by J P Barnaby
Anthony just wanted to know what the fuck was going on.
The matchbox kitchen didn’t really match the rest of the townhouse. It was barely large enough to turn around in. He liked it. The stainless-steel appliances looked good against the backdrop of modern glass-fronted cabinets. Anthony opened the refrigerator to see if Patrick had water and found a couple of six-packs of beer bottles instead. His boss didn’t seem to be a stranger to booze, just like Anthony. But as that thought sunk in, another one blazed bright across his mind.
For the first time in his life last night, Anthony had taken care of someone else—not his parents, not Allen, not even Saint Aaron, but him. He liked the strength that filled his bones. Anthony wasn’t useless as everyone had supposed. Maybe he really could figure out his life.
“Hey,” Patrick said from the doorway with a small smile… and no shirt.
“Hey.”
“What was that weird look?” Patrick asked as he pulled a T-shirt over his head. His long, lean ab muscles flexed against the waistband of his jeans.
“I…. Nothing. Did you hear from your brother?”
“No. Not since he told me to fuck off, sell the store, and get out of his life.”
“Do you want to stop over there on the way to the cookout?” Anthony asked. He wanted to check on Bren just as much as Patrick did. Something inside of him ached at the thought of Bren in pain.
“No, let’s save the unpleasantness for after. Sandy invited him too, but unless we had the cookout in his living room….”
“My brother Aaron was like that for a long time. Living your life around that is exhausting.”
“Yeah, it really is.”
FIFTEEN MINUTES later they pulled up in front of Sandy’s place, and Anthony whistled. There, sitting in the driveway were two vintage cars, the bodywork and paint so perfect they appeared brand new. Sunlight gleamed in all the right places from the early summer day. Anthony didn’t know anything about cars, though he tried to keep the Mustang in shape at Allen’s insistence. But the ones sitting in the drive, those were worth getting excited over. When he glanced up, Patrick grinned at him.
“Restoring cars is kind of a hobby for Sandy and her husband, Butch.”
“Butch? Really?” Anthony snorted and reached for the handle.
“He’s got a name, but after all these years, I’m not even sure I ever knew what it was. We always just called him Butch. You’ll see. He’s like a fucking mountain.”
They climbed out of the car. Anthony grabbed the bag of ice he’d insisted Patrick let him buy. He couldn’t show up with absolutely nothing. His mother would die. That twinge in his chest slammed into him again at the thought of his mother, but he ignored it. Patrick carried the plates and cups he’d bought, and they headed not to the front door as Anthony expected, but to a side gate.
On the other side of the fence, the world opened up onto a yard full of people in small groups, islands of humanity pocketed around tables and clusters of camp chairs. He saw Sandy right away, carrying a tray toward a house of a man next to the grill. Six and a half feet tall and as wide as Anthony and Patrick put together, that had to be Butch. He grinned at Sandy and exchanged the tray for a kiss. Anthony recognized no one and had turned to stand next to the fence out of the way when a voice stopped him.
“Hey, Patrick!”
A guy not much older than Anthony with a thin face and a friendly expression popped up next to them and smiled at Patrick. His hair, shaved on the sides with longer blond waves on top, fell into his eyes, and he flipped it back.
“Sean, how you doin’ kid? This is Anthony, our new stocker.”
“Not much of a kid anymore, man,” he said with a laugh. “But it looks like you replaced me with one. Is he even old enough to have a job?”
The smile never left Sean’s face, but something in Patrick’s expression faltered when he looked at Anthony. He had to see the storms brewing inside, the ones Anthony could never hide.
“Anthony’s tougher than he looks. He lives on his own and has done a fair job of settling in.”
Patrick turned his head toward Sean and whispered something. Anthony caught only the word alone spoken in concern. Then he brushed his hand over his stomach the way he always seemed to do when there was something on his mind. Like absent crumbs of thought had landed on his shirt.
