We Now Return to Regular Life

by Martin Wilson

  “Okay, okay.”

  We’re both quiet for a few minutes, the noise of the party downstairs creeping through my bedroom door.

  “And so what if I spend time with Sam,” I say finally, feeling calmer now. “You’re always with Sarah.”

  Nick sips the last of his beer, then leans forward. “You’re mad at me for having a girlfriend? You can have one.”

  I can hear some laughter downstairs, the clinking of plates.

  “I can’t have a girlfriend,” I say quietly. “I don’t want one. I’m . . . I’m gay.” The words slip out so easily, and somehow I don’t feel my face redden.

  I’m not ashamed to tell him—I’m relieved.

  His face softens with surprise. “You are?”

  I nod.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m telling you now,” I say. I take a breath. “You’re the first person I’ve told,” I say, which is true, even if Sam knows, and Madison, too. Still, I’m amazed at how good it feels.

  “When did you figure this out?” he asks.

  “I guess I’ve known for a while. But I was . . . I don’t know. Confused.”

  He nods. “My uncle’s gay,” he says.

  I let out a little laugh, and he does, too.

  My beer is still full, so I say, “Here, finish this,” and hand him my drink. Nick hops from his seat and grabs it from me and settles back and chugs.

  “You know,” I say. “Sam has changed.”

  Nick looks annoyed that I’m bringing up Sam again.

  “He’s actually pretty cool. He’s not the way . . . the way he used to be.” I want to tell him so much more about Sam, but there’s so much I can’t say—about what happened to him. About what happened between us. “He didn’t deserve any of it. He didn’t ask for it.”

  “If you say so,” Nick says.

  We don’t talk anymore about Sam, or me being gay, or whatever’s going on with us. I grab my iPad and we both sit on the floor and lean against the bed and watch a zombie movie until Nick’s mother yells up the stairs that it’s time to go.

  “You better hide these,” he says when he stands, grabbing both beer bottles from my desk. I take them and shove them under the bed.

  “Have a good Christmas,” he says.

  “You too,” I say.

  But he doesn’t move. “Listen, I . . . I still don’t know. . . . It’s okay if you want to spend time with Sam, but I’m not so sure I’m ready for that. But, I mean, we’re good, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah,” I say, and it’s true, though I’m not really sure how things will be once we go back to school. “Promise not to tell anyone what I told you? I just . . . I don’t want the whole world to know yet.”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” he says. “And . . . I mean, thanks for telling me. I want you to know I really am cool with it.”

  “I know,” I say, feeling something altering in the air between us, but in a good way. Nick’s looking at me like he’s just now really seeing me.

  His mom yells up again, and Nick yells an irritated “Coming!” He turns back to me. “I better go.”

  We bump fists and then he walks down the hall, down the stairs.

  Alone in my room, I try and picture me and Sam with Nick and my other classmates. The picture is still fuzzy. But it’s not so unlikely, maybe.

  That is, if Sam ever speaks to me again.

  ===

  Christmas morning is sunny and cold. We get up early, and Mom cooks a big breakfast—bacon, biscuits, scrambled eggs. When I was a kid I’d be jumpy to open presents, but today I feel older, like I’ve moved on from caring about that. The presents can wait. We eat, drink coffee, listen to Christmas songs on this CD Mom’s had for what feels like a century. Then we open gifts. I get clothes, and some thick tennis socks. From the garage, Dad hauls in this chair that Mom wanted for the living room, and he also gives her some new jewelry. Dad always says he doesn’t need or want anything, but this year Mom and I gave him some new hiking shoes, plus a gift card to Home Depot, where he loves to go on Saturdays.

  That morning, I’d opened my closet for a sweater and I saw Sam’s portrait, but I left it there. I wasn’t sure what to do with it, but now I know. Whatever Sam thinks of me now I know he spent a lot of time on that picture. It doesn’t deserve to just sit in a closet. So when Dad starts picking up the wrapping paper, I say, “I’ve got one more, for both of you.” I race upstairs and grab the portrait from my closet and bring it downstairs.

