Despite that realization, I wanted her to myself, because I was a selfish asshole.
Dante drained his glass, then eyed me with a careful calculation. “So, are you sticking around, or is this just a hit-and-run?”
My mouth felt sour. “I’m staying a bit. Amelia has to sort out her mom’s stuff, and I said I’d help her out.” I almost saidprotect, but bit it back.
Dante would hear the truth under the words anyway.
"If you don't mind, could I have Amelia's number? I'd like to offer my condolences." He grabbed a napkin from the counter and a pen from his pocket. "Here's my number; just text it to me, and I'll send you mine."
I didn’t want to give him her number. I didn’t want to give them a reason to talk. But how could I refuse when Dante had done so many generous things for me?
Picking my phone out of my pocket, I typed his number in and texted Amelia’s number to his phone. My heart sank as I sent it.
“Thanks, Caiden. It’ll be nice to chat with her again.”
I looked at him, the endearing expression in his eyes, and realized we never truly grow up, and we don’t ever truly change from who we truly are, and what we desire.
We sat in the bar for a long time, neither of us saying much. Every so often, Dante would try to steer the conversation towards the old days—picking fights in the parking lot, the time we almost set the library on fire, the endless chain of stupid pranks and even stupider punishments that filled our years.
I let him talk, let the easy nostalgia paper over what was really eating at both of us, and let the whiskey work its way into my nerves.
Outside, it had started to rain. A slow, gray drizzle that turned the world blurry through the warped glass.
Eventually, we staggered out into the wet street. Dante’s truck was parked across from the bar. He offered me a ride back, since I drank way more than him, but I told him that I was fine.
He looked at me, his face shadowed and unreadable in the dusky glow. “You know,” he said, “I’m not going to call her. Not unless she wants me to.” His tone was even, but underneath it, I heard the same old challenge. “I just wanted to know how she was.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I get it.”
He started to climb into his car, then paused. “Don’t fuck her up, Caiden,” he said softly. “Not all the way. I don’t think either of you could take it.”
He drove off with a roar, leaving me standing there, drunk and soaked through, staring at the empty street.
I didn’t go back to the motel. In my drunken state, I forgot about the fact that I told Amelia I would pick her up at the end of the day.
I walked. Just kept my head down and my hands in my pockets, cutting through the town like a phantom.
My skin prickled with the cold, every step a dare to the universe to hit me harder. The streets were tight with memories, every gutter and mailbox a signpost to the parts of me I’d tried to sand down.
By the time I reached the edge of my old neighborhood, my legs were numb, and my head was full of gravel. I kept walking, turning into the subdivision where every yard was either dead or dying.
The houses sagged into themselves, shingles missing like rotten teeth, paint peeling to the bone. It was exactly as I remembered, which was to say. Hopeless.
My childhood house stood at the end of the row, an island of decay, yellow porch light clinging on like a fever. I stood by the mailbox and stared. The last time I was here, I left a hole in the drywall and a promise I’d never come back.
Turns out, I was a liar.
The walk up the drive was a funeral march. The front door still stuck on the same warped spot, and when I shoved it open, the whole frame rattled. I was greeted by the sour smell of old cigarettes and sadness.
For a second, I thought I saw a shape in the living room. A grease shadow where my father used to sit, a permanent dent in the couch, surrounded by empty cans and unpaid bills.
The house appeared empty. Though my father had been dead for almost seven years, it was a cemetery of sin and sorrow, a place where nobody wanted to live.
My hand was on the light switch, but I didn’t need it. I could walk through this house blind. The carpet still bore the thick,grimy stains from where I’d spilled a whole bottle of grape soda one summer day, a mortal sin for which I was beaten, then forced to scrub until my knuckles bled. The hole I left in the drywall was still patched with a flat, tan square of plywood.
My dad’s trophies were gone from the mantle, replaced by a ring of dust silhouettes. I remembered the morning I boxed them up, tossing the old bastard’s Little League medals into a garbage bag. I’d wanted to piss on them, but there was a line even I wouldn’t cross.
I wandered through the rooms, half-expecting him to materialize behind me, reeking of vodka and cheap aftershave, the blue veins in his neck bulging as he spat threats. The most famous one wasI’ll kill you.
