Chapter 12 #2
I don’t have time to ask before Ford is handing me a controller to his brand new PlayStation.
Daddy doesn’t want me to have a TV in my bedroom, but Ford is allowed one and is also allowed his own PlayStation.
At home we have one, but the twins never let me play with them so I stopped asking; stopped being interested.
But when I am with Ford I play often, because he likes to play and I like to make my friend happy.
“FIFA or NBA?” he asks me.
I hate both options but there is a sorrow in Ford’s eyes that I have never seen before. The corners of his lips are turned downwards and there is no sign of his dimples. I wonder why he’s up so early, what happened downstairs. I don’t ask.
I let Ford choose the game and he picks football first. We play Liverpool against Manchester United because it’s what we always play together.
Although I try my best and I concentrate with everything I have, I lose three matches with zero goals before slamming my head with my hand.
We’re sitting on Ford’s bed and I let out a whine as I fall back onto his pillows.
My misery makes Ford smile, but it’s gone as soon as it appears. The dimples don’t even have time to pop.
“Basketball?” I offer.
Ford gets up to change the game. The room is totally silent for a couple of seconds and I’m not sure what to do. Ford and I never spoke about my parents. I never told him I was nervous about coming out to them. Thinking about it, I never even came out to Ford properly.
There is so much unsaid between us that I don’t know where to begin. So I don’t. I simply reach for the remote and raise the volume when the game starts. “So we can hear it.” I explain.
There might be some walls between Ford and I, but the thickest wall of all is the one we raised around us both. It keeps the world out. Keeps us safe.
We play basketball then switch back to football.
When our stomachs start to grumble, we pause the game.
Together we make our way to the kitchen downstairs and share a bag of crisps and drink a can of coke each.
The kitchen looks as messy as the living-room but Ford makes no comment and Gregory Hale is nowhere to be seen.
Without the sound of the video games, the house is deadly silent and neither Ford nor I find the words to fill the silence.
When we make our way back upstairs, Ford sits on the carpet and I go back to his bed but without him, it feels empty. Without asking, Ford changes the game to wrestling. He lets me pick the strongest fighter but I still lose and I couldn’t care less.
It’s late in the afternoon when Gregory Hale knocks at Ford’s door. I have no idea where he has been all this time. When he sees me, he looks startled by my presence. “Should we order pizza for dinner? Ash, you love pizza right?”
I wait for Ford to reply first and when he nods, I nod too. Gregory Hale leaves without another word.
After hours of playing video games, it’s Ford who speaks first. The pizza is due to arrive soon and my eyes are hurting from staring at a screen for so long. “They’re getting a divorce,” Ford says matter-of-factly.
I had kind of assumed, but I was not expecting to hear the heartbreak in his voice. Following my first instinct, I place a hand on his shoulder. His skin is warm and there’s new muscles there from playing sports and guitar; from being seventeen years old and an exact copy of his father.
I don’t have the courage to look at him and see the tears I know he has been fighting the entire day.
I don’t have the heart to be the one who cannot console him right now.
“I came out to my parents,” I say instead and I blink through my own tears as Ford climbs on the bed to sit next to me in a millisecond.
He wraps me in the tightest hug I have ever received—tighter than when Darshi’s Nani died and we had to go to the funeral; tighter than that time Daddy hit Erik so hard his eye was blue for a week and Erik slept in my bed every night.
Ford hugs me and I forget I’m not supposed to cry because it isn’t cool.
I forget that I’m not supposed to tell him what happens at home.
We cry together in a moment that feels like forever, his sobs calm and controlled and mine erratic and desperate.
My tears soak his shirt and it’s mortifying how much drool I can produce, and the more I’m aware of it, the more it keeps coming.
Ford’s hands hold onto my shirt and then onto my back until it hurts.
Downstairs, the doorbell rings.
I start counting in my mind, hoping time only stops when I have comforted Ford enough and I don’t wish to die anymore.
Then, Gregory Hale breaks the stillness of the house. A low tune fills my ears. He must have turned on the radio downstairs. My chest feels lighter but I still can’t stop crying, still can’t catch my breath.
And then, Ford’s hold on me softens and his sniffing turns into a quiet snort until finally I understand. He’s laughing. My body catches on before my brain can and then we’re giggling hysterically, wet cheeks and t-shirts stained with sticky snot.
From downstairs, Gregory Hale yells for us. “Boys, pizza is here.”