  “What is this?” Mom says. She takes the picture and holds it up. She and Dad stare at it, smiling, looking from the picture to me and back again. “It’s wonderful.”

  “Wow,” Dad says softly. “Looks just like you.”

  “You did this?”

  “No,” I say. “Sam did it.”

  “Sam Walsh?” Mom says. “Sam did this?”

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling proud.

  “I had no idea,” Mom says so faintly I almost can’t hear it.

  Their expressions darken a little—or maybe I imagine that? “Lovely,” Mom says. And then I see her eyes are tearing up, and she hands the drawing to Dad and stands and hugs me. She keeps crying, sobbing actually, so I hold on to her, not sure what’s wrong. I manage to steal a look at Dad over her shoulder, and it looks like his eyes are wet, too.

  Mom finally calms down and releases me and picks up the picture again. “It’s stunning. It really is. Thank you.”

  “You should thank Sam,” I say.

  She smiles over at me. “We will.”

  Dad stands up and pats me on the shoulder. “We need to find the perfect spot to put this,” he says.

  Mom and Dad walk around downstairs, trying to figure out where to hang it. I gaze out the window, and think about Sam opening presents, his first time back with his family. I want to tell him that my parents loved the portrait. I know it will mean a lot to him. But I don’t pick up the phone. I just wait, hoping I’ll hear from him, uncertain if I will.

  ===

  But Sam does call. The day after Christmas. The landline rings and I know it has to be him, and I feel a lot like I did the other day when he came over—relieved but nervous. “Hey,” I say. I want to bring up Russell Hunnicutt, but what do you say about something like that? “You have a good Christmas?”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “I gave the drawing to my parents, and they loved it. Like, really loved it.”

  “That’s great,” he says, but he sounds sort of disinterested.

  I don’t know what to say, and Sam is quiet, too, and as the silence builds I wonder why he even called. “Listen,” he finally says. “I . . . I need your help.”

  “Okay. With what?”

  “Um. Well, can you come for a sleepover on New Year’s Eve?”

  “Sure,” I say, though I’m kind of surprised Sam would even want to after last time. “But what do you need my help with?” I ask.

  He doesn’t say anything for a bit. I almost think the line is dead, and then he says, “The thing is, I need you to go somewhere with me.”

  “Where?”

  “Anniston.”

  “Anniston,” I murmur.

  He tells me his mom is going on a cruise with his aunt in a few days. He says Earl has to work on New Year’s Day—that he has a big project that has to be done, even if it means working on a holiday. “It’s my only chance.”

  “Your chance for what?” I ask.

  “They’d never let me, but I have to go, Josh. I have to go there. You understand, don’t you?”

  “I think I do,” I say, because that’s what he needs to hear. But I don’t understand at all.

  “So you’ll come with me?”

  It’s like that day, when he persuaded me to go to the mall. When I knew it was a bad decision, and I said yes a
nyway. I get that queasy nervous rumbling in my belly.

  “Please?” he says.

  “Sam, I don’t know . . . I mean, I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

  The silence builds like a wall.

  “Forget it,” he says. “It’s okay. Forget I asked.” He hangs up.

  “Sam?” I say, but I know he’s gone.

  After the phone call, I don’t feel like doing much, so I camp out in the family room in front of the TV. For now, Mom and Dad have propped Sam’s portrait on top of the fireplace mantel. But I don’t want to keep looking at it. I get up from the couch and turn it around so all I can see is the back of the frame.

  Hours go by, the light of day fades to evening, and that’s when Mom comes in and asks if I’m okay.

  “Fine,” I say. The dumb movie I was watching ends.

  “Dad and I are going to Home Depot, you wanna come?”

  “Nah,” I ask.

  “Okay, suit yourself.” She smiles, then notices the portrait. She walks to the mantel and flips it back around, then looks at me, confused.

