Chapter Ten #2
I stop the voicemail, my eyes wide at the realization of what he’s trying to say.
My heart feels like there’s a fist wrapped around it, cutting off any circulation.
I fight my thoughts for a moment, and I hesitate.
My finger hovers over the delete button; there’s no need for me to hear a drunken love confession of a father who didn’t give enough shit to be better.
Anger dominates the field, pushing away any love that might linger.
The phone shakes in my hand, or maybe it’s my hand.
“Fuck,” I snarl, unable to bring myself to delete the message.
Instead, I hit play and listen to the last one; this one is only heavy breathing and then a crash and silence.
My heart jumps inside my chest. I look at the time and panic.
What if he overdosed? Good... Why the fuck did I care?
So many questions run through my mind while my heart hammers inside my chest. My palms grow sweatier by the second, my leg begins to bounce rapidly, and before I know it, I jump up to my feet, needing to feel the night breeze.
To be in the only place I belong, but when I open the door to my dorm, I find Thiago speaking to Wyatt.
Both wear somber looks on their faces when they look at me.
“You okay, Ruas?” Thiago asks, and I just stare at him, frazzled as to what to respond with. Is everything okay? Who knows, but I waste no time brushing past him and into the parking lot, straight towards my bike.
“Yo, Zayden, you good?” This time it’s Wyatt who asks.
My thoughts are scrambled, and my ability to start my own fucking bike is lost to me.
The ability to speak… To hear anything but static…
. Why do I feel like this? Something in my chest tightens, and it feels like a fist slams into my heart.
My hands no longer shake because now it’s my entire body that’s overcome with tremors.
My vision blurs, and suddenly, I’m kicking my bike.
“YO, MAN, WHAT THE FUCK!” Wyatt shouts before arms wrap around me, hauling me away from my R1, which is identical to Nico’s. Our sympathy gift for being fucked like whores.
“LET ME GO!” I growl out, thrashing in Thiago’s arms.
“I will just calm down, please.” There’s so much emotion in his voice that it freezes me in place.
“I’m letting you go now,” Thiago informs me.
“Be chill. You’re okay. Talk to me.” As always, he talks me through it just like he does anytime he fucks me.
Only this time, it's not his cock that’s fucking with my head, but the uncertainty.
The eeriness inside me, the dread in my gut, screaming to go to my pops.
“Breathe, Ruas1… Breathe.”
I do.
My lungs inflate with air as my nostrils flare, taking in a gulp of night air. His delicate and large hands cup my face, forcing me to look into his hazel eyes. “Talk to me,” he breathes, and the words escape my lips as much as I fight them not to.
There was no use arguing with him. I needed the asshole, and he had already concluded the same. So I give in and, through gritted teeth, I murmur, “I need to go to Bajo Bay.”
Thiago nods before looking over at Wyatt and motioning to him that everything is okay with a thumbs up and a tense smile. Safra looks back at me, and there’s no mask. No pretense, only the side of him I rarely get to see. The one I hate to acknowledge.
“Okay, get in. I’ll take you,” he responds, and as much as I want to tell him to fuck off, I’m in no condition to think, let alone ride an hour away without killing myself on the way.
What shocks me the most is the reaction I’m having to just fucking assumptions, for all I know, my pops is lying drunk somewhere inside the house, covered in his piss.
So why do I care? Why do I feel like I need to go to him?
That feeling persists, screaming at me to follow it.
What if Pops is really hurt? Worse, dead?
If so, why would he call me? Did he call me for help?
Only for me to ignore him? The thought has my stomach churning, causing me to heave nothing.
I can’t hear anything around me besides the high-pitched ringing in my ears.
I’m panicking, spiraling, and I can’t fucking stop it.
How fucked is that? Me caring for a man who never gave a flying shit about me.
Still, I let Thiago drag me towards his Benz and slide into the passenger seat without a fuss. The smell of leather and his cologne greets me as he slides into his seat and turns on the car, wasting no time putting the car into drive and hitting the streets.
Thankfully, he’s quiet and knows exactly where he’s going.
“Where’s Nico?” I ask to break the silence, as much as I find comfort in it.
