say, for tonight, we focus on just the good. And then we can worry about the rest tomorrow.”

  “I don’t know if it really works like that.”

  He traces the shell of my ear with a finger. “Probably not. But let’s do it anyway.”

  I take a deep breath and let it out slow. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  He cups my face, fingers pressing along my jaw as he leans down and kisses me, his nose scraping my chin. He’s warm and tastes like the beer he drank. It’s good. Everything about him is good. “Twins,” he says against my lips. “We’re having twins.”

  I smile, and even though it makes the kiss awkward, I don’t care. “Twins.”

  “Thank you.”

  “For?”

  “Your super sperm.”

  I laugh, and he kisses my chin and my cheeks and my forehead. “Thank you,” he says again, and it’s fiercely whispered against me, like it’s a secret. Like it’s a prayer. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

  Life can turn on a dime.

  But if you’ve got someone at your side, someone who holds you up when your knees go weak, someone who kisses you every time like it’s the first time, there’s a chance you’ll make it.

  I’ve got this.

  Whatever might come, I’ve got this.

  Because he’s by my side.

  He’s up and over the back of the couch, landing on top of me. I complain, telling him he’s too heavy. He laughs against my throat, both of us knowing I’m full of shit. And when he raises himself to rest on his elbows, thumbs tracing over my eyebrows, I tell him I love him because he deserves to hear it as much as possible.

  He grins crookedly. “I know. And it’s the best thing you’ve ever given me.”

  And maybe we made out on the couch after that, because I couldn’t not. I dare anyone to not try and mack on his face after hearing him say such things.

  Impossible. Trust me on that.

  8. Where Bear Makes a Promise

  JULIE MCKENNA had died five days before Izzie showed up on our doorstep. It was a Sunday, and she’d been at the restaurant where she’d worked as a waitress. Maybe it was the years of smoke and booze, or maybe it was just her time. She’d been carrying a tray of food, and it’d crashed to the floor when she collapsed.

  A massive cardiac event, we’re told when we track her to the hospital where she’d been taken. She was pronounced dead shortly after arriving. There was nothing that could have been done. The woman is apologetic over the phone, and even though I want to tell her it’s nothing, I’ve already identified myself as her son. It wouldn’t be right. She’s just doing her job.

  Izzie had been out for the summer already when she’d gotten the call at home. She’d been by herself. It was Mom’s boss who’d told her. He’d said he was sorry, he was very sorry. Because of course he was. He was calling to tell a little girl her mother was dead. He’d asked if there was someone else he could call, someone who could come and pick her up. Someone who could stay with her.

  He didn’t know that there wasn’t anyone else. Not in Idaho, at least.

  No, she’d told him. He didn’t need to do that. She’d take care of it.

  And she had. The moment she’d gotten off the phone, she’d gone into the kitchen and found the tin that Julie kept a few spare twenties in. She’d loaded her backpack as full as she could while still being able to zip it closed. She’d locked the door to the house and walked three miles to the bus station. She’d said her mom was in the bathroom and that she was buying the ticket for her. She’d bought a ticket to Redmond, Oregon, as far as the money could get her. Then she’d boarded the bus, sitting at the back, clutching her backpack so no one would steal it. She’d brought five granola bars, three apples, and two water bottles.

  In Redmond, she’d widened her eyes and stuck out her bottom lip and found a family willing to take her west. She’d ditched them in Mapleton, twelve miles outside of Seafare, after hearing the adults talking about calling the police. She’d walked the rest of the way until she’d stood on the doorstep of the Green Monstrosity, dirt smudged on her face, hair flat on her head, sweat beading on her top lip.

  She’s with Ty in the backyard when I hang up the phone with the hospital. Otter’s sitting at my side at the kitchen table, his hand a heavy weight on my knee. Dom’s leaning against the counter in uniform, his shift starting in another hour or so.

  “Her body is still in the morgue,” I say. “Because they couldn’t find anyone to claim it. I don’t even think anyone was looking for Izzie.”

