The Walsh Brothers

by Kate Canterbary

  I turned away from the table, and Shannon said, "When he figures it all out and comes back, give him a chance. Please don't turn him away. He's so much more sensitive than he likes us to believe."

  I pivoted, staring at her for a long minute. "Shannon, I know exactly how sensitive he is. You don't need to tell me that."

  And I know how to love him, I thought.

  29

  Sam

  A few days—maybe even a week—alone was nice. Calming. Restful.

  A month alone was a purge and cleanse.

  Two months alone was the most arduous experience of my life. I fished and hiked and read, but through it all, I couldn't escape my thoughts.

  My hurt quickly tripped over into anger, and from there, I lingered in rage for too many days to count. I yelled at the trees, chucked so many stones into the river that my shoulder ached for a week, stomped up snow-covered mountains until my legs felt like noodles, chopped enough wood to heat most of Nova Scotia for the winter.

  It took a fish to pull me out of that rage.

  It was a beautiful striped bass, and it bit on my line during the type of fiery sunrise that warned sailors back to the shore. When I had it secured in the ice chest, I powered up the outboard motor and steered the boat toward the bay. I was fifteen minutes from land when the skies opened, letting loose torrential freezing rain mixed with hail and thundersnow, and there was nothing for me to do but ride it out.

  I was shivering and soaked when I docked, but if I didn't prepare the bass soon, it would spoil. Despite the heavy, wet snow, I jogged to the cleaning station downstream from the cabin and set to gutting the fish. Lightning struck no more than fifty yards away, zapping a low bush and singeing everything within a narrow radius. I jolted and my concentration faltered, and instead of stripping the fish's innards, I drove my knife into my thigh.

  Cold, wet, and bleeding, I dropped to the ground and cursed every corner of the universe. Sitting on that rocky Maine beach in early March, my hands wrapped around my leg, I hated everything. There was nothing left to celebrate, to love, to desire, and I was so fucking mad at the world.

  I wanted it to be someone's fault. I wanted everything to be someone's fault and I wanted to forward my fury toward that person.

  But all of that was futile.

  Regardless of how much anger I was cultivating, I was still alone, bleeding all over myself while I cried in the snow, and nothing was going to change unless I dragged my ass off that beach. I was the only one who could release that rage and free myself from all of it. I was the only one who could clean up after my mess.

  So I got up. It hurt like hell and I was certain I'd ground oyster shell shards and fish guts into my exposed flesh in the process, but I didn't let that panic slow me. I got up and I put one limping foot in front of the other.

  I called out—it was probably closer to a prissy yelp—when hail struck my shoulder head-on. If I hadn't already scared off the area bears with my routine hollering, they would have been running for the hills.

  The trek to the cabin felt like miles, and when I was finally out of the storm I shucked all of my clothes in a waterlogged pile and examined my self-inflicted stab wound. It wasn't deadly but there was no way it would heal without stitches.

  I waited until the storm blew over to make my way into town. As far as fishing villages went, Cutler was as authentic as they came. It was a stone's throw from the Canadian border, and in the right light you could see Nova Scotia across the Bay of Fundy. I hadn't set out for the easternmost village in the state when I left Boston, but I was glad this was where my truck decided to take me.

  The people were pleasant; they were curious about a mid-winter newcomer without being nosy, and I appreciated that. The words to explain why I'd fled an otherwise charmed life escaped me, and my baggage didn't need a seat at the town diner. I only ventured that far from the cabin when I required more supplies or a cell signal to text Riley. There was a respectable barbershop beside the grocery store, but I hadn't been looking in the mirror with enough frequency to care about my hair.

  The doctor chattered about snowfall totals and hockey while he patched me up, but my mind honed in on the sear and tug I experienced with each stitch. It was a reminder that I still felt, but it forced me to acknowledge that if I could feel pain, I was capable of feeling everything else, too.

  I capitalized on that pain, and I grounded myself in it every day. I hiked the forests and craggy shoreline, and I made it my goal to bury another bucketful of resentment among the rocks and trees and waves.