“Hey, Anthony.” Sean motioned to his friends from the door. “These are my friends Jeff and Chris.” Sean grinned. “Man, Boss Man didn’t even wait for the body to get cold before he gave my job away. How do you like working for this guy?” He threw a thumb over his shoulder at Patrick, who smiled.
“He hasn’t tied me up in the stockroom or anything… yet.”
“I thought I was the only one you tied up in the stockroom,” Sean said, throwing a wink at Patrick. A blush suffused Patrick’s face, and he coughed the embarrassment out of his throat.
“You keep guys tied up in the stockroom? I thought you just slept with them there. But then again, I thought you were straight,” Anthony said with wry amusement.
Patrick flushed again, and Anthony laughed while Sean watched them with interest. The way Patrick kept losing eye contact with him told Anthony he’d flustered his boss. After last night, he figured he had some freedom to tease Patrick.
“You slept with a guy in the stockroom?” Sean asked.
Patrick glared at Anthony.
“You’re fired,” he said.
Anthony’s heart caught in his throat, afraid that maybe he’d gone too far. Then he saw the joke dancing in Patrick’s eyes.
“No, I’m not.”
“No, you’re not.” Patrick turned back to Sean. “Stop ganging up on me,” he warned. “I want him to keep working here for a while since you decided to desert me.”
“Aw, don’t be like that. If I hadn’t had to take that extra night class to graduate, I’d still be working there.”
“Sure, sure….”
“Hey, by the way, the scholarship came through, so my bachelor’s should be easier than the associate was.”
“That’s awesome, Sean. I told you that you could do it. So, what are you guys up to?” Patrick brushed the nonexistent whatever off the front of his shirt for the hundredth time this week. Anthony wondered what the hell it was.
“After this, we’re gonna pick up some beer and going over to Chris’s apartment to play games. Wanna come hang out?” Sean asked. Anthony looked away. Clearly, he wasn’t included in the invitation, except maybe as an afterthought because he was standing next to Patrick. Awkwardness crept in, surrounded by the smell of backyard barbecue.
“I’m gonna head over to Bren’s after this. He’s pissed at me. What about you, Anthony? You could go with them. I’m sure Sean would give you a ride back to the store.”
Anthony could hear the disguised plea in his voice. Please get this kid away from me for a while. He simply watched them. Sean had invited Anthony for Patrick’s sake, not because he’d wanted to. Fuck that. He didn’t need a pity friend. Now he understood why Bren didn’t want to leave the house, and he wished more than anything he was there watching a movie with him.
“No.” Anthony walked away, back toward the fence where he felt more comfortable.
“Was it something I said?” Sean asked. Anthony could feel the eyes on the back of his neck as he walked the few feet away to get himself out of their happy little friend bubble.
“No, he’s shy, skittish, and really fucking angry about something. Please, do me a favor? Just, keep trying, okay? He doesn’t have any friends here, and I think he really needs one,” Patrick murmured. He probably assumed only Sean could hear him, but it didn’t quite work out that way.
Anthony hated that they talked about him as though he wasn’t there. His parents had been doing that for years.
“He has you.”
“Yeah, he has me. But I’m an old man; he needs friends his own age.”
“Dude, you’re thirty,” Sean said with a laugh.
“Isn’t that dead in your gay years? Shouldn’t I have a bow tie, a nice suit, and a cat, or something?”
“Or a twink.”
“Shut up. Sean, why don’t you hang out here with Anthony? I’m going to say hi to Sandy.” Patrick wandered off before Anthony could protest.
“What would you like?” Sean asked as they made their way across the yard and stopped by the coolers. Anthony flipped open the lid and quickly inventoried the contents before putting his fingers on a Mike’s Hard Lemonade. He did it instinctively because he and Chase always drank shit like that at parties. It had never been a big deal, not with his crowd. Everybody drank. But as he pulled it out of the ice, his gaze caught Patrick and Sandy talking. Tension lined Patrick’s frame, and Anthony figured he was telling her about his breakup with Danielle. He didn’t want to add any more to Patrick’s stress, so he stretched, trying to play it off as he grabbed a Coke instead.
