by A. E. Wasp
“And another thing, you have no friends!” He spat the accusation at Dmitri. “Do you even know how to have friends? Friendship isn’t obligation. You don’t do things for your friends out of obligation. You do it because that’s what people do.”
Dmitri sat down heavily on the bed. “Troy, I don’t…What can I say? I’m not a good person like you. And eventually you were going to find out. I’m not like you, giving and giving. You’re right. I never told you about the job because I don’t share and I just didn’t know. I don’t know. I applied before I met you! And now, I’m just afraid. Afraid you will break up with me, afraid of how much you mean to me.”
Troy took a step towards Dmitri, and Dmitri scooted back up the bed away from him. “And just straight up afraid of me.”
Dmitri shook his head violently, a somatic denial at odds with the words coming out of his mouth. “You’re angry in your sleep! You yell, and you hit me!”
There was nothing Troy could say to that. Dmitri wasn’t safe around him. Dmitri didn’t deserve to have to live like that. If Troy couldn’t be there for someone he loved - yeah, he loved Dmitri, he could admit it to himself. All his illusions were being stripped away in this room that had become a sanctuary to him over the last months. He wasn’t okay. He wasn’t any good to anyone, least of all the people he loved. “I’m tired of it,” he said out loud.
“Of what?” Dmitri asked quietly.
“Of everything. Fighting to be normal. Pretending like everything is okay. Like school isn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Like I know what I’m doing. Like I don’t wish I had died back there, or that I could go back. At least there, I knew what I was doing.”
“No. Oh, no. Don’t say that.” This time it was Dmitri who reached for Troy and Troy who flinched back.
“I have to go.” He grabbed all the clothes he could reach. His, Dmitri’s - it didn’t matter. He stepped clear of the pile of sheets on the floor, stepped over Moby, and was down the stairs in a heartbeat.
“Troy! Don’t go.” Dmitri called from the bedroom.
Troy ignored him. He saw the paint cans and tarps in the kitchen and cursed himself for an idiot. What had he been thinking? Who did that? Painted a person’s kitchen without permission?
Gravel cut into his bare feet as he ran to his truck. Tossing his clothes into the front seat, he slammed the truck into gear and peeled out of the driveway, gravel and dust flying up behind him in his wake.
He turned the radio up as loud as it would go and pointed the truck towards the mountains.
chapter thirty
Habit led Troy home through empty pre-dawn streets; the gray sky only a few shades lighter than the black bulk of the mountains. The only four places he went with any regularity were school, work, Dmitri’s house, and his apartment. And he’d been spending less and less time there lately.
The ancient street light cast an oily orange glow through the branches of the cottonwood tree in front of the house Troy lived in. He eased his truck in next to the other tenants’ cars and contemplated walking up the thirteen steps to his apartment. He exhaled, wincing with the pain in his chest. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to exist. Closing his eyes, he let himself fall sideways onto the bench seat. Reaching over the back seat for the flannel shirt he’d thrown in there the day before, he pulled the shirt over himself and gave in to the overwhelming exhaustion.
When Dmitri had been young, maybe eleven or twelve, his appendix had burst in the middle of a soccer game. He’d collapsed on the field and had been rushed to the hospital. Though Vlad had been jealous of Dmitri’s ambulance ride, Dmitri’s strongest memory of the experience was of pain and his mom telling him it was all going to be okay and holding his hand so tightly she’d cut the circulation off.
But attempting to wake up after the operation had been ten times worse. He couldn’t stop shuddering from the bone-deep cold that wouldn’t go away no matter how many heated blankets they put on him. His eyelids weighed a thousand pounds apiece, and his body ached. His mother called his name from far away, but his brain refused to comprehend anything. He didn’t know where he was or why, and he had wondered briefly if he was dying.
Compared to waking up the morning after Troy left, that had been a cakewalk. If you could rightly call it waking up. That implied he had slept.
Sheets wrapped around his legs and head, trapping him a ball of misery; tears and mucus sealed his eyes shut from all the crying. Demons tried to hammer their way out of his skull, and his stomach, God, his stomach.
