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An hour later—and after an unfortunate incident involving Brock trying to pee in the kitchen that necessitates removing his clothes and starting an unintended load of wash—Kyle now sits at his dining room table, Brock knocked out and snoring on the couch, an arm hanging off. The ring, still safe in its Ziploc baggie, is returned to the center of the table where it once lived for six months. Kyle stares at the ring in a tired, numb trance.
Who is that shadowy asshole anyway? What is it?
Did it follow Kyle out to the desert that one morning? Did it fetch the ring after Elias took him away? Does it also have the letter, by chance? Did it read it? Does it know about Tristan? How long has it been following Kyle? Studying him?
The list of questions is dauntingly long.
When Brock stirs, finally waking up, it’s still dark outside. Also, he seems to discover with a start he’s wearing nothing but his boxers and socks.
“What the f-fuck?!” Brock shouts out, slurred, groggy.
Kyle is still sitting at the dining room table, within sight. He holds his phone, thumbing through all the missed calls and texts. They number over a hundred. He looks up. “You awake already? Thought you’d sleep to the morning, at least.”
“Where are my—??” Brock rolls over, nearly falls off the edge of the couch, rights himself. “Did you take off my—?”
“When we got back, you became … a problem,” says Kyle. “You tried to pee in the kitchen sink. You ended up peeing on yourself instead, trying to use your left hand instead of your injured one. As I tried to stop you, you threw up all over your shirt. And me.”
Brock blinks. “Fuckin’ what?”
“Your clothes are in the dryer right now, should be done in another twenty or so.”
“I threw up on you?”
“You also kissed me.”
Brock sits up fully. “Huh?”
“By the side of the road. Near the park. Forced yourself on me. Is that how you treated your girlfriends in the past? Is that how you treated Jess? Did you even have any others?”
“I didn’t—I’d never fuckin’—” He can’t seem to commit to a sentence. “That’s horseshit.”
“It’s fine, you can pretend it didn’t happen, play the denial game. Wonder how many other times alcohol was your excuse. Maybe I really should have followed through with Becks’ offer of an AA meeting for you.”
Brock grabs his head, then drops his hands like they’re as heavy as lead. “The hell happened …?”
“I shoved you off of me pretty good. Went flying, all two hundred pounds of you, scraped your arm up good. Y’know, to go with your messed-up finger.”
Brock blinks, checks his arm, finds the long red abrasion.
“Do you drink like this often?”
“No,” mutters Brock automatically, still inspecting his arm. Then he lets out an irritated sigh. “Yeah.”
“You mentioned you drink earlier, before the bar. I should have listened. Didn’t realize you had a … problem.” Kyle sighs. “I guess there are more responsible things I could be doing for you right now, help you, be a friend, whatever. I guess I’m not feeling all that responsible at the moment.” Kyle lifts the base of his pinky finger up, studies it. The skin, still blood red, in the shape of that ring, another tattoo to go with the rest. Lingering pain, just present enough to be annoying, has eaten at Kyle’s patience since they returned from the bar, ever so persistent.
“Don’t need an intervention,” grumbles Brock. “I’m fine. I got God in my heart and … and a roof over my …” He grabs his head again, winces. “I’m A-OK.”
“Not even a sorry?”
Brock drops a hand, turns. “What?”
Kyle sighs, shakes his head. “Nothing. You can sleep more. It’s only a little bit after midnight.” He checks the time. “Oh, it’s past one already.”
Brock peers back at the curtained window, squinting, then looks back at Kyle. “Did I really … try to … to kiss you?”
“Yep.”
Brock stares at the floor for a while in silence. It’s as if he’s trying to remember it. How their lips felt when they touched. If he enjoyed it, if he was happy, anything.
Kyle feels a flicker of Brock’s tortured emotion trying to attach to him. He brushes it off as best as he can. “Need a glass of water or something?”
“Nah,” mumbles Brock, nearly inaudible. Then he wrinkles his face up, glances around. “This your house?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Huh.” He rubs his eyes, then leans back on the couch. “It reminds me of … fuck, my head … Hey, you remember … d’you remember those sleepovers we’d have? Man, we’d play games in our PJs, old Nintendo games, Kid Icarus, hard-ass Castlevania, fuckin’ Bomber Boy or whatever the hell it was called, and …” He shakes his head. “Stayed up so late, no one cared, it was just us and those … those games and … and … wow.” He closes his eyes, puts his hands on his head. “Think I’m still drunk, man. Are you sure I tried to kiss you? You’re not fuckin’ with me?”