“No one is going to care,” Sean murmured so the rest of the gathering wouldn’t hear. “They’re pretty laid-back about that kind of thing.”
“I just don’t want to cause any trouble. Plus, I don’t really know anyone here, so I don’t want to get messed up,” Anthony admitted.
“You know me.” Sean smiled around the words, and Anthony smiled back, shy for the first time in his life.
“Hey, come say hi to Sandy,” Sean said when the moment had gone on a little too long. Anthony followed to where Patrick and Sandy stood near the door. She was hugging Patrick—a long, affectionate thing—and they waited for the display to be over. Then Sean tugged on Anthony’s shirt to pull him near where Sandy stood, cracking open a beer. She looked up at their approach and smiled. The expression warmed something in Anthony’s soul. No one had been happy to see him in a long time.
“Hey, Anthony. I’m glad you came,” Sandy murmured against his temple as she hugged him close.
“Thank you for inviting me.” No other words would come, so he took another drink of his pop. They stood in silence for a minute or two, the time stretching awkwardly around their little circle. Finally, a girl came by and smacked Sean on the arm.
“Hey, we’re going to start up a volleyball game. Want to come and play?”
Before Anthony could protest, Sean grabbed his hand and dragged him toward a flimsy net held up by strings, their own volleyball marionette. He stood surrounded by three other people—Sean, his friend Jeff, and the girl they’d picked up somewhere near the watermelon. The other friend, Chris, stood idly by, watching Jeff when the guy wasn’t looking. Anthony knew exactly how that felt. He’d watched Chase like that so many times.
“Okay, I’ll take Anthony. Jeff, you take Liz, cool?”
“Yep, Liz kicks ass,” Jeff said and high-fived Liz as they walked around to their side of the net.
“Got any redeeming qualities here, Anthony?” Sean asked with a laugh.
“I was all state for soccer three years in a row.”
“Ah, a nimble little minx, eh? Awesome, let’s do it.”
Thirteen
PATRICK WATCHED Anthony and Sean play volleyball from Sandy’s side where they stood by the picnic table. He hadn’t let go of his bottle of water, nursing it as Sandy talked. He’d decided beer wouldn’t help his head or his altercation with Bren later. Instead, he kept popping painkillers and sucking down water. Anthony spiked another ball at Jeff’s feet, and Patrick laughed.
“It looks like he’s adjusting,” Sandy said, and Patrick took his eyes off the game.
“God, I hope so. That kid’s been through a lot, and I don’t think it’s over yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“You remember me telling you about that friend Anthony came out here to stay with. They were supposed to meet but his car broke down?”
“Yeah, you said there was something hinky about it.” Sandy turned to face Patrick. “Something happened.”
“Anthony gave me the address of where the guy was supposed to meet him. I knew it was in the business district, so we took a ride out there before you got there to look at the car. Sandy, it was a broken-down bookstore in the middle of nowhere. The parking lot was surrounded by a rickety iron fence. It was like rape central.”
“You think this kid meant to hurt him?”
“I don’t know. But he hasn’t been in contact since. Not one word in two weeks. Not even an e-mail to see if Anthony is okay.”
“That’s fucking weird.”
“It doesn’t sit right,” Patrick said.
“He’s got you to take care of him now.” Sandy put a hand on his shoulder with a sly smile.
“That’s funny. He took care of me last night after Danielle dumped me and I got wasted off my ass. Said I was chucking bottles around screaming about how I hated the place. He got me to stop and dragged that fucking air mattress downstairs.”
“And where did he sleep, then?” Sandy fixed Patrick with such a hard stare that he took half a step back.
“Beside me.”
“You went to bed with a seventeen-year-old boy?”
“No, I passed out on an air mattress and he crawled in with me because I was sleeping in his bed.”
“Yeah, that sounds better.”
“Anyway, Bren apparently called during this whole mess. He must have seen me throwing shit around even if he couldn’t hear me.”