Fighting free from the confining sheets, he bolted for the bathroom.
Sitting on the toilet bowl, a half-empty paint can between his knees, his body emptied itself of everything. Only fitting, he thought, that it should match the emptiness in his heart.
When he felt like it was safe to move, he crawled on his hands and knees back to bed. The sour smell of drunk sweat, of tears and fear, made his stomach clench, but it had nothing left to give. Flailing blindly, he managed to snatch his phone from the nightstand before rolling to Troy’s side of the bed. Troy’s scent on the pillow provided a brief comfort even as images of his tortured face and Dmitri’s dickish behavior from the night before tormented him.
Dmitri couldn’t exactly remember all the details about last night, but he was one hundred percent sure he could have handled it better. He could have not gotten drunk on cheap gin, for starters.
Cracking open one eyelid, the white light from the phone screen stabbed into his brain as he paged through dozens of texts he had sent to Troy. All unanswered. As were the multiple phone calls. He hit redial and waited until the voice informed him that the user’s mailbox was full.
Punching in Angel’s phone number, he threw an arm across his eyes, blocking the weak light from outside as he listened to the phone ring.
“What’s up?” She sounded normal, as if the earth hadn’t shifted overnight.
“I fucked up big time, Angel. Come over.”
“You sound like death. I’ll be right there. Want me to pick up bagels?”
Bile roiled in his stomach, and he gagged out loud.
“That’s a no. See you in a few. Go back to sleep.”
He nodded, though she couldn’t see it, and hung up, closing his eyes as the tears started again.
The slam of a car door roused Troy from his restless sleep. Sunlight pierced his closed eyelids, and he pressed the heels of his palms hard against them. Every joint in his body hurt, and he wished he could sleep forever; just go to sleep and never wake up. He was so tired; hollowed out and empty inside.
He wanted to die.
He could picture the blessed nothingness of it.
He thought of his mother and his sister. They would be so sad. But they were tough; they’d survive.
A shadow passed over Troy’s face, and someone knocked on the truck window. “You okay in there, niño?”
Mrs. García, one of his upstairs neighbors. Her apartment was even smaller than his was. She was always bringing him food, said she couldn’t get out of the habit of cooking enough for an army, even though her husband was long dead and kids scattered to the winds. There was a story there; Troy was sure.
Troy struggled upright, blinking. He stretched the muscles in his neck, meeting Mrs. García’s concerned gaze. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Just tired.”
She scoured his face, brows knitting together. “I don’t know, chico, you look like crap.” She crossed her arms over her substantial chest. “That boyfriend of yours kick you out?”
“Something like that.”
She pursed her lips, shaking her head. “My Freddie used to sleep in his truck when I kicked him out of our bed. But you got a bed right up there.” It was a question posed as a statement. She jerked her chin in the direction of the stairs.
It felt rude to talk to her through the window but he really just wanted her to go away. “I think I had one too many to make it, if you know what I mean.” He tried on a grin that felt fake even to him.
&n
bsp; Mrs. García raised her eyebrows, stared at him, and then opened his door with a sharp yank. “Get out.”
He dragged himself out of the truck and stood there, feeling like he’d been called into the principal’s office. She studied him, a soft look in her eyes that Troy couldn’t deal with, so he stared at the ground instead. She reached up to touch his cheek gently. Her touch felt so much like his mother’s. A tear slipped past his closed eyes.
“Sweetie, you know you got people who care, right? You come talk to me anytime. I raised five babies. I know how hard life can be.”
Troy nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
She adjusted the heavy purse on her arm. “You want to come up right now? I’ll make you some cocoa. Some huevos?”
“You have to go to work.” Troy’s voice was rough, and he still wouldn’t look up, not wanting to disturb the equilibrium of tears.
She scoffed. “Those fools can take care of themselves for a little while longer. They won’t even miss me.”