  “I’ll make a few phone calls when I get to the station,” Dom says. “See if anyone reported her missing.”

  I smile gratefully at him. “Thanks. It’ll help, I think.”

  “Any other family?”

  I shake my head. “Not for us. Nobody that ever stuck around, anyway. And she says that her dad has been gone for years.”

  “We need to call Erica,” Otter says. “Get the ball rolling. And if she can’t help us, Anna will find someone that can.”

  “It’s that easy for you?” Dom asks, sounding a little surprised.

  I glance at Otter before looking back at Dom. “What is?”

  “Izzie,” he says. “Her, being here. Especially with—you’ve got twins coming.”

  “So?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s that easy for you.” It’s not a question this time.

  “She’s our sister. Of course it is.”

  He smiles ruefully. “Yeah. You—even after all this time, you still surprise me.”

  I squint at him. “What did you think we’d do? Put her out on the streets?”

  He shakes his head. “’Course not. But you never thought of anything else. She was always going to stay here.”

  “She’s our family,” I tell him. “She’s ours now.”

  “You have no idea, do you?” Dom says.

  “No.” Otter’s smiling at me. I think I’m missing something. “He doesn’t. It’s one of those things. It’s always been like that.”

  I roll my eyes. “If you’re done speaking in code, we have shit to do.”

  They both laugh at me.

  THREE DAYS later, Otter and I are an hour outside Coeur D’Alene, Idaho. My window’s rolled down, and my arm is outside the window, hand moving up and down with the wind. Izzie’s staying with Ty and Dom while we’re gone. She didn’t want to come. I only asked her once. Ty was the same.

  “I’ll stay here,” he told me, averting his eyes. “Someone needs to keep an eye on her.”

  “Sure, Kid,” I’d responded easily. “If that’s what you want.”

  “Unless, you think—do you need me to go? With you?”

  “Nah. I’ve got Otter. And it’s better for her. I think. If you’re still here.”

  “You okay?” Otte
r asks me now, hand firm on my thigh.

  “Yeah,” I tell him, because I don’t know what else to say.

  PEOPLE SAY that they have memories of when they were two or three years old. I don’t know if I believe that. I think they want so hard to remember—that stories they’re told somehow become ingrained into them as their own—that they convince themselves it’s not a story they’re remembering but an actual memory.

  There are bits and pieces buried deep in my mind. Hazy flashes that are nothing but fuzz where I’m little and she’s there, and she’s saying Knock it off, Derrick, or You’re gonna hurt yourself if you don’t get off that chair.

  It’s clear, though, when I was four. Maybe five.

  There were stretches of days when she didn’t have a glass in her hand, the amber liquid swishing around, ice clinking together. Days when her eyes were a little brighter and she’d laugh a little louder. Days when she would put her hand on the back of my neck and squeeze, and I’d grin at her through a mouthful of Pop-Tarts, something I rarely got to have.

  It was then that I could remember her with a startling clarity. It wasn’t haze. It wasn’t muted. And if I push, it’s the first thing I can remember.

  She said, “The rain has stopped. I’m glad. I don’t like it when it rains for days and days.”

  I was eating that Pop-Tart, trying not to inhale it, because I didn’t know when we’d get more, as this was the last one. The TV was on, and the screen was a little fuzzy because the rabbit ears were broken. There were cartoons on. I’m sure of that.

  “Why don’t we go outside?” she asked me.

  “Okay,” I said, spraying crumbs onto my lap.

  “Okay,” she said.

  We did, later. And we’d walked hand in hand, and I was jumping in the puddles, and gasping dramatically at all the worms on the sidewalk, and pointing out everything I could show her. And even though I was young, even though I can’t remember much after that, I knew even then that this was important. Because this was different. She was here—really here—with me. And even though I didn’t know it then, it was the most I’d ever get from her. It felt complete. I couldn’t put a word to it, I couldn’t understand this little light that was burning in my chest, but it felt good. Her hand was in mine and it felt good.