  At first, I thought it was Angus and God and asshole kids that I was trying to forgive, but as the days passed and my leg healed, I discovered I was the one who needed forgiving. There was so much—my mother's death, my father's abuse, childhood bullies, losing Tiel, my long-term self-destruction—and it was time to send all that guilt and loathing away.

  I'd experienced terrible things, some of it at my own hand, and I was leaving it all behind.

  More rocks were thrown, trees heard my screams, wood was chopped, and slowly—too slowly to notice when it happened—I started feeling better. With the constant supply of ocean-caught fish, I was eating well, and my daily anger exorcism excursions guaranteed I slept long and hard. My blood sugar still had a mind of its own, but I was paying enough attention to handle those swings properly.

  On the rare evening when I had enough energy to keep my eyes open past sunset, I lay on the floor in front of the wood stove and listened to the playlist simply titled 'Tiel.'

  The tracks sounded different without her humming and tapping the beat beside me. But those songs, fuck, they gutted me.

  I read every morning, devouring my weathered and well-loved copies of The Count of Monte Cristo, The Cask of Amontillado, Les Miserables, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and The Lord of the Rings trilogy. In my haste to get out of Boston, I'd accidentally tossed Tiel's copy of that Johnny Cash biography into my rucksack. One morning when my longing for her was a tangible being in this tiny cabin, I started reading it just to be close to her.

  The life story was engaging, but it was the letters that grabbed my attention. Pages and pages of handwritten letters from Johnny Cash to June Carter Cash, and I remembered how Tiel described it: they went through intense, messy times but found a way to love each other.

  And that was how I wanted this to end.

  I dug through my bags until I found a small notebook with a five-year-old tide chart printed on the inside cover, and started writing everything I'd been storing up since I walked away from my life weeks ago.

  I loved her, fully and completely, and she brought out the best version of me. She didn't save me; no, this was something I had to do for myself. But she did keep me afloat.

  Tiel was broken in certain spots, and strong in others, and we fit together that way.

  I learned a lot about myself during that time. About the choices I'd made in defining myself and what I valued, and their implications. About the things I wanted to create—an identity independent of club-hopping, blackout drinking, and hook-ups. But more importantly, I wanted a family of my own, and I wanted it with Tiel.

  I wasn't that guy anymore, that angry manwhore who wanted to drown his feelings in sex and gin.

  By the end of April, the notebook was full and the plan came together in my mind, and I couldn't get out of Cutler quickly enough.

  It was time to go home to my girl.

  I was greeted at Tiel's door with shriek. "Holy shit, it's a Yeti!"

  A short woman slammed the door in my face only to open it a crack and peek at me. Turning, I glanced down the hallway, confirming I was on the right floor before I said, "Hi. I'm looking for Tiel."

  The door swung open. "Tiel isn't here right now. Is there something I can help you with?"

  I rubbed my forehead, fighting back my frustration. I'd been rehearsing this goddamn speech for six hours straight, plus the past two weeks. Every one of the three hundred and thirty miles from Cutler fi
lled me with optimistic tension, and I was ready to tear the door off its hinges. "I'm sorry, this is sensationally rude but who are you?"

  "I'm Ellie—"

  "Oh," I laughed. "Ellie, I've heard so much about you. I'm—"

  "Sam the freckle twin," she said with a grim expression. "I didn't expect the beard…or, any of this."

  She gestured toward me, and when I looked down, I laughed. I couldn't remember the last time I paid attention to my appearance. My primary concern in Maine was preventing frostbite, and I hadn't once shaved. I was still wearing flannel-lined jeans, beaten-to-shit hiking boots, and a thermal shirt, and my hair was a shaggy, overgrown mess. I hadn't accounted for the arrival of spring in Boston when I left the cabin.

  "It's about time you showed up." She leaned against the door frame, her arms crossed and her eyebrow cocked, her chin jutting in my direction.

  "You're right about that," I murmured. "When will Tiel be back?"

  She frowned, humming, and shook her head. "I need some more information about your intentions."