Troy shook his head. He wanted to want to. He wished he believed it would help to lay his burdens at her motherly feet. But what could she do? She couldn’t fix him. All he would do would be to add to the list of people she worried about. “No thank you, Ma’am.” He searched his mind for a good excuse. One she would accept. “I have class soon, and I need to get ready.” He plucked at his rumpled t-shirt with a grimace.
Mrs. García nodded. She was a big believer in education and followed Troy’s studies as avidly as he did. “Okay, then. But after school. You come over tonight and talk to me. Whatever it is, we’ll work it out, okay?”
“Okay. I promise.”
“Now go wash your face, drink some coffee. You’re too good-looking to look so bad.” She shooed him way, keeping an eye on him, so he had no choice but the climb the steps slowly to his apartment.
chapter thirty-one
His phone had been vibrating non-stop in his hand. Text after text from Dmitri. A few voicemails. He ignored them all, tossing the phone on the table, as he shuffled past a small pile of boxes. Opened, the contents scattered and sifted through but not unpacked, the boxes represent the sum total of his possessions on earth. The apartment looked exactly as it had the day he’d moved in. One coffee cup, one plate, one fork, knife, and teaspoon sat in the dish rack next to the sink. On the rare occasions he ate in the apartment off of actual plates, they were used, cleaned, and put in the rack. Wash, rinse and repeat.
In the bedroom, a pile of books and papers spilled out of his backpack, taking up the space on the bed not occupied by clothes in various states of cleanliness. He shoved the clothes to the floor and collapsed face down onto the bed. A notebook dug into his cheek, and he yanked it out from under his face.
“Damn it.” It was notes he had borrowed from a classmate on the mistaken assumption that seeing how someone else approached the class might help him get a handle on the slippery variables and equations of algebra. He had to give those notes back. Tyler didn’t deserve to suffer because Troy was a loser.
Troy closed his eyes. The alarm on his phone beeped. Time to leave for class. Counting to five, he pushed himself off the bed. He mentally calculated if he had time to stop at the gas station before class. He was going to need a large coffee, a Red Bull, and Hershey Bar to get through the next few hours.
Dmitri lay on the couch, watching the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams pushing their way through the yellowed lace curtains, as he listened to the sounds of Angel’s approach: the tires rolling over the gravel, the car door creaking open and slamming shut, Moby’s barked greeting and her sweet reply. Sounds he had heard a thousand times. He couldn’t wait to see her, but he didn’t know exactly what was he going to say to her.
He closed his eyes when he heard the back door slam, only opening one when a shadow fell over him. All he could see was a brown blur half an inch from his face, but something smelled delicious.
“Your kitchen looks amazing. And I brought you a bagel.”
He opened both eyes and sat up. Somewhere between talking to Angel on the phone and her arrival, his appetite had returned. Made sense. He hadn’t been that drunk last night. Heartbreak, not hangover, kept him tethered to the couch, and his stomach didn’t care. “I love you.”
“I know.” She handed the bag and then bent over him, eyes narrowed. She grabbed his chin and forced his face up. “What the hell happened to you?”
Did it show that much or did Angel just know him well enough to see the pain? She jabbed her pointy fingers into his cheek and pain shot through his face. He pulled away with a jerk. “Ow!”
“You have a huge bruise! I repeat, what the hell?”
Dmitri reached tentatively for his face, wincing when he touched the spot that was more tender than it had been before Angel had poked him. “Oh, that. Troy punched me.”
“What?” Angel reared back, eyes huge.
Dmitri could tell she was ready to defend Dmitri’s honor by kicking Troy’s butt. He grabbed the hem of her t-shirt, pulling her down onto the couch. “No. Not like that. He was asleep. Having a nightmare. He didn’t know what he was doing.”
“Oh.” She reached for one of the coffee cups she’d brought. “But still. Shit. That’s no joke.”
“Yeah. I know.” He unwrapped the greasy paper off the breakfast sandwich she’d brought him. Everything bagel, egg, cheese, and bacon. Ooh, extra bacon. He really did love her.