  I finally hear them drive off. I flip the channels and stop at Channel 4, the station out of Birmingham. The news has just started. A house fire on the west side. Scenes from the Galleria Mall, where people are returning or exchanging all their gifts. Then there’s an old lady on-screen, next to an old man. “An exclusive interview you’ll only see here on Channel 4,” the anchor says. “The parents of the murdered child abductor Russell Lee Hunnicutt.” The old woman on-screen has curly gray hair, thick glasses, a jowly face. The old man has on a cap over bushy white hair. They sit on a couch in a room with crummy-looking wood paneling.

  A male reporter is interviewing them. “How are you coping?”

  The man shakes his head, chews his lip.

  The woman speaks first, with a country-sounding voice. “Our son’s in a better place now.”

  “I know what he did was wrong,” the father says, his voice gruff. “But that kid . . . he could have left. All them years, he could have left.”

  That’s not true! I want to shout at the screen.

  The wife looks over at him, nods her head, then looks at the reporter. “They have their son. But our son’s dead.”

  I force myself to sit there and keep watching, even though anger swells in me.

  “Do you have anything to say to the Walsh family?” the reporter asks.

  The old lady is crying, wiping her eyes with a tissue. The old man shakes his head. “I dunno. . . . I just hope that boy and his family . . . That they get some peace now.”

  I flip the TV off. I can’t watch anymore. I just sit there in the dark, waiting for Mom and Dad to get back.

  Peace. That’s what they hope this death has given Sam and his family. And maybe it has, for Sam’s mom, his stepdad, even Beth. But I know it hasn’t for Sam. Not really.

  Still in the dark, I grab my phone and call Sam’s house. His mom answers and a few seconds later she puts Sam on.

  “Yeah?” he says.

  I don’t say hello. I just say, “I’ll go. I’ll go with you to Anniston.”

  CHAPTER 13

  January

  Beth

  In a group text the day before New Year’s Eve, it’s decided that the girls and I will attend the New Year’s Eve party at Brendan Olson’s house. He says it’s going to be small, Ainsley writes.

  Mom left that morning for Florida, where she’ll meet up with Aunt Shelley for the cruise. It’s just me, Sam, and Earl for a whole week. Earl says yes, I can go, but that I have to be home at twelve thirty. “Don’t make me stay up late, worrying. I have to work tomorrow,” he says, looking at me all serious-faced before he lets loose a grin.

  Sam has invited Josh to stay over. I guess they’re just going to watch movies.

  “Can Chita sleep over after? I’m giving her a ride to the party.”

  “Of course, if her parents are fine with it.”

  I go back to my room and text: Okay, I’m in.

  ===

  Brendan lives in Woodridge, across the river, not too far from where Darla lives. She walks up just as Chita and I park along the street.

  “So where are his parents?” Chita asks as we walk up to the door.

  “They went to their lake house or something,” Darla says.

  So it’s just me and the girls, and Brendan and the twins, Jake and Jackson, and a handful of other seniors on the soccer team. And Donal, who answers the door. “Welcome, lasses,” he says, exaggerating his Irish accent, waving a cup of beer at us. He kind of looks drunk already and it’s just eight.

  “Can I get you something?” he asks, looking only at me.

  “A water,” I say, the thought of alcohol making my stomach churn.

  Through the kitchen window I can see into a large backyard lit with strong floodlights, where some people on the team are playing a pick-up game. This was the idea—soccer, beer, hanging out, pizza, and watching the ball drop in Times Square on TV. Low-key and chill.

  Donal hands me a bottle of water from the fridge and cracks open a can of Bud that he pours in cups for himself, Chita, and Darla. Then we head out onto the back deck. It’s only in the fifties or forties, a lot warmer than it had been at Christmas. Chita sets her beer down on the deck floor and joins the soccer players in the yard, and Darla ambles up to some of the other kids milling about on the sidelines. Donal settles next to me, leans against the wooden rail. “It’s nice to see you,” he says.

  “It’s nice to see you, too,” I say, feeling embarrassed all of the sudden.

