Always You

by Roxie Noir

  It’s unbelievably hot. Even the breeze is hot in a way that feels like the sun is breathing on me, and it’s got that unmistakable scent of home: dust and farming and the pollution from Los Angeles that settles here, mixed with asphalt and tires and concrete.

  I go to the prison first, half an hour north, and sign the release for Eli’s body in person so the funeral home can pick it up later that day. They ask if I want to see him, but I don’t. I want to remember my little brother alive, not stabbed to death and in a drawer in cold storage.

  Then the funeral home. They’ve got a thousand questions for me and an obsequious, too-gentle manner that makes me feel like I’m being treated with kid gloves. I fucking hate it, and in the end I tell them to do whatever it takes to have a funeral as soon as possible, I don’t care how much it costs.

  The cemetery, where the caretaker insists on taking me for a fucking walk to view all the different parts of the graveyard, even though they all look pretty much the same: headstones everywhere, dead people below. The grass is pale green and just beginning to go summer-brittle, and I know that in another month it’ll be brown and like walking across spikes, no matter how much they water it.

  It’s evening when I finally get back to my hotel room at the Holiday Inn and lie on my bed without even taking off my shoes, the exhaustion and stress finally catching up to me, even as my brain buzzes over lists of everything I have left to do.

  And then, inevitably, inescapably, there she is. All day I’ve been seeing Darcy’s face, the way she looked when I told her she had a black hole for a heart. I’ve been trying not to think of it, trying to focus on all the shit that needs to get done, but it hasn’t worked.

  I took the best thing in my life and I fucked it up. And then I didn’t even tell her I was leaving.

  I had time to apologize. Even if I did it in five minutes before I’d left, it would be better than this gnawing heartbreak on top of the hole that’s been punched through the middle of me. For fuck’s sake, I could call her right now.

  I don’t. I lie on the bed and feel fucking awful and don’t call her to apologize, and it’s because I’m fucking afraid.

  I’m afraid she won’t forgive me. I’m afraid she’s angry, that she’s hurt, that she’s decided again that this is a bad idea.

  I’m afraid that Darcy’s going to break my heart the day before my little brother’s funeral, and I don’t think I can take it. I can take a whole lot of shit, but not that.

  Chapter Forty

  Darcy

  I’m fucking useless. When I leave Emilio’s, I walk past a liquor store, and on impulse I buy a bottle of expensive vodka, just because it’s there and I can.

  And because I’m so fucking certain we’re done, and a couple shots of the good stuff only makes me more certain. I said horrible things about his dead brother. I basically told Trent that he didn’t deserve love, that he may as well rot away forgotten, and I can’t fucking blame Trent for getting angry.

  I was an asshole. A total fucking asshole, and I’m pretty fucking sure that telling me I was heartless and then leaving without a peep spells THE END in big-ass neon letters that even my dumb ass can read.

  I fall asleep that night with the TV blaring. I don’t even brush my teeth, even though I think about it, because who fucking needs teeth if they’re heartbroken? Ten thousand dollars of dental work can go fuck itself right now.

  I wake up hungover at noon, and you know the best way to cure that? More vodka and stupid television. I only get out of bed to pee and put the Do Not disturb sign on my door, then get right back in, feeling nauseous and drunk and like I don’t want to think. Someone knocks on my door a couple times during the day, and I just ignore it.

  And you know the worst part? I still fucking wish I could do something to make Trent feel better, even though I’m pretty sure I’m the last person he wants to think about right now.

  By mid-afternoon, the vodka’s gone. In my defense, it wasn’t a huge bottle, but I’m drunk and feel like hell and I’m fucking hungry, so I put on pants and walk around the corner to McDonald’s, where I manage to scarf down a Big Mac and fries without causing a scene.

  I spend another hour in my hotel room. I’m sobering up a little, which isn’t so bad, especially since the thought of more vodka makes me feel like I might puke.

  Then, the knocking starts. I try to ignore it, but it doesn’t stop. Two, three minutes, ceaseless.

  Go the fuck away, I think. I can’t see people right now, I’m fucking useless, just leave.

  They don’t leave. They keep fucking knocking, and finally, they win.

  I open the door to Gavin’s hand, mid-air, Joan standing behind him.

  “What,” I say, closing my eyes since it feels like the world is shifting unpleasantly beneath my feet.

  “Christ on a cross,” he says

  I lean against the door frame and flip him off.

  “What do you want,” I say, not even putting in the effort to make it a question.

  “We’re intervening.”

  “No.”

  “Sorry, that’s incorrect,” Gavin says.

  “Fuck off.”

  “Also no.”

  I shut the door in his face. Or, I try, because he sticks his foot in before I can get it closed, and even though I shove my shoulder against it, he doesn’t budge.

  “If you think you’re going to win this you’re quite wrong,” he says. “I’ve got loads of experience in dealing with drunk and belligerent people, and Liam’s got about eighty pounds on you.”

  Fuck. He’s right. Even in my current, blitzed state, I know that me on my worst day is nothing compared to Liam’s shitshow on any given Friday.