  Most days I pretended Tiel was better off without me, that she was happier and moving on with her life. That was the only way I could survive the distance we put between each other. I'd wanted to call so many times and tell her I missed her, I loved her, I needed her…but I wasn't ready until now. I couldn't give her the broken version of me again. I had to be whole first.

  She hadn't called either, and every time I touched base with Riley, I scanned my texts, emails, and voicemails for any sign from her. I hadn't considered that she might not be ready for me.

  "Is she all right? Where is she?"

  "Here's the deal. Tiel's the nice one in this apartment. I'm the bulldog." She nodded emphatically. "You showing up here all impatient and lumberjacked is wonderful, but that doesn't address my issue with you falling off the face of the planet."

  In that instant, I loved Ellie. As far as I knew, she was the only person who consistently protected Tiel, and even though she was aiming that bulldog bark at me, I appreciated it.

  "I love her and I need her, and the only way I'm leaving is with a restraining order, Ellie, and my sister is an excellent attorney, so I doubt that will happen. I'm here to stay."

  "All right. Let's talk."

  30

  Tiel

  I gazed at the committee, quaking minutely where I stood. They paged through my dissertation, murmuring and jotting notes, and I continued knotting and unknotting my fingers. My knuckles hurt—hell, everything hurt. If I wasn't writing, I was practicing, and it didn't matter how exhausted or sore I was because I had to keep going.

  I'd fallen apart once. That was enough.

  They asked questions and offered blank stares while I spoke, and when I was convinced they were going to haul out a giant 'idiot' stamp and slap it on every page of my research, the Dean said, "The committee agrees your work merits approval."

  I smiled through a round of congratulations and discussion of my future plans. There were offers to join a residency program at Boston Children's Hospital, a research fellowship at McLean Hospital, a clinical position at a school specializing in the autism spectrum, but I couldn't do anything with that information right now. Forcing a smile, I promised to take it all into consideration, and then I got the fuck out of there.

  "Are you having fun?" Ellie asked.

  She was altogether too eager for me right now. Sure, I should be thrilled that my work wasn't tossed in the shredder and I wasn't laughed out of the building, but it hardly mattered. It was one dissertation with some overly ambitious correlations based upon a narrow sample set. I wasn't proposing actionable solutions for peace in the Middle East.

  But Ellie had been determined to get me out of the house, and I was starting to think she was trying to get me some action, too. She'd insisted on visiting this new bar in the South End, and though it was a strange choice for us, I didn't have the energy to disagree.

  I was okay, sort of.

  I managed to pull together a dissertation in two months and added forty-six tracks to my YouTube channel. It was all part of a strategic initiative aimed at keeping me from crying in bed, on the sofa, or anywhere else that reminded me of Sam, and it was only partially successful.

  My musical tastes were a blend of depressed teenage girl and eclectic hipster. My recent playlist walked a convoluted course from dark and moody to angry to melancholy to emo-angsty, and my subscribers were hungry for something happy but I didn't have it in me. Not yet.

  I was all U2 ('One'), The Rolling Stones ('Paint It Black'), Arctic Monkeys ('Do I Wanna Know?'), Dashboard Confessional ('Vindicated'), Muse ('Madness'), No Doubt ('Ex-Girlfriend'), REO Speedwagon ('Take It On the Run'), The Shins ('Caring is Creepy'), AFI ('Love Like Winter'), The Doors ('Riders on the Storm'), My Chemical Romance ('Famous Last Words'), Joseph Arthur ('Honey and the Moon'), Tegan and Sara ('Where Does the Good Go?'), and Taylor Swift ('Style,' 'Blank Space,' 'I Knew You Were Trouble,' and basically everything else she'd ever recorded).

  "Your enthusiasm is a little high for me," I said, propping my elbows on the table. "I'd really appreciate it if we can admire my so-called accomplishments with a hot bath. Or better yet, a nap."

  "I love how you suffer for your art," she said. "It's a nice throwback to the nineties."

