Thirty Days: Part Three (A SwipeDate Novella)

by BT Urruela

  I rear back a little, eyes widening as his words surprise me. I had no doubt he was struggling, but didn’t think it was as bad as he’s portraying it to be. “Of course not,” I respond, shaking my head. “I don’t wish for anything negative on you. I just wish you had cared enough to come back. Cared enough about them to see it through to the end.”

  “I couldn’t fucking watch them deteriorate, Gavin. I couldn’t watch them go out like that,” he cries out, his face a deep shade of red. “It fucking killed me.”

  “You don’t think it killed me, too? To watch every day as disease took both of them away from me, piece by piece…” I put a hand to my heart, softening my tone a bit. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad, Jared. I’m sorry. That won’t bring either of them back, and certainly won’t change a damn thing. I guess I’m just pissed because I know that you’re gonna head out that door tonight, you’re gonna get on that flight tomorrow morning, and that’s gonna be it. There’s no one else left to die. No more funerals to attend. I’ll never see you again.”

  “There’s always Mom and Dad’s,” he says, his lips turning up into a grin, an eyebrow arched.

  “Ice cube’s chance in hell I attend either of those. For all I know, Dad’s been dead for years anyway. He’s probably hanging from a belt in some Mexican barrio somewhere. Fuck them. This isn’t about them. This is about us. You’re all I got left, bro.”

  He rolls his eyes, waving me off and says, “Oh shut up. I’ll be back to visit.”

  “You’re lying through your fucking teeth,” I gripe, chugging my beer and wiping a forearm across my lips. “You wanna smoke?” I motion toward the back door with my head and his eyes light up.

  “You bet your ass, I do.” He chuckles. “You always could be counted on when it came to weed.”

  I shake my head as I lead him to the back door. Looking over my shoulder at him, I mutter, “I don’t think that can be considered a compliment.”

  “I wasn’t intending for it to be.”

  Jared loosens his tie and pulls it over his head as he sits in one of the wrought iron chairs beside the table in the garden. He smiles wide as his eyes land on the tin cigarillo case on the table.

  “I know that case,” he says. “Why do I get the feeling it’s not a change purse anymore.” Grinning, he lifts it up and opens it, his googly eyes taking in the joints that fill it. I’m a creature of habit, and I’ve had this old cigarillo tin case since we were kids, though it used to hold change in the days before my delinquency.

  “How are you not fucking cold?” I ask, shivering as I take a seat and swipe the tin from his hands.

  “I run hot. You know that. Fucking gift from our old man.”

  I laugh, nodding in agreement. “I always say that. I get that tendency to overheat from him too, but shit, it’s cold as fuck out here. And you’ve lived in Texas forever.”

  “Well”—he stifles a laugh, putting a hand to his mouth—“you always have been a bit of a pussy,” he says, bursting out into a fit of laughter.

  I shake my head as I slip a joint in my mouth and light it. I take a heavy drag, holding the smoke in for a moment before blowing it in his direction. His nostrils flare and eyes dramatically roll white as he sucks down the smoke.

  “Enjoy that secondhand shit, big bro. You’re not getting any of the real stuff talking that ‘pussy’ nonsense.”

  He rears his head back, his lip curling. “You wouldn’t dare,” he says, his lips transforming into a smile.

  “Watch me,” I respond, taking another delightful puff of the cannabis stick and blowing smoke right back in his face. I reluctantly hand the joint over when he crosses his arms in defiance, and he’s quick to reach out and snatch it.

  He puffs away on it as I scrutinize his actions. Much of his demeanor—gestures, body movements, speech patterns—is a carbon copy of my own. It’s such a strange thing how two people can be so alike, having spent so much time apart.

  Jared never could look at my mother the same way after what Uncle Joe did to us. He rightfully blamed her and as soon as he was old enough to leave the house—which happened to be sixteen, in his case—he did. He left with a girlfriend to move down to San Antonio with her family and escaped the house of hell we once shared. Being four years his junior, I was left to fend for myself as Dad’s alcoholism got worse and Mom’s mental illness intensified. He became a man searching for a new life in a far-off place, while I fought for normalcy in my adolescence back home without him.