  I yank the door open and glare, even though Gavin and Joan seem like they’re slowly sliding off to the right, and I have to prop my head against the door frame to stop it.

  “I don’t want an intervention,” I say. “I just want to be drunk and feel like shit.”

  “Noted,” Gavin says. “Now come the fuck on.”

  They drag me down to the hotel lobby and prop me up on an ugly, modern couch that’s out of the way and not far from the women’s restroom. Joan sits opposite me while Gavin gets me a cup of coffee, and then they both just watch me as I take several sips, my head in my hands.

  “All right,” Gavin finally says. “Start.”

  I take a deep breath, steel myself, and swallow hard, feeling nauseous. I don’t want to talk about this, but I don’t really see another choice.

  Besides, Gavin’s one of my closest friends, and I really like Joan.

  “I was awful to Trent and he’s never going to forgive me,” I start. “I told him to just let the prison bury Eli, because Eli’s kind of a dick and he’s always been kind of a dick and if I’m being really fucking honest it’s what he deserves, but Trent was really pissed—”

  Fuck, I’m crying now, and I take a big gulp of air.

  “Darcy,” Joan interrupts. “Can you start at the beginning?”

  I take another deep breath, and realize: they don’t know about anything. They think that Trent and I are just really close friends and don’t know that whatever we are or were, it’s definitely more than that now.

  I clear my throat. Joan offers me a tissue and I blow my nose, then sigh.

  “So, uh,” I say, not really sure how to phrase this. “...Trent and I are sleeping together.”

  I glance nervously at Gavin and Joan. I’m expecting shocked faces, mouths open in horror, gasps of surprise, something.

  Instead, I’m pretty sure they’re both trying not to smile.

  “Are you?” Gavin says, almost managing to keep a straight face.

  “Oh,” says Joan without an ounce of surprise in her voice.

  I just stare, too drunk to come up with a next thing to say, and look from Joan to Gavin and back.

  “You knew,” I accuse, leaning back on the couch. It’s kind of a mistake, so I close my eyes.

  “I thought that might b
e the case,” Joan says carefully.

  “Have you got any idea how loud you are?” Gavin asks, much less carefully. “Apparently I ought to be asking Trent for tips, because—”

  “Could you not?” I ask, eyes still closed.

  “Right,” he says. I crack one eye open.

  He’s fucking grinning, and I’m fucking confused.

  “You’re not pissed?” I ask carefully.

  Gavin sighs.

  “I might have been a bit,” he says. “But then you two managed to act all right, up until now at least, so I figured it wasn’t such a big deal.”

  I rub my hands over my face, massage my temples.

  “How long have you known?”

  “The day I came looking for Trent in your room and his trousers and pants were strewn across the floor,” he says, and he looks pretty fucking pleased with himself.

  Shit, and here I thought we were doing great keeping this a secret.

  “Okay, fine, we’re fucking, whatever,” I say quickly. “But anyway, yesterday we got in this fight and then he just left for California and didn’t even tell me, and I’m pretty sure everything’s fucking over and ruined and he never wants to see me again...”

  Joan and Gavin are very, very patient. It probably takes them a good thirty minutes to tease the full, blow-by-blow story out of my dumb, drunk self, and they’re fucking nice about it.

  When I finish, they’re just quiet for a long moment. I swig the last sip of my coffee, and then just stare at the disposable cup in my hand. The silence feels ominous, like they’re trying to figure out how to tell me that I’m right, I’m probably never even going to talk to Trent again.

  Finally, Joan clears her throat.

  “Have you talked to him yet?” she asks.

  I shake my head.

  “He doesn’t want to talk to me,” I say, miserably. “He told me I’ve got—”

  “Darcy, he said that about twelve hours after finding out his brother died,” Joan says, gently. “Grief tends to make people say things they come to regret.”

  “Knowing Trent, I doubt he feels very good about himself right now,” Gavin points out.

  I sigh dramatically, my face in my hands.

  “Even after I said what I said?”

  “Even after that,” Gavin confirms.

  “You don’t think he never wants to see me again?”

  “I very sincerely doubt that,” Joan says.

  “You’re really overreacting here,” Gavin says, leaning forward on his chair, leather bracelets sliding down his forearms.

  I flip him off, and he shrugs.

  “It’s your first fight, and the first one always feels like it’s the goddamn apocalypse,” Joan says. “But it’s usually not.”

  “Usually,” I echo.

  “This is what I mean by overreacting,” Gavin teases, and I flip him off again. “Three in one day,” he says to Joan.

  “What’s the record?” she asks him.

  “I think it’s five,” he says. “I might get there.”

  “So what do I do,” I interrupt.

  “You bloody talk to him,” Gavin says like it’s obvious. “You apologize for hurting his feelings and he’ll probably apologize for hurting yours.”

  I give him a weird look, because I can’t believe that Gavin Fucking Lockwood, of all people, just gave me relationship advice.

  “This might sound a little crazy,” Joan says. “But you know what I’d do?”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “Fly to California,” she says. “Be there for him. He’s got no one else, not really.”

  I glance at Gavin, wondering how much he’s told Joan, and he shrugs, then nods.

  “Like they say, go get your man,” he tells me.