  "Seriously, Ell," I said, leaning down to suck my drink through the straw. "I'm not in the mood. I'm tired. I haven't slept since the vernal equinox and if you tapped my blood, it would be sixty percent cappuccino, and I want to sleep right now. I don't understand why I have to party tonight."

  Ellie eyed me from across the booth. "You got a doctorate today. Be happy."

  "I will, as soon as I recover."

  "That's a little fatalistic," she murmured. She was focused on her phone, and didn't look up. It was odd—wonderful, but odd—having her back in the apartment again. She'd spent one weekend with me before flying back to the tour, and now she was only home for another two weeks before the European leg kicked off. I was trying to enjoy my time with her but very obviously failing.

  I scanned the bar while she texted, estimating how much longer we'd have to stay. It wasn't even nine at night, but now that I'd successfully defended and spent four hours in the studio, I wanted to crawl into Sam's clothes—the ones that had lost his scent when I washed them—and sleep for days.

  What I wouldn't do to go back in time. Do it all over again, and do it right. Say all the things I wanted to say, let myself experience big, scary feelings and deal with them like an adult, and then give him as much as he gave me.

  Then I heard it. 'Anna Sun.'

  One song about never wanting to grow up. That was all it took. One song and a thousand memories swirled around me, pulling me into the quicksand. I'd avoided that Walk the Moon tune and so many others attached to Sam. All the memories I'd worked so hard to manage were right there, howling for my attention and clogging my throat with tears.

  "Are those tears of joy? As in, 'I'm no one's research bitch anymore' tears?" Ellie peered at me.

  "This song," I said. "It just reminds me of Sam."

  "Yeah. About him," she murmured. "Have you thought about calling him?"

  I shook my head and edged my drink away. Much more of that and I'd be face-down on the table. "And say what? 'Hey, it's been months but I miss you and I feel like my heart has been ripped out through my belly button and I just want to explain why I was a horrible bitch to you'? I don't see that happening."

  "Well…" She grabbed my drink and drained it. "Why not?"

  I rolled my eyes. "Because…because he might not want to see me."

  "And what if he does?"

  I snorted. "Would you go back to someone who was awful to you?"

  "Why can't you see him and tell him it's been long enough? Get those big girl panties and make shit happen for you. Now. Go. Find his ass and give him a talking-to."

  "While that is a fantastic idea and all, don't you think I could get some sleep first?"

  Ellie
shook her head. "I don't think so."

  Before I could argue, she nodded toward the bar, and Sam was standing there. Maybe he'd been there all along or maybe I was imagining him, but there he was, tanned, bearded, and rather scruffy. Ellie slipped out of the booth as he walked toward me, and I knew they'd planned this beautifully choreographed dance.

  I stared at him, peering past all the changes to find the man I once knew. All the words were bubbling up inside me and I was shaky and shivering, as if I was somehow chilled on a hot day, and fuck, I just wanted to touch him and never, ever stop.

  "Hi," he said. That voice. It was surprisingly deep, and he wasn't saying much but he was saying everything. "Your hair is longer." He reached out, fingering the strands spilling over my shoulders. I hadn't found the time to get it cut since before we went to Arizona, and he was here with me, touching my hair even after I'd convinced myself it would never happen. "God, you are so fucking gorgeous."

  "What are you doing here?" I blurted, and those words sliced right through him. He winced, sucking in a breath as he looked away. "That's not how I meant it to come out. I just… I'm sorry but where the fuck have you been? I didn't think I'd see you again. I mean, I'm not saying you should leave, but I want to know why you dropped off the face of the planet and I don't know what to say so I'm just letting words fall out of my mouth and hoping they make sense."

  Focus, Tiel.

  "I've been chopping wood and hating the world and dealing with my issues," he said. "And that took a lot longer than I expected, but…" He reached into his pocket and produced a journal. "Here."

  Part of me was too stunned to speak, and the other part was trying to figure out what was happening. Sam placed it in my hands, nodding, and I opened to an arbitrary page.

  Tiel –

  * * *

  I'll never forget the sound of your voice when you say 'I love you.' It's different, like you're telling me a secret or speaking in a language that only we can hear.