  I never really blamed him for hightailing it out of there, though I often did so vocally. If I had the willpower to escape before I did, I would have, but at the end of the day, all jokes aside, what my brother said is true—I have always been a bit of a pussy; always shied away from those things most challenging. I’ve always seen the sliver of good in the worst of people. For the longest time, I believed Mom could change. If it hadn’t been for Grandpa’s deteriorating health, I may still be there fighting for her wellness—even if she had given up on it herself long ago.

  The best thing that ever happened was getting away from her, out from under her controlling grip, and learning so much from my grandma in the short time I had with her before the Alzheimer’s took control.

  It saved me.

  “Things haven’t been as easy for me over the years as you’d like to imagine.” Jared returns to our earlier conversation, handing the joint back over as a swirl of smoke drifts around his head.

  “I never assumed they were. I always figured they were as ugly as my last few years have been. ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree’ and all that shit, right?”

  “Yeah.” He scoffs. “Something like that. Do you ever talk to them anymore?”

  “Mom and Dad? Fuck no. You do?”

  “I used to, a lot more. Haven’t in a while.”

  “Where the fuck is Dad, anyway?”

  “Last I talked to him, he was still in Arizona, doing time for armed robbery.”

  “That motherfucker’s in prison?” I ask, eyes wide and mouth gaping, though I’m not sure why I’m so surprised. I pass the joint off and he eagerly takes it, his eyes already glossy and bloodshot, an unwarranted smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  “The past three years now, as far as I know. Last letter I got from him was about that long ago.”

  “And Mom?”

  “Haven’t spoken with her in about two years. Not since the last time she needed something. She can’t get it through her head that I don’t have the money to give.”

  “Hence, why neither of them have my number or address.”

  “You sent them Grandma’s funeral information though, right?”

  “Yeah. Mom at least, but I’ve had a PO box since I released my first book. Over my dead body, she gets my real one. I honestly don’t know how you even still talk to them.”

  “It’s complicated, little bro,” he replies, squinting through the thick smoke as he dabs the joint out in the ash tray. “Before you came around, and when you were still a baby, things were different around the house. Happier. Not saying you caused any of what came to be.” He chuckles, putting a hand on my elbow and shaking his head. “No, they were just different.”

  “I honestly just think you’re misremembering things. I can remember thinking our parents were normal, too, when I was younger. It’s when you get a little older, a little wiser, and you’re able to see what a good parent really is that the façade comes crashing down. You know what I think the real reason is you can stomach still having them a part of your life in some capacity?”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re gonna tell me anyhow?”

  Ignoring him, I proceed. “It’s because you got the hell out of there when you still had a bit of your sanity intact. The shit didn’t rub off on you as much as it did with me.”

  He scoffs, shaking his head in disagreement. “Brother, you always have and always will hold a grudge against me for leaving, but you gotta understand, it wasn’t much easier for
me. I was sixteen years old when I left, and had to become a man. I moved to a place I didn’t know with a woman I kinda hated. I started working construction because it’s the only shit I could get on and I never looked back. This ain’t no life to write home about. How I see it, you got things pretty damn good here, Mr. Book Writer,” he says, a bite to his tone, as he motions his hand around the garden.

  “I can’t help that I grew up with reading and writing as my only escape. ‘If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others…’”

  “Yeah, yeah, read a lot and write a lot. Let’s not forget who handed you your first King book.”

  I smirk, having forgotten that he was in fact the one who turned me on to Stephen King in the first place, when he gave me his copy of Carrie at the ripe age of ten. It scared me shitless and I’ve been hooked ever since.

  “So, construction still, huh?”

  His lips are pressed tightly together, his brow scrunched as if he’s taken offense, though I didn’t mean any.

  “Yeah, when I can get it. And roofing, siding, mowing people’s fucking lawns… whatever brings the money in. It’s a dream, man, let me tell ya. Not many people are trying to hire a felon these days.”

