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“M-My son,” Brock whimpers, sounding so pitiful.
“I can’t promise things will turn out well. I’m not a shining example. I’ve made so many mistakes, Brock. Yes, maybe I’d … maybe I’d have done things differently, too. Very differently. I have regrets. I live with them every day. Every fucking minute. But we can’t let our regret destroy us. What a waste of the time we’ve got left, right?”
Just then, a connection erupts into existence, flooding Kyle with Brock’s heavy longing and pain. It endures for a handful of seconds before at once fading, broken again. Perhaps it’s the alcohol that makes the connection slippery somehow, but in those few seconds, Kyle felt everything woeful in Brock’s heart.
But through the woe, he also sensed hope. “You and I …” says Kyle. “I believe we can become friends again. We can be us again. Wouldn’t you want that?”
Brock closes his eyes, grits his teeth, then pushes his keys to Kyle’s chest. “Let’s just get the fuck outta here already.”
23.
Down to Trouble Town.
—·—
The road stretches ahead, dark and unknowing.
In the passenger seat, Brock, arms crossed, head rolled back with his tongue out, snoring.
Kyle found a satellite radio station playing 90s alternative to drown out said snoring, and it’s a particular song playing that has his mind drawn back to the old days.
A moment with his headphones and his Walkman, Tristan next to him, close, his soft, misty blue eyes under a floppy hat, asking to listen to his music.
It was this song they shared that day, this particular song.
Why is he missing Tristan suddenly?
“D’you remember …” mumbles Brock.
Kyle flinches. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”
“D’you remember the one Halloween when we ditched the dumb candy route my mom planned out for us? We went to the strip mall by the old movie theater. Your brother was with us, little Kaleb, always followin’ us. We went to that psychic.”
Kyle slowly nods. “Yeah. I remember.”
“Remember what she said? I’d have a wife, a son, and a best friend. I’d love ‘em all … and I’d abandon ‘em all. Huh.” Brock scoffs, slaps a hand to his forehead, gives his eyes a rub. “What a fuckin’ fraud, that old bag.”
Kyle thinks back on it. “She also said my brother was going to live a long life. Just like me.”
Brock turns to him. “Ah, shit. I’m sorry, man.”
“It’s okay. I like to think psychic readings are just warnings. Not prophesy. Maybe the entire thing was meant for me. She wanted to tell me I could’ve saved him. We could both be living long lives right now … had I been more careful.”
“Nah, don’t go down that road, that what-if road, it’s a … a fuckin’ dangerous, waste-of-time road.” Brock shifts in his seat with a grunt. “Bitch had it wrong, anyway. I didn’t abandon my son. Wife, maybe, but not my son. I’d never abandon that boy.”
Kyle doesn’t know the first thing about this new Brock, but he nods anyway and says, “Of course not. You love your son.”
“More than anything.”
They continue for a while in silence, the darkness and the road hypnotizing and eerily calm.
“Maybe it’s the ring.”
Kyle glances at him. “Ring?”
“Yeah. You’re still hangin’ on to it, I saw. That pinky ring, it’s sitting on your table back at the house. Didn’t Kaleb give it to you? I remember.” Brock shrugs. “Maybe a part of him is with that ring, livin’ on or somethin’, stayin’ by your side.”
Kyle doesn’t respond. He wonders if such a thing can be said about everyone and everything, all the items that anyone has ever left behind, just ghosts, clinging, lingering.
The silence persists. The purring of the engine. The hum of the road beneath them. The darkness.
Kyle asks, “Why’d you bring that up?”
“Hmm? Oh, ‘bout the psychic?” Brock snorts. “Just gettin’ lost down memory lane lately, thinkin’ about all the adventures we went on, you and I. That one Halloween, it just stuck with me for some reason. Wonder if that hag is still alive. Probably buried in that cemetery down the street from your old house by now. She’s another agent of Satan, I’m sure of it. I don’t mourn agents of the Devil, they all get what’s comin’ to ‘em.” He looks out the window.
Kyle frowns. “You’re really serious about all this God stuff, huh? Jessica got to you.”
“This isn’t Jessica gettin’ to nothin’. I told you, God saved me, God turned my life around.”
“If Tristan and that psychic are both works of Satan, then what am I?”
Brock stares at the side of Kyle’s face, as if offended such a question can be asked. But he answers softly. “You’re a victim here, Kyle. You’re not a work of the Devil.” He puts a hand on Kyle’s shoulder, gives it a squeeze. “God’s on your side now.”
Kyle gazes at the road. “Alright,” he decides to say lamely, perhaps hoping some part of that is true.
