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I’m aware of Rex’s eyes on me and I dread the moment when he asks how I’m doing, when I have to find some words—pull them up from where they’re roiling in my stomach along with those two bites of sandwich.
But he doesn’t say anything, just cleans up the trash and lies down on one side of the bed, flicking the TV on and flipping channels until he gets to the Food Network. I wander into the bathroom and brush my teeth, hoping to get rid of the taste of the sandwich. I wish I hadn’t slept so much last night because all I want to do now is fall into bed and sleep forever.
Rex has one arm behind his head, his biceps bulging under his head. I crawl onto the bed and kiss the smooth muscle. He stretches his arm out, making a space for me to lie against him. On screen, a group of little kids are chopping, frying, slicing, and mixing like professionals. I relax a little bit, and Rex cradles me in his arm.
“Daniel,” he says, and I tense, expecting the inevitable questions. “I’ll do anything you need, okay? Anything.” His voice is low, intense, and I can tell he means it.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’m okay. This is good.”
Rex must have tucked me under the covers because when I wake up screaming they’re tangled around me and at first I think they’re the bricks falling on me, crushing me. Then something really is crushing me. Rex gathers me in his arms, stroking my back and whispering nonsense, trying to soothe me back to sleep.
WHEN I see the first signs for Philadelphia, I feel a rush of joy. And, even if it’s under terrible circumstances, my first glimpse of the skyline makes me smile. Rex squeezes my knee.
“Can you tell me where to go from here?”
“Yeah. Oh shit, I never called Ginger.” Oh well. She won’t mind if we just show up.
I give Rex directions to my dad’s place. It’s surreal to be driving down these streets with Rex. I have him park in the alley outside the shop to make sure no one smashes his windows, but when we get out of the truck, I can’t make my feet move. Rex comes around to the passenger side and hovers next to me. I’ve begun to get used to this, his constant presence, strong and warm and calm, lending support but asking nothing of me.
I look up at him, trying to drink in as much of him as I can before going inside. His hair has gotten long, I realize all of a sudden, and it waves around his face, intensifying the shadows under his cheekbones and highlighting his strong jaw. He’s fucking perfect and I have no idea how I got so lucky. All I want is to cling to the way he’s looking at me for a few seconds longer before the illusion that I’m someone worth spending time with is shattered.
“Look,” I say, running my hand along his side. “Whatever stupid shit my brothers say, don’t listen to them, okay? They’re assholes, I know. I just don’t… don’t want you to think that I’m like them.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” he says gently.
“Probably.”
“Come here.”
Rex kisses me, so softly, so sweetly that it makes me want to cry. Because what has he done these last few days if not proved that he knows me?
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”
We walk in through the shop entrance and the smell of oil and hot metal and rust is so familiar it makes my head spin. The shop’s not open, of course, but it’s a smell that never goes away. It’s what my dad and my brothers always smell like, no matter how often they shower.
The shop door connects to the kitchen and I walk in, Rex at my heels. The kitchen’s a mess, as usual, with stacks of pizza boxes on every counter, sauce-crusted pots in the sink, and beer cans stacked in precarious pyramids against the wall. The TV is on and I can hear my brothers’ voices and smell the sweet malt of what is probably a lot of beer.
I reach back and catch Rex’s hand, squeezing it hard.
“Here goes nothing,” I say, immediately embarrassed that such a dumb cliché is the first thing that came to my mind.
Squaring my shoulders, I walk through to the living room. Sam is sitting in the recliner, staring at the hockey game on TV. Liza’s next to him, perched on the arm of his chair. Brian is sitting where he always sits, on the floor in front of the TV, leaning against the couch. Colin is on the couch, knees splayed open to take up twice the space he really needs and ensure no one will sit next to him. It’s almost like I never left, the scene is so familiar, except all three of them look terrible. Sam’s eyes are swollen to slits, Brian looks like a child, with his shirt inside out and his hair hanging in his face, and Colin—it may be the first time in years that I’ve seen Colin look almost vulnerable. He isn’t wearing his usual look of scorn; his mouth is slack and his brow furrowed like he might actually be thinking about something other than his next barb.
