Chapter 11Theo
Theo
Two weeks. Two fucking weeks, and Asher barely communicated with me. I’d text, and he’d respond with one-word replies. I’d pitch an idea to hang out, and he’d come up with some lame excuse.
Had I been that awkward at the end of freshman year? Could Asher tell that something was off and trying to avoid me?
I had news for him, too, but I didn’t want to text him. It was the kind of news that needed to be delivered gently so that I could do damage control. Asher was so protective of his privacy—he hated feeling like a charity case, so I knew I’d have to be delicate when I told him.
And that meant not telling him via text, and I was running out of time.
I texted Cody, and he said he hadn’t heard from Asher much either, but that he knew he was back to washing dishes at Fiorello’s.
Last summer, Asher’s schedule was packed.
He worked two jobs, and the only time he wasn’t working was when he was at practice.
His schedule at Fiorello’s had always been Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday.
Considering it was Thursday, there was a good chance he was there, and if he was, we were talking whether he wanted to or not.
Fuck this avoidance thing, if I was weird around him, then he should tell me.
We’re best friends. We should be able to talk about shit—hash things out.
Enough with the cryptic one-word texting bullshit. I hated that crap.
Fiorello’s parking lot was almost empty. I purposefully came fifteen minutes before closing so I could convince Asher to let me give him a ride home.
Please let him be working tonight.
I entered the restaurant, and the smell of marinara sauce with too much basil and old lady perfume nearly gagged me.
The place was cozy with warm lighting, and old heartthrobs like Frank Sinatra crooned over the speaker.
The host greeted me with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
Fiorello’s was a fancy spot off the main stretch in New Rochelle, and Thursdays were a busy night.
I could only imagine how exhausted she must have been.
“The kitchen’s closing in fifteen minutes, but you can have a drink at the bar if you’d like.”
It dawned on me how strange it would feel to ask her if Asher was there, and if I could speak with him.
She’d probably assume one of two things: either I was there to buy drugs from Asher, or I was his special someone.
Neither of which was true, but he completely stopped responding two days ago, so I had no choice but to play the possessive boyfriend for a night.
I shoved my hands in my pockets, rocking side to side as I swallowed my pride and said, “Is Asher working tonight?
She looked at me with suspicion before saying, “Not sure. Why do you ask? ”
Ah, smart girl. I could be anyone, so she was playing it cool, trying her best not to put Asher in a sticky spot. “I was his roommate in college. If he’s here, could you tell him Theo wants to see him?”
Her face relaxed a little. “Well, I’ll check and see if he’s working tonight. Wait here.”
She walked through the double doors leading to the kitchen. A couple of minutes later, my phone buzzed.
Asher: Dude, what are you doing here?
Me: I’m driving you home tonight. I wanna tell you something.
Asher: What? Is something the matter?
Me: No, nothing like that, but I’ve been trying to tell you something, and you’ve been avoiding me. Is something the matter with you?
Asher: I haven’t been avoiding you…
Me: Lies.
The three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared a few times before he replied.
Asher: I’m sorry. I’ve just been busy. It’s not you. I can’t go home with you tonight. I have a ride.
That fucking does it.
Me: YOU ARE AVOIDING ME! What the fuck did I do, man? Just tell me and stop being a bitch about it.
Those dreaded three dots came back. It took Asher a long time to reply.
Asher: Okay. I’ll meet you at your car in thirty. I gotta finish up here.
Theo: Okay. Don’t fucking try to run or something. I have news! Good news !
Asher: I won’t bail. Promise.
I thanked the host and headed back to my car to wait for Asher. My hands went to connect my Bluetooth to listen to some music, but Dean Martin was blaring from the speakers at the front entrance of Fiorello’s.
When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that’s amore.
I started humming along. It reminded me of Sunday dinners at Grandma’s house. I won’t lie, my family never went to Fiorello’s because we were snooty as hell about Italian food, but I had to hand it to them on the music.
Three songs later, I was belting “Mambo Italiano,” when the man of the hour opened the front passenger door and slipped in.
“You fucker! Where have you been?” I asked. My mood was still sky high from the music. The impulse to pull him into a hug was strong, but then I stopped.
He had his work hat down over his eyes, and he fidgeted with his cuticles as he said, “Sorry, dude, I went back to work right after I got home, and I’ve been fucking busy. How are you? How’s life? Sorry, I haven’t been in touch. It’s just been a lot, what with—”
He had his work cap down over his eyes, but I could see the shadow of a bruise on his cheek.
