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I shake my head. I can’t quite swallow. There’s this memory I have of the boys when I moved out… The way they cried. And then I never really came back…
Fuck.
Gwen sits cross-legged on the rock and pats her lap.
I frown, smiling a little in confusion even though my chest and throat feel like they’re on fire.
“Lay down for a minute. I’ll play with your hair.”
I’m not surprised that Gwenna knows exactly what I need. I lay my head in her lap and wrap my arms around her waist.
* * *
His body feels so limp and heavy, I think he must have nodded off. I keep up the rhythm of my fingers in his hair. I have to use my fingertips to say how very sorry I am—because I don’t know the right words.
Even now, so many years later, I can see the raw pain in his eyes as he talks about his mom. The way he looked eviscerated when I made my dumb comment about how I figured he must not have ever gone back home. I think back to the way he said he liked shooting a gun, because it could end a life. His mother’s life? His life?
God, baby…
I drag my fingernails gently along the nape of his neck and I wonder how long it’s been since he had a girlfriend. Someone to do things like this for him. I’m having a rough time leaving him to struggle on his own at night, so I just want to love on him as much as I can during the day.
I hope he is asleep and he can’t feel the tension in my body. How much I want to find his dad and kick him in the balls for making younger Barrett live alone when all he wanted was to huddle with his little brothers and try to heal.
What’s wrong with people? Why are they so bad? I’m so lost in my own thoughts, when Barrett’s voice cuts through the quiet morning, I jump.
“Tell me about you, Piglet.”
I blink down into his blue eyes, calm and solemn. I can’t help smiling at what seems to be my new nickname. “The piglet and the bear. Are we Winnie the Pooh?”
He smirks. “That was a favorite.”
“Was it?”
His hand strokes my side as he nods. God, he’s handsome. That little smirk. Even a sad smirk…
I sift through his silky curls. “What do you want to know, Bear?”
“Everything.” He smiles gently.
“There’s not much to tell really. When I was little, we lived in Birmingham. In Alabama. My dad was the head of his own company—that had to do with the technology that makes cell phones work. I have a slightly older brother, Rett—Everett—who has Asperger’s Syndrome. My mom had a high school friend who lived in Memphis, who also had a child with Asperger’s, and she said the services in Tennessee were better, so when I was 7 and Rett was 9, we moved to Memphis. Dad just moved the company with him.”
I peek down at him and find his eyes are focused on me.
“Mmm, so from day one, I really liked to sing. We would go to Nashville sometimes, like for plays and social events and things like that, and I got obsessed with country music. One of Rett’s obsessions is country music trivia—he knows all the trivia,” I smile, “so maybe that’s why I got turned on to it. But anyway, I went through phases where I was into all the major country singers, from Reba to tween Taylor Swift.
“It wasn’t a big deal or anything, though. I played on the tennis team, sang in school plays and stuff. And did Taekwondo. When I had a little extra time, I’d write songs and sing them and pretend to be famous.”
That word still stings a little, not because I crave it now, but because I lost it so c
ruelly.
Barrett’s eyes are looking up at me, urging me to go on, even though this feels like ancient history. “Mmm,” he prods, his lips curving.
“Mmm, sooo. I would sing, at church and things like that. I even recorded a few of my songs, but I didn’t understand how— or what, even, to do next. I tried reaching out to small record companies, but you know how that goes. Or if you don’t—” I stroke his hair— “it’s basically impossible. I had this idea that I could be a doctor and I’d sing on the side or something. Weddings. I don’t know.” I laugh at that idea now.
Barrett takes the hand stroking his hair and brings it to his mouth, brushing his lips over my palm.
“Go on, Pig.”