  “But what if he—”

  “He won’t,” Gavin says.

  I make a face.

  “You don’t have to trust yourself, but fucking trust me for once,” Gavin says. “I’m a fucking expert on winning someone back, you know.”

  He has a point.

  “Okay,” I say. “Okay, I fly to California, and I talk to him, and...?”

  “That’s all,” Joan says.

  I have to admit, it sounds... simple. Talk to him. How did I not think of that?

  “We’d best get moving,” Gavin says. “You’ve got a flight to catch.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Trent

  The funeral’s at three. It’s the worst time of day, when the sun’s been beating down for a good nine hours, before it finally starts descending and offers just a little relief.

  The grave site is at the far end of the cemetery, a decent walk from the nearest paved road through the place. I’m sweating the moment I get out of the car, and with every step I wonder why the hell I’m wearing a suit at all.

  It’s not like Eli’s ever gonna know. It’s not like my mom’s gonna remember, and I don’t really give a shit what the discount preacher I found last-minute thinks.

  But it felt right to wear a suit to my little brother’s funeral, and that feeling is pretty much I have to go on right now. With this. With anything.

  I walk around to my mom’s side of the car, offer her my hand. She has some trouble with the right side of her body, and she’s having a particularly bad day today so I have to practically haul her out of the car and she clings to my arm like she’s drowning and I’m her only lifeline.

  We head for the grave site slowly, my mom walking very carefully around the headstones, the dips in the ground, the raised tufts of grass slowly going bone-dry. She almost trips a few times, but I catch her, and we keep going.

  A small mercy: she finally remembered about Eli this morning. I think Isabel took pity on her and told her a few times as well. I should thank her for that.

  Halfway to the gravesite, my mom stops. Her breathing is a little hard, and she’s sweating as well under her black blouse and black pants.

  “Trent,” she says, her voice a little shaky and uncertain.

  “Yeah?”

  She works her mouth, like she’s having trouble forming words, and I wait.

  “This isn’t where your father is buried,” she finally says.

  “I know.”

  “We should bury Eli next to his father.”

  I swallow hard. This isn’t the first time today we’ve had almost this exact conversation, and I’ve got a feeling it won’t be the last.

  “I’m not burying Eli next to that man, Mom.”

  “They should be together.”

  “No, they shouldn’t. Come on.”

  There are a thousand more things I could say. I could even get away with them, because in twenty minutes they’ll be gone from her memory, but I keep my mouth shut.

  I’ve already wrecked enough by saying something I shouldn’t have this week.

  Finally, we’re by the grave, a few minutes early. The cemetery’s set up a tent over the graveside, and mom and I sit on shaded folding chairs, Eli’s coffin on a metal contraption, hovering over the open hole in the dirt.

  Just looking at it, my gut clenches. Even though I didn’t want an open casket — staring at my dead brother just didn’t appeal to me — I have the crazy urge to open it and look inside. I just want to make sure that he’s really there, that he’s really dead, that this isn’t some long, bizarre joke being played on me.

  “There ought to be a service,” my mom says, her voice fading again.

  “We’re early,” I tell her. “The minister’s coming.”

  She looks around. Her right hand has started shaking a little, and I just watch it for a long moment. Thinking that they needed me, her and Eli, and I just abandoned them. The second I could get out of that house, out of Low Valley, I did.

  We sit there, quietly, for several more minutes. No one else comes, but I wasn’t expecting anyone. Eli’s friends are mostly in prison, or not the funeral types, and it’s not like we’ve got any other family worth inviting.

  “Trent,” my mom says
after a while, like she’s just realized something. “This isn’t where your father’s buried.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “We should bury Eli next to his father.”

  I want to scream. I want to throw this chair into the grave, I want to kick my stupid brother’s stupid coffin. I want to fucking destroy everything I can see, anything so I don’t have to tell my mother again and again that it’s up to me and we’re not fucking burying my brother next to the man he was unfortunate enough to be descended from.

  “They should be together,” she says.

  “I’m not burying Eli next to Dad,” I say.

  Finally, someone else is walking over to the grave site: another man in a suit, the same carefully somber expression I saw all over faces at the funeral home. I stand, help my mother up.

  “Reverend McCarthy,” he says, going to my mother first, shaking her hand tenderly like she’s a child. “You’re the family.”

  “Yes,” she says, and I nod.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he says, his face practically radiating sorrow and empathy.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  He’s not. I know he’s not. I know he’s paid to be here and say pretty things about someone he didn’t know, but it seemed like the right thing to do, so here we are.

  “Will this be all?” he asks, adjusting his glasses.

  I glance around. There’s another row of chairs set up behind us, but that’s pretty fucking optimistic. I don’t know who else would show up. Besides the obituary the funeral home ran, I don’t know how anyone would even know about this.

  “Yes, that’s all,” my mom says, sounding frailer than ever.

  We sit. The reverend assumes his position near the head of the grave, taking out a leather portfolio and opening it, his face so serious it may as well be made from stone.

  “Brothers and sisters,” he intones. “Friends and family, we’re here to celebrate and mourn the death of Eli Ryder...”