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He wanted to talk?
I’ll fucking talk.
“You cry about loss,” I say angrily. “You mourn your brother. You pulled that bullshit about your mother and mine that time in Mexico, and how we lost our loved ones, and it bonded us, and you would give the world to protect those who matter.” I talk loudly, knowing that everyone on the boats can hear us. It’s not salt that burns my wounds but the scorching anger that I finally unleash onto him. “‘I got your back, bro,’” I mimic him with spite. “Yeah, Crone?” I say much louder. “Remember the words?” I shout now, because I am done being patient with him. “You fuckingsworeto never turn your back. And then you push me into that fire because your shitty ego got wounded?”
My chest burns with hurt more than the memories of what that fire felt like.
“I didn’t fucking mean it, Droga!” Archer shouts back, spit flying out of his mouth.
“Yeah? Well, take a good fucking look!” I roar. “Because this”—I slam my palm at my chest and whatever tattoos are visible above water—“is how far you will go to get what you want.”
“Do you fucking think I did that on purpose?” he roars back. “Are you fucking insane?”
We burn each other with murderous glares.
“I never meant for it to happen,” he says quieter and spits in the water.
“But you fucking laughed about it later, didn’t you?” I confront him, because that’s the rumor I heard.
“Because I was too ashamed!” he shouts and sends water splashes around. “I felt like the lowest piece of shit!” He smacks the water surface. “I drank!” He punches the water. “I shot smack!” He does it again. “I knew I fucked up!” he shouts angrily. “And I wanted to say that to you so many times. But you wouldn’t! Fucking! Listen! Because you were more upset about the girl than anything else, Droga! That’s! What! Fucked with me!”
His roar is frightening. This isn’t the Crone I know—calm and reserved, who never raises his voice. I’ve never seen him unhinged like this.
“I am fucking sorry, bro!” he shouts. “I’m sorry, alright?”
He punches the water and swings around to turn away.
I am drowning though I’m floating on the surface.
I’m deaf though I heard every word.
Forgiveness doesn’t happen when hearing someone’s “sorry.” It comes from your blind spot when your enemy says the word “bro” that catapults you back to the times when it meant so much.
Forgiveness is like a soft salt wave that washes over your wounds, but you realize they don’t hurt anymore.
We face the island, floating in the water ten feet from each other, the ocean so peaceful that it pauses time.
I know the men on the boats are watching. Callie is. They heard every word. The fact that Crone just apologized and admitted how screwed up what he did was, in front of everyone, is probably the biggest apology one could think of.
Why couldn’t we do this years ago?
When things could have been different.
Our lives would have been.
I don’t know how it would have turned out. My family could’ve been alive right now. Or maybe, I would’ve been dead.
The thoughts are disturbing and all-consuming but also useless.
There is a loud splash in the water behind me, then another—someone threw two life rings toward us.
Yeah, we need those. We need all the life rings in the world to lift this shit that we buried a long time ago back to the surface.
I grab one of the life rings and turn toward Crone.
He won’t look at me, but I reach for the second one and push it toward him. It nudges his shoulder, and he wraps his arm over it, wiping his face and hair.
I am exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally.
