Don’t punch him. Don’t do it.
I had to repeat that to myself. The thought of his hands on her made my blood boil in a dangerous way.
Instead, I avoided acknowledging that altogether. “She was pretty torn up about her mom’s death. I know how she must have felt years ago, but enough time has passed. Amelia just missed her mom for who she was.”
Dante nodded, taking another swig of his drink. "Yeah, I understand," he said. "I didn't mean to imply Amelia wouldn't care if she died; that's just all the information I had."
“No worries, man.”
We let that hang in the air, me and Dante working through the old rhythms, the way we always did. Neither of us everapologizing, just lobbing stories back and forth until the weight of truth got too heavy to hold.
He was the only person I ever told everything to. The only one who understood how it was to grow up here, to watch your family rot from the inside out, but still feel obligated to defend them when the town started in. His dad was a mean drunk, too, though he never laid a hand on Dante.
Not the way mine did. Plus, his mom never left.
Still, pain recognized pain, and for a couple years, there it seemed like we were the only two people in Pathosbury who could stand each other.
He crossed his arms and leaned in; his elbows planted on the sticky bar counter. “So, you and Amelia. It’s real? Or is this some nostalgia trip the universe is putting you through?”
I rolled the glass between my palms, feeling the chill bite my skin. “It’s not like that. I mean, I don’t even know how to fucking describe it. She’s…She needs someone. I’m someone.” I dragged the whiskey down my throat until it stung. “It’s complicated. We only ran into each other recently this year when my half-brother invited me to a wilderness retreat. His fiancée’s best friend was Amelia fucking Langston.”
Dante appeared surprised, and I remembered he had no idea that I had a half-brother. “You have a brother?”
I waved it off. “Yeah. Long story. My mom was pregnant when she left with another man. Neither of us knew about eachother until recently. I saw my mom at his wedding, but I won’t get into that.”
Dante watched me, his eyes narrowed. Thankfully, he changed the subject. “You remember eighth grade, when Amelia spent the whole spring walking around with that bandage on her wrist? You’d follow her home after school, like some stray. I used to think you were going to kill each other.”
He laughed, but it wasn’t mean, just sad. I remembered that year mostly in fragments, like a slideshow with half the slides burned. Me smoking behind the gym, watching her through the chain-link fence, wondering if I pushed her enough, maybe she’d finally just?—
“You ever wonder,” Dante said, “what things woulda’ been like if you’d just let it go? If you’d let her go and never looked back?”
I picked at the edge of the label on my glass. “Not really. You?”
He shrugged, a rigid, practiced move that suggested he’d thought about it until it blurred into nothing. “I thought about her a lot, especially after she left. Sometimes, I thought that she was the one that got away. If things were different, maybe she and I could have been something.”
Our eyes met, and I saw that he wanted me to contest it, maybe even fight him for it. The old reflex flared in my gut—some muscle memory of scoring points, winning, always needing to win—but it passed almost as soon as it came.
I couldn’t let myself slip.
I turned away, feeling bitter, the bar suddenly too bright and the air too thick. “She’s not what you remember,” I said. “She’s…I don’t know. She’s built a whole world to keep out everything that ever touched her. It’s like talking to someone through a wall of bulletproof glass. I think the more anyone tries to be with her, the more she’ll find a way to run.”
He nodded, not arguing. “And you? You still the same asshole you were in high school?”
I wanted to laugh, but it came out as a cough. “Worse. Now I actually know how much it hurts other people when I fuck up.”
This time, Dante did laugh. “That’s called growing up, man. Sucks, doesn’t it?”
I looked at him, and there he was, my best friend. The one who’d patched me up after my dad broke my nose, who’d split every sandwich with me even when he only had one. I never told him how much that meant. Maybe I thought I’d have more time.
Even through the sentiment I felt towards him, there was fury and the need to push him away.
I hated this feeling, the primitive drive to defend, to possess. I hated how easy it was to slip into that role, even after all these years. Maybe I hadn’t changed at all, maybe I was still the same asshole I always was, only now I knew it and hated myself for it.
Deep down, I knew he still wanted Amelia, and I fucking hated him for it. But I hated myself more, because I knew Amelia could find happiness in Dante, who would treat her as if she were his queen.
Dante was the kind of man that got the girl.
I was the kind of man who ruined the girl.