  I nearly choke, my eyes wide as I make sense of what he’s just said. “A felon since when?”

  “Better part of two years, brother. I served eight months and some change back in 2015.”

  “For what?”

  “Aggravated assault.”

  “Fuck me, bro. Why wouldn’t you tell me something like that? I could’ve helped somehow. What the hell happened?”

  “Bar fight. I went ape shit on the guy. And what the fuck could you have done? Broken me free?” He laughs loudly. “I was the dumbass who got drunk and found myself a fight. I earned the time, fair and square. ‘Sides, they cut me a pretty good deal.”

  “I’m just…” I shake my head slowly, my eyes falling to the stone patio as my mind runs wild. “Just feels like I’m sitting across from a stranger right now, you know? It’s fucking sad.”

  “It’s fucking life,” he retorts, standing from his chair and rubbing his hands up and down his arms. “Mind if we move this party inside? Now, I’m fucking freezing.”

  I grin, nodding as I join him standing.

  “Fucking pussy,” I mutter.

  Once inside, he cuts right toward the couch and I go left for the fridge to grab more beer.

  “Hey, how about you bring that Fireball with you, too?” he asks with a sly smile and I swipe it with my free hand as I pass by, the two beers held between the fingers of my other hand.

  I set the bottles down on the coffee table before plopping back into my seat. Jared takes the Fireball, twists the cap off, and throws the bottle back, taking thick chug after thick chug, until a quarter of the bottle disappears. He sets it back to the table and lets out a pleasant groan.

  “Jesus, Jared. Take it easy.”

  “That is me taking it easy,” he smirks, grabbing the beer bottle from the coffee table and lifting it to me in a pseudo cheers before taking a big drink of it as well.

  “You could always come up this way, you know. I don’t have a whole lot of money, but there are some things around the house that need fixed.”

  He grimaces, leaning back in his chair and rubbing a temple stiffly. “I got no interest in being your paid bitch boy.”

  I roll my eyes before narrowing them on him. “That’s not what I meant,” I say, retrieving my beer from the coffee table. “Not what I meant at all. I’m just saying, it would be good to have you around more. As much as you piss me off, I’ve kinda missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too, Gav, but unfortunately, a cross country move ain’t in the game plan for me.”

  “And why not? I could help you out.”

  “I don’t think so. I got the kinda problems can’t nobody help with.”

  “Try me.”

  “Well, I imagine your first roadblock would be Arlene and the baby growing inside her belly.”

  “Is this real fucking life right now?” I ask, throwing my hands in the air. “Just gonna hit me with all the bombs today, huh? First, prison. Now, what, a wife and kid?”

  “Ex-wife.” He’s quick to correct me. “I ain’t with that bitch anymore, but as of six months ago, we’re gonna be linked for life.” Jared grunts, his distant eyes trailing to the Fireball. “Leave it to a little bit of alcohol and a lot of pent up frustration to get me back inside that pussy. Sweeter than pie, but the bitch who owns it…” He rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “Succubus.”

  I drop my head in my hands, letting my palms run down my cheeks until they fall back to my sides.

  “Don’t you worry yourself, little brother. I’ll be alright.”

  “I just don’t even know what to say.”

  “Ain’t much that needs saying.” He shrugs. “In three months, I’m gonna be a daddy, whether I’m ready or not.”

  “Boy or a girl?”

  “She won’t tell me. Anything she can hold over my head, you better believe she takes advantage.”

  “That’s so fucked.”

  “That’s Arlene. The pride of fucking Texas. She’s hellbent on making me pay for that divorce.”

  “How long were you with her.”

  “Year, total. Six months married, just about.”

  “What the hell were you thinking?”

  He chuckles, shrugging as he finishes off his beer and replaces it with the bottle of Fireball on the coffee table. “I was thinking, ‘damn, that pussy is sweet, her daddy’s rich, and she’s got a heart of gold.’ The first two were legit. The last one, well, I found out the hard way, her heart’s blacker than asphalt.”

  “Alimony or anything like that?”