  “Christmas was good, with your family?”

  “Yeah,” I say, thinking about the presents, the food, the memories. It was good. But hovering off to the side was the news about Russell Hunnicutt. Mostly I could forget it, but at times it was like a physical thing we could spot, briefly, off to the side.

  “And your Christmas?” I ask.

  “Yeah, just me and the folks. It was good, though my mum misses home this time of year.”

  “I bet,” I say. “I mean, it’s such a funny time of year.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, everyone is so happy. But also sad. Like your mom missing home. And I kind of missed my dad. I mean, he called. But we talked a lot about the years past, when we were all together. Before . . . well, before any bad stuff happened.”

  For a while, we don’t say much, just watch everyone kicking the ball around.

  “I can’t believe this year is almost over,” Donal says. “It’ll be January in a few hours.”

  In January, I always thought of Sam. His birthday month. Everyone else always marked it as a new beginning. But for the past few years it was another painful reminder—so soon after Christmas—that Sam wasn’t there to eat birthday cake and open presents. “My brother Sam will be fifteen in a few weeks,” I say.

  “How’s he doing?” Donal asks, sounding careful and concerned, knowing that in the past I hardly ever talked about him.

  “Fine, I think,” I say. Because what do I know, really? I can’t help thinking back to that night. Make it stop. The way he looked at me, like he was begging for help. But then the way he acted like nothing had happened.

  “He’s lucky to have you,” Donal says.

  And I smile at him for saying that. But I’m not sure if I believe it.

  I set my bottle of water down on the railing. I need to take my mind off of Sam. “I’m gonna go play,” I say, walking down the steps and out into the yard, joining the others so that I can run and sweat and not think about anything.

  ===

  Later, after we gorge on pizza, everyone’s settled in the TV room, watching all the insane people in Times Square. The stereo is blasting, and some people are dancing around a little, acting drunk and silly.

  It’s getting close to midnight,
so I go out on the back deck again to get some air, to get away from the noise. It’s chillier now, the deck lit only by a dim bulb by the door. A few minutes later Donal comes out. He has two cups of champagne. “Always prepared,” he says, looking at his watch.

  “Good thinking,” I say. I guess a little champagne won’t hurt. We clink the plastic cups and eye each other as we both take long sips.

  “You having fun tonight?” he asks when we set the cups down and both gaze out at the darkened backyard, up at the blue-black sky, where just a few stars glitter.

  “A lot of fun,” I say.

  “I’m glad,” he says. Glod. He sort of gently shoves his shoulder into mine, and I gently shove back, and I finally look at him, his blue eyes gazing at me in a way that makes me kind of tingle.

  “I’m glod, too,” I say.

  Donal laughs. “Still mocking me accent, I see.”

  “Nah,” I say. “I like it.”

  He lets that sit, then says, “I like you.”

  Even though it’s not surprising, I can’t stop smiling.

  “I’m sorry if I—”

  “Don’t be sorry,” I respond.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I say. I nudge a little closer to him.

  Inside I hear Brendan yell that the countdown is starting.

  Donal says, “Do you want to go inside?”

  We both turn so we’re facing each other now. “No,” I say.

  We can hear everyone shouting out the numbers, counting down.

  Donal cracks his beautiful smile at me. “You know what has to happen at midnight, don’t you?”

  Inside, the chants: “Three, two, one!”

  And that’s when I lean toward him and he leans toward me and I hold on to him and then we kiss, the noise from the party inside like a sound track to this moment. Everyone always says you feel fireworks when you kiss someone. And maybe that’s true. But it’s not all you feel. I feel like I’m alive in a world that’s only about happiness and laughing and exhilaration, everything else blocked out. And I want this feeling.

  I want Donal.

  “Wow,” Donal says, his eyes closed, smiling in a dorky way that I find sexy. I lean my head against his chest, and he pulls his arms around me. We don’t say anything. I just enjoy the moment, feeling warm and safe and happy.