My mind is running at a thousand miles per hour, each thought giving me no time to dwell on them.
Thiago’s hands tighten around the wheel, his knuckles protruding beneath the dainty gold bands around them.
My eyes work their way up to his face, where his chiseled jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful.
His body's reaction tells me, wherever Nico is, he knows, and I don’t want to know.
Or at least don’t want to hear confirmation of it.
I swallow hard, and my hand balls into a fist, the same one I bring to my mouth. Guilt consumes me. I’m here, cradled by someone who at least cares—I might not like Safra, but I couldn’t bunch him with the rest. As much as I hate to admit it, there’s something that connects us.
My head slams into the window, my gaze on the moon that follows us through the dark roads that stretch before us.
I feel hollow inside; it’s like I’m breathing but not really living.
My best friend is back there, being used and god knows what else, and all I’m doing is chasing a feeling instead of doing something.
Anything.
I open my palms, resting them on my thighs.
Looking down, I see the hard work in my calloused hands, see the pain and the helplessness.
Anger quickly simmers before tipping to its hottest boil.
The pressure becomes unbearable, and I slam my fist into the dashboard.
You would think Thiago would get startled, but he doesn’t even flinch, just stares at the empty road, and continues to drive.
Allowing me the release I so desperately craved without an ounce of judgment, and that has me staring at him.
Wondering why? Why me? He could be anywhere? Doing anything, why be here?
“Thank you,” I mutter, allowing my body to sink into the leather seat. From the corner of his eye, he glances at me. His lips twitch into a tender but small smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes.
“No need, Ruas,” he replies softly, his voice a tender caress to my heart, soothing me so much it hurts.
So many conflicting emotions run rampant inside me, and as the roads become bumpier, the street is littered with trash and graffiti.
We arrived at Bajo Bay. And poverty is the first to welcome us.
Thiago slows down going over the large speed bumps and swerves, avoiding the massive potholes.
It’s a shithole, still nostalgia embraces me tightly the deeper we get into the quiet streets, passing by the small park where Nico and I would spend hours playing soccer, just two small boys with a dream and a ball.
Who would have known our dreams would become tainted by nightmares impossible to keep out?
Without a word, feeling the weight of Safra’s eyes, I point at the small, decrepit house with red paint peeling off the trim, the siding is missing, and no gutter—my personal hell.
My heart quickens as Thiago slows down and enters the small driveway.
I can feel my nerves grow restless, small bursts spread through me, making me jittery and unable to stop myself from shaking.
I waste no time exiting the car, almost tripping as it rolls to a stop.
“Zayden, wait,” Thiago calls out, but I don’t bother.
Grabbing my keyring from inside my pocket, I open the door, and the smell of liquor, musk, and vomit assaults me.
For a second, I contemplate closing the door and turning away.
However, the little boy inside me screams for me to move forward, to push past the negative memories I’m flooded with.
My hand rests on the door frame before I creep inside.
The weathered wooden floor groans as I move through the darkness, my hand brushing against the wall to find the light.
My eyes adjust to the brightness.
Everything looks just as I remember… even worse if I’m being honest. The beige walls are stained yellow from the amount of nicotine.
There’s more liquor bottles than food containers littered across the floor.
The odor of the house is enough to sour my stomach.
I hate that Safra has to see this side of my life.
The one I try to desperately keep away, I’m not ashamed of being poor, but this…
It’s a vulnerability, and I’m so tired of being vulnerable.
“David!” I call out my father’s name as adrenaline begins to invade my body, blood rushing to my ears, heating them and making my stomach queasy when I spot the pile of vomit beside the couch.
Something inside me nudges me to move towards the light creeping from his bedroom.
I can hear Thiago step inside the house.
I don’t have to turn around to know he’s taken aback; he didn’t even make it past the door before the pretty boy wants to go home.
The door closes, and the urge to look back has me locked in place.
It’s okay… I remind myself. It’s okay. I wasn’t expecting him to stay…
Still, the disappointment that grips me like a vice renders me a liar.
I push past the negative cloud and continue to repeat, ‘It’s okay,’ until my body catches up with my mind.