Chapter 8 Perfume Genius #2
“Good morning,” Connor says, appearing from somewhere in Tristan’s shadow. He speaks with what seems like forced pleasantness, possibly for the benefit of his friend, because I doubt it’s for me. They’re at the door leading to the backyard, facing each other, leaning on either side of the frame.
I take them both in with quick, assessing glances.
Connor is dressed in his usual. All black, barely any skin showing.
Tristan is the opposite. Red shorts with a five-inch inseam and a thin, matching zip up jacket, unzipped over a white tank.
His hair is wet, pulled away from his face like he just came from a shower at the gym.
The sight of his sculpted legs—even his fucking feet in slides—has me rethinking my entire existence.
“Hi.” I step onto the porch but keep my distance from both of them.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” Connor says after a moment's thought. “When you came back to town, and I was in the hospital, I wasn't in a good place. I think I may have been unfair. Tristan thinks I was.”
I don’t move. If I nod, that would be wrong. If I tell him it’s no big deal, that would be a lie. So, I stand still and listen.
Connor looks at me like he can see straight through me. “Thank you for letting me stay here. It won’t be for long. As soon as I turn nineteen—”
“You can stay here as long as you need.”
He scowls and looks down at the deck. His lips flatten against each other, and his thin body moves with his deep breath. I glance at Tristan, but he’s studying Connor, too.
“When did you start caring what happened to me?” Connor asks softly after he gathers his thoughts.
“You’re my brother.”
“When did that start mattering?”
“It’s always mattered.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t. Don’t lie. Don’t make it sound like I ever factored in, because I didn’t.”
“It’s not a lie, and I’m not saying you factored in. You’re right. The last time I saw you, you were a kid.” There. I said it.
Cold hard truth.
As an eighteen-year old desperate for any kind of life different than the one I knew, I didn’t consider my twelve-year old brother, who wasn’t allowed anywhere near me, before I left home. Yeah, I’m such a fucking asshole.
Connor glances at Tristan. It seems like they have an entire conversation in two seconds of eye contact. My brother takes a deep breath and turns a determined face to me. “Archer, if I’m going to live here, I want to understand.”
“Understand what?” This conversation is agitating me. Being both desperate for my brother’s forgiveness and irritated by his existence makes me less kind than I should be.
“Why you left the way you did. Why you didn’t keep in touch.”
“Connor—”
“I’m serious. Please. I need to know.” The longing in his eyes for some kind of connection with me is more than I can take right now. I look to Tristan again because I don’t know what to say. I think, maybe if he’s on my side, maybe I can find the right way to do this.
But he won’t turn his face my way. He stares down at the space between his foot and Connor’s. With nothing but my own iron guard to protect me, I wall off the truth.
I hear my voice like it’s coming from another man. The kind of man who knows the value in keeping things simple. “I left to go to college. I didn't call because there was no one to call. ”
“Not even me,” Connor says, rather than asks.
“You were a little kid.”
“Not last year I wasn't. Not even the year before that,” he says.
“You wouldn't have known me.”
“Because you never gave me a chance.”
“I thought it'd be better that way.”
“Is that what you think now?” he asks, his voice strained.
I honestly don’t know what I think now, and so I have no answer for him.
“I'm not twelve years old anymore,” he adds, his voice urgent, verging on desperate. “Archer, I might understand.”
There’s no doubt anymore that he’s trying to get me to tell my story.
Share my truth. I admit, there’s a brief, fleeting moment where I toy with doing it.
No details, of course, but the basics. When pressed in the past, I usually hint at gross neglect, but neglect doesn’t really explain my complete lack of remorse over hearing the news that my parents were dead.
Neglect was not my mom’s MO with me. At least, not at the beginning.
But I can’t do it. Connor and I might share DNA, but I don’t think he grew up like I did. He’s broken, but I can chalk that up to the accident. His resilience is too lacking. He’s all defiance and defense mechanisms. There’s no guard. There’s no fortress around his bleeding heart.
It’s hard to say whether I resent him for that or not. I don’t think resentment is what this feeling is, but one thing I can say is that I’m not ready to share my secrets with him—and no way would I even consider doing it with Tristan here. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Archer, please.” He’s all but begging, now. “If you can tell me anything—anything that could help me—”
Help him with what? His grief? I can’t do that. What I have to say would only complicate his already tumultuous feelings. I shake my head. I take another step back to get closer to the door. Tristan’s head turns. Our eyes met.