He picked at his cuticles and rambled. I couldn’t tell if he was rambling because he was trying to distract me from the bruise that he was clearly trying to hide or because he was excited to see me. It felt like the former.
I reached over and tried to pull off Asher’s cap, but he grabbed my wrist. Hard.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
His hand gripped my wrist with a force that didn’t match the moment. Something was wrong. I’d yet to see anything above his nose since he sat in the car, and every fiber of my being was telling me that something was wrong with my buddy.
“What happened?” I asked. “Do you have a bruise?”
Asher’s hand trembled briefly, then he assumed an entirely new energy in the blink of an eye. “Oh! This?” He tore off the hat and revealed the dark bruise around his eye.
Something snapped in me when I saw it. My fingers gripped the wheel so hard I thought I’d break it.
Asher continued, “I got elbowed during street hockey. Fucker got me good, huh?”
Not a soul in the world would have called his bullshit, but I knew he was lying.
You know when you know something deep in your gut?
You know it so strongly that it sends an electric shock through your bones and up to your brain, firing off a big, glaring sign in your mind with neon red letters saying, “THIS IS BULLSHIT!”?
That’s what I was experiencing. The avoidance, the forced cheerfulness, and the fidgeting all told me something was up.
I didn’t say a word as I looked at the bruise on his face. He started squirming under my gaze and asked, “Can you take me home, man? It’s been a long night, and I’m pretty beat.”
I started the car and pulled out of the lot. The world outside the car blurred into streaks of light like an abstract painting. Neither of us said anything for a few minutes.
Finally, I asked, “What happened to you?”
My eyes were on the road, but I felt the discomfort wafting off him and could see him picking at his cuticles in my peripheral vision. “I told you, man. Just an elbow to the eye during some street hockey. Hey! You said you had news, what did you want to— ”
“Asher, why are you lying to me?”
“What?” he replied.
By then, I had stopped at a red light, so I was able to face him directly when I spoke. “You’re lying to me. Why? What happened? Who hurt you?”
Those last three words bounced off Asher and ricocheted back, hitting me like a physical force. Those words. Why were those words so familiar?
A honk from behind pulled me back to Earth. The light was green.
I pressed the gas and the car wove through the backstreets of New Rochelle to the rougher side of town. Asher faced forward, saying nothing. He shouldn’t go home. Whatever was going on was happening at home. I could feel it.
“I want you to come home with me.”
“NO! Theo…” Asher took a deep breath. “Everything is fine. It was a fucking hockey injury. Just leave it alone, okay?”
I pulled up to the front of Asher’s apartment complex, and he bolted out of the car and ran inside.
What just happened? The entire car ride felt like it happened in slow motion and at the speed of light simultaneously.
I started second-guessing my instincts. Maybe he really did get an elbow to the face during hockey. Then why did he bolt out of the car? Maybe he was mad that I had assumed something worse? Made assumptions about his home life? Fuck, I didn’t mean to upset him. Should I text him?
I decided to leave it be.
Maybe I should give him some space and check in later.
I started the car and drove down the winding streets back to the main stretch, fully intending to go home. The interaction played out in my mind: the fidgeting, the hiding, the avoidance.
Why was he hiding it in the first place if it was just a battle wound from hockey? He didn’t want me to see it. Why? We showed off our hockey bruises all the time.
Who hurt you?
Those words gripped my throat and sent me hurtling back in time. Strange memories I’d long since forgotten started flooding my brain.
Who hurt you?
I stumbled into a dark room, a light shining from what I assumed was a closet. I could hear a weird grinding sound. What the fuck was that sound? I stumbled toward the light.
Who hurt you?
There was a boy inside. His back was facing me as clothes whirred around him. He had marks on him. Bruises. They looked odd. Those weren’t hockey bruises—they looked like…
Who hurt you?
Red hair. I was looking for him, and I found him. I couldn’t focus. Too drunk.
Who hurt you?
A belt. It looked like someone had hit the boy with a belt. Red hair. It was Asher.
Who hurt you?
I said those words to Asher. I said them then, and I said them tonight. The same three words.
My eyes widened, a metaphorical gut punch nearly causing me to vomit.
“Someone’s hurting Asher.”