“How did that go?”
“He said it was too much to ask, and to sell the shit. He doesn’t fucking care anymore.”
“Do you believe that?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. I can’t leave him, not in the state he’s in. Maybe not ever. We’re all each other has left now.” Patrick sighed. He saw the signs now, clear as day. Even if Bren let him go, he’d never leave. Even if Bren snapped out of it and got better, it was just the two of them.
His Ohio vacation had officially ended.
Ferndale, Michigan, had once again become home.
WHEN PATRICK dragged Anthony out of the party a couple hours later, Sean extracted a promise that they’d get together soon. It warmed Patrick to see Anthony finally spending time outside the liquor store, and with people who would be good friends to him.
“I’m going to drop you off at the liquor store on my way to Bren’s. Do you need to stop anywhere along the way?” Patrick pulled away from the curb in front of Sandy’s house, where the party still roared in full swing.
“Do you want me to come to Bren’s with you?”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea. It’s going to be a knock-down, drag-out fight, and you don’t need to be in the middle of it.” Patrick watched Anthony’s changing expressions—pity, sadness, and then one he didn’t really understand. In the end Anthony just sat back against the seat and didn’t say anything, but Patrick could see the argument churning just below the surface.
“Will you at least shoot me an e-mail and let me know if he’s okay?” Anthony asked, and then after a beat added, “And you’re okay?”
“You guys hit it off while you were there?”
“For my part.”
Patrick didn’t know what to say to that. He’d figured Anthony would have come out of the experience wishing he’d never met Bren. Instead, he seemed to be concerned. He wasn’t sure he knew what to think of that.
“I’ll let you know.”
The ride back to the liquor store passed with little discussion. Mostly Anthony watched out the window with a blank expression on his young face. Rather than trying to puzzle it out, Patrick prepared himself for the battle ahead. When he dropped the kid off at the store, he sent a text to his brother.
I’m on my way over to talk. Leave the door unlocked or I’ll use the key.
For the entire ten-minute ride to the house, he received no response. He didn’t really expect one, but he hated the silence anyway. The images in his head—the ones of Bren finally walking away from him, from his resentment—pushed him to the edge of tears. Then they pushed him over it.
Patrick wiped his face
as he got out of the RAV4. Whatever Bren’s decision, he’d fight to keep his brother. Each slab of concrete on the walk to the house reminded him of the chalk drawings he used to make there, when Bren was barely old enough to toddle all over them, making him yell. The patches of grass on either side of him brought back memories of his friends playing keep-away from Bren. The kid never got the ball, but he never got frustrated and went into the house. Now, Patrick realized, Bren had just been happy when his big brother would let him play.
God, he hated himself.
One step, then the next brought him to the top of the porch. He didn’t want to check and see if the door was unlocked. He didn’t want to know whether or not Bren wanted to keep him out. The anniversary of the shooting would be on them soon, and Patrick had never even stopped to consider what that would do to Bren. Deep down, sometimes he wondered if it would mean that Bren would take all those pills in his medicine cabinet and just end it.
He pulled open the screen door. It moved easily in his hands. Standing in front of it to hold it out of the way, he reached for the big oak door. The knob iced his fingers on the hot June afternoon, freezing them with Bren’s indifference. Patrick took a deep breath and tightened his hold and turned his hand marginally to feel it give with no resistance.
The sob returned, but he swallowed it and opened the door.
Fourteen
BREN TOOK another drink from the can on the kitchen table, one of the sodas Anthony had left. He’d rather have a beer. He’d rather put some fucking Jack in that Coke than have this goddamned conversation.
But there were things that needed to be said, and Bren needed to be lucid enough to say them.
The front door opened and closed. Bren didn’t look up from the can. He just waited for Patrick to find him. Kind of like when they were kids, only when he went to hide, Patrick never looked. Oh, he counted, and made Bren think that maybe this time he’d come—but then he’d just sit and watch TV or play Nintendo while Bren stayed alone in the dark.