“What did she do to you?” Connor asks.
The question slices right through me. What?
I tried, didn’t I? I really tried to make everything okay. To wipe the slate clean and start over with my brother. But this I can’t do. Not in front of Tristan. Maybe not ever.
So I laugh, and I lie. “Nothing! I went to boarding school for Christ's sake.”
“Was that it then? You were pissed because they sent you away?”
That’s how I know. Right there. If for even one moment Connor could think that the only way I was abused was by being sent away, then she didn’t hurt him, and knowing that weakens my knees with relief. It’s all the more reason to leave the conversation here.
“Can we stop now?” I ask, happy to let him think he got to the bottom of it.
He’s about to say something—about to respond. I can hear the breath he takes to power his words, but that's when Jayne steps onto the porch in my Perfume Genius t-shirt.
I forgot she was here because she doesn’t matter.
But now…
Now, she matters, and I am such a fucking asshole.
I watch the three of them taking stock of the situation while I acknowledge my own self-disgust.
Jayne, next to me, slides her hand down my back, letting it settle on my waist. I jerk slightly at the touch, and her hand drops.
“Miss Beck?” Connor asks with wide, horrified eyes.
I scowl, looking from my brother’s shocked face to Jayne’s.
“Connor! Oh my goodness! Hi!” Jayne lights up and hurries over to hug my brother.
Tristan’s face…
Holy fuck.
“What are you doing here?” Connor asks sharply, pulling away from her.
Jayne straightens, and her face twists with a sharp look, making her look slightly short of pretty. “I spent the night,” she says with perfect condescension.
Connor looks at me with a glare that might as well be a punch in the throat. “What's going on?”
Tristan is moving. He’s leaving.
My mouth opens to stop him—to say something to him. My body slants in his direction, ready to go after him, but Jayne starts talking again.
“Archer and I went to high school together. Is he your brother?”
“Yes, he’s my brother. Are you sleeping with him?”
“Whoa, hey. He and I are old friends. Can we just chat for a second? We’ve barely talked since the accident.” With her hand on Connor’s shoulder, she gives me a look.
I have no idea what the hell is going on, and right now the only thing I care about is keeping Tristan from getting away thinking—whatever he’s thinking. “Take your time.” I head inside.
Tristan isn’t in the house, but I find him out front staring at the street like he’d rather be anywhere else.
He glances at me when I move to stand in front of him. His pale gaze hits me like the blade of a flaming sword. I have to work hard not to let it cripple me. Really hard.
“You’re fucking one of Connor’s teachers. You know that, right? Way to win big points with your brother.” Then, as he probably can’t stand the sight of me any longer, he turns his face away.
He has an amazing profile, too. I rub my neck and follow his gaze. We stare down the empty street together. “No,” I say. “I didn’t know that.”
“Classy.”
“Tristan—”
“What?” The sharp word rips through the humidity and slaps me across the face.
It should sting, but it’s the kind of sting I’m numb to. “I’d say it’s not what it looks like, but what the fuck difference does it make?”
“Is that what you came out here to say? That it’s not what it looks like? You can do better than that, Archer.”
Maybe I can. “It doesn’t change anything.”
“Hm.” He looks at me again, and there’s a lot there to sort through. Disappointment. Regret. Anger. Hurt. But something worse, too. Something that weighs more, though it shouldn’t weigh a thing. Apathy.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
His gaze is level and cool when he says, “I’m not the one who needs an apology.”
“Right.” But I am. I am so fucking sorry.
I shut my eyes a moment, inhaling the humid, summer heat, remembering that day on the hospital patio when we were both confused and counting on each other—two strangers—to get through a nightmare together.
With that quest complete, what else is there to do but part ways?
I back off. Without another word, I head inside. Whatever he thinks about me is totally fucking justified.
Connor bursts through the door as I walk up the porch steps. He’s furious, and while I’m angrier at myself than anyone else, I can’t stop myself from lashing out. “Your friend's ready to go,” I say as we pass each other.
“So am I.”
“Good talk,” I say.
“Fuck you.”
When I get inside, I’m met with the sight of Jayne on my couch, her feet propped on the coffee table as she examines her nails. Not a care in the world. “I guess I never got a chance to say how sorry I am for what happened to your parents.”
I nod, stealing the sympathy I have no right to.
I feel a sort of despair that this is what I’m left with, but also relief.
Because it’s better this way.