“I mean, this is beyond what you can handle.”
“I know,” he repeated with a mouthful of food. “Believe me I know.”
“Did you tell him?”
“I tried. It didn’t go well.” He laid the sandwich down on the table and flipped off the top piece of bagel.
“What happened? C’mon. I left a hot girl in my bed because you sounded near death.”
“I fucked it up, Ange. I just -” He shook his head and pulled the first layer of bacon off the egg, laying it carefully on the waxy paper.
“Did you kick him out when he hit you?”
“No! He can’t help that. I mean, I told him he needed help, and he didn’t want to hear that. But I think even he’s got to realize something’s wrong. No. I told him I was leaving.”
“What? You’re not making any sense.” She reached for a piece of his bacon, and he slapped her hand away, eating the bacon himself.
“I got the job in California. An interview,” he said quickly. “And I told Troy. I was bitchy about it. We had a kind of a fight. Because he painted the kitchen.” He picked some of the rapidly cooling egg off the bagel, wrapped it in a slice of bacon, and popped it in his mouth.
Angel closed her eyes. “Okay. Back up and tell me everything from the beginning.”
He did.
chapter thirty-two
Crowds of students thronged the wide hallway, but Troy managed to catch Tyler at the door to the lecture hall just before the start of class.
“Tyler. Hey.” He handed Tyler the sheaf of papers. “Thanks.”
Tyler stuck the folded papers into his backpack. “No problem. Did they help?”
“Absolutely.”
“You coming in?”
Was he? Troy peered through the door into the lecture hall, eyes squinting against the florescent lights flickering overhead. Baby-shit brown painted cinderblock walls flanked rows of kids, the sound of their laughter and conversation piercing his skull. At the front of the room loomed an ancient chalkboard filled with incomprehensible writing and he knew he couldn’t do it. Not with a gun to his head. Actually, he’d welcome a gun to his head right now. New arrivals pushed past him as Tyler waited for his answer.
“Yeah. I’ll be in in a second. I gotta hit the head first, though.”
“Cool. I’ll save you a seat.”
Tyler seemed genuinely happy to be hanging out with Troy. If he only knew the real Troy. He was glad he’d gotten the kid his notes back. “Thanks, man. Thanks for everything.”
“De nada. And you’ll ace the class, don’t
worry. Between your looks and my brain, we’ll get through it.”
Troy passed the bathrooms and kept on walking, feet moving him through the emptying halls. He took turns at random, just to keep walking. A picture on the wall outside an office he’d never noticed before caught his attention. He walked closer, stopping near the opened door.
An older man in full Air Force dress uniform stared at the passing students. The nameplate on the portrait read Lt. Col. Richard Rivers, USAF, Retired. Chief of Staff to CSU President Eugene Houston. A large poster with an American flag and pictures of people in the uniforms of varying branches of the U.S. Military hung in the large glass window of the office.
Veteran? the poster asked. College paperwork more confusing than the government? Lonely? Having a hard time fitting in? Need someone to talk to? Come on in. Another smaller poster next to it listed suicide statistics for veterans. Acid rose in Troy’s throat as he read the stats. Twenty veterans a day, dead from suicide. The risk of suicide for a veteran was almost twenty percent higher than the average American. Sixty-five percent of those suicides were veterans age fifty and older. It didn’t go away, Troy realized. It was never going to just go away.
A sign over the door proclaimed it the Office of Student-Veterans Affairs. Through the slats of the crooked mini-blinds in the window, Troy saw a large, well-lit space, lined with messy desks, overstuffed bookshelves, and rack after rack of brochures and leaflets. A dark-skinned man with close-cropped hair caught Troy’s eye and smiled. “Howdy,” the man greeted him, a hint of the South in that one word.
Caught, Troy froze, realizing that he had been blocking the door. “Howdy.”
The man leaned forward to get a better lock at Troy.
“You’re a vet?”
Troy hesitated, shifting his backpack higher on his shoulder. He really didn’t feel like talking. “No. No, I’m not.”