  “Nah, we weren’t together long enough, and besides,” he cackles, “what the fuck is she gonna get out of me? Now, child support… that’ll be interesting.”

  “Maybe you could stay up this way for a few months until the baby comes. I mean, I’m assuming she’s not letting you be involved with the pregnancy.”

  He confirms with a nod.

  “So, stay up here for a bit, make some money, and forget about some of the bullshit for a bit.”

  He shakes his head. “Ain’t that easy. Can’t just up and leave Texas. I’ve got obligations.”

  “Until that baby comes, what kind of obligations do you have down there? I mean, really?”

  “Just don’t try and make a big deal about this. I’ll be up to visit more, honestly.” From the look on his face, I don’t think he even believes the words coming out of his mouth.

  I nod, lips pursed and thoughts running, as he takes a drink of Fireball again, straight from the bottle. “Well, just think about it, alright? I mean, really think about it. I’m gonna grab a nap, that joint did me in, but you wanna hang out here for the night? Maybe grab a late bite tonight and brunch tomorrow before your flight?”

  “I fly out real early,” he responds.

  “Late dinner, then? And spend the night, please. There’s no need for you to pay for a hotel room.”

  He hesitates for a moment before eventually nodding. “You got it, little bro. Go get some sleep. I’m gonna polish off this Fireball.” He holds the bottle up as his eyebrows dance.

  “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave some for me for when I wake,” I joke, rising from my recliner. Heading toward the stairs, I turn back and say, “I’ll see you in a few hours, bro.”

  He grunts, winks, and digs at his crotch. “Few hours, indeed. Rest easy, Sleeping Beauty.”

  When I wake, I notice darkness has overtaken the loft, which means I likely overslept. I one eye the alarm clock and it reads eight-twenty. I lumber out of bed with a groan and search blindly for the side table lamp’s pull string. Finally locating it, I flip the light on and bat my eyelids as my vision adjusts. Slipping on a pair of basketball shorts, I walk toward the stairs and proceed down them.

  As I reach the bottom, I sa
y, “Hey fucker, sorry for sleeping in. You ready for some—” I’m cut off by an empty room. A row of empty beer bottles is lined up against the edge of the coffee table and the Fireball bottle—finished off, as promised—sits just before them. There’s an eerie silence around me.

  My first stop is the bathroom, but it’s clear Jared’s not in there as there’s no light filtering out from the cracks. I knock anyway, calling out his name with no response. Inching the door open, I find it empty as suspected. Next, I check the garden—nothing. I don’t have his number, haven’t in years, so there’s no contacting him beyond email or good old-fashioned snail mail, which does me no good here. I’m hoping he simply ran out of patience and went out for a bite. Though, as I sit down on the couch and flip on the TV, my gut tells me what I already know—he’s gone, hightailed it out of here again. It’s what he’s best at. I wait anyway, if for nothing more than to be proven right.

  Depression and grief are like ingredients to some fucked up, depraved recipe. They work together perfectly, effortlessly, in bringing someone down.

  And the further down it brings you, the more cohesive they work together. When anger is thrown in the mix—watch out!

  I’ve been on the couch all night, slipping in and out of sleep, waiting for Jared to come back, ignoring all common sense. He’s good at this leaving thing. He’s always been that way, even when we were kids. Whether it be serious conversation or a complicated roadblock in life, his first instinct has always been to run. I’d put money on him never seeing Texas again. Too many responsibilities there now. And he sure as hell won’t ever see New York again. I’d put money on that.

  I should be sad, but I’m only angry. I’m furious as the cursor blinks on the empty email. I have so many things I’d like to say to him, but the words just just don’t form. Instead, I pull up my newest manuscript, the one I haven’t opened since Grandma made her turn for the worse, and I begin writing. I don’t think too hard about my words, but let them run through me freely from mind to fingertips. Incessantly, I type, forgetting about the ugliness that awaits me in the real world…the mountains I must climb…the brother I both love and hate in equal parts. The pain is transformed from feeling to prose, and for the first time in a while, it’s effortless.