Sage
EIGHT
PRESENT DAY
I keep tapping my finger over his heart, trying to keep a steady rhythm, but my own heart is a war drum. His face is pale, drained of his usual color. His eyes are crazy, looking at me but not seeing.
I know what a panic attack looks like. Mom got them before we moved. I used to do this for her when it happened. It helped, I think. She said it did.
I just want him to be ok. I need him to be ok. I knew he was scared to go out. To see everyone. But I didn’t think it would do this. Didn’t think it would send him into a fucking panic.
His breathing finally starts to even out, sounding normal-ish. He slowly regains some of his color. He looks at me like I’m his lifeline, like I’m the reason he’s ok. I’m not; he is. He never thought he was as strong as he is. As fucking sturdy. But he is.
“Mac? Alright?” He doesn’t answer with words, just the slightest dip of his head. I tap a few more times, then drop my hands, resting them uselessly against my thighs. We’re back to staring at each other. Always staring.
“I’m good…Sorry,” he quietly says, looking away from me and down at my hands.
When he dropped down onto his knees, I couldn’t climb off the bed fast enough. Now he sits on his heels, shoulders bunched up near his ears.
“No, I’m sorry. Fuck, dude, you scared me. We don’t have to go. You could have just said no, didn’t have to be all dramatic.” He gives a choked laugh and a forced smile, and I’ll fucking take it. I’ll take anything over the terror he just wore on his face.
“No, um. You sure Dad won’t come back?” His hands scrub roughly at his face, his palms digging into his eyes.
I’ve told him over and over that Dave isn’t coming back. He can’t. I told him he was safe. So many times, I told him he was safe.
But he’s a fucking idiot. He won’t read between the lines, won’t pick up any clues on what I’m telling him, but I can’t fucking spell it out for him. Not this. I’m too much of a coward.
“He’s never coming back. I promise. But if you’re not ready—”
“No. No, I’m being a bitch. We should go.” He nods his head, and his face turns to stone-cold resolution. He obviously is trying to prove something. To me or himself, maybe both. He can’t hide in a trailer forever, or in that shoebox.
“You’re sure? I don’t give a fuck about the party, man. If you—”
“I said we should go,” he tells me with another nod to stiffen his resolve. “So, let’s go.” He stands up and glances around the room.
I know he thinks I didn’t see. Didn’t notice how he took in my room.
Or didn’t notice he avoided it. But I did.
I also pulled up my boxers to show him the tattoo.
For some reason, he won’t just ask the questions he’s dying to know the answer to.
Instead, he ignores them, hoping the answer will magically appear.
He simply scowls at my thigh, my door, Mom’s door.
Him being back has been…fuck, it’s been everything. Having our pointless conversations, watching shit TV. It’s been everything I thought I’d never have again.
I’m no better than he is, though. I stare at him, watching, creating lists, graphs, goddamn pie charts of all the things that are different versus the same.
He still eats like someone is going to steal his food.
He still has terrible taste in TV shows.
But he fidgets more. Maybe it’s being back, and the threat of Dave finding him, but he’s jumpier.
And well, I guess I’ve changed, too. Ever since that moment in his “apartment” when I thought about kissing him. I keep having that thought, even now when he freaked out, I wanted to slam my mouth to his just to snap him out of it. Good thing I didn’t, it probably would have made shit worse.
Just because he’s gay doesn’t mean he’s into me. He’s my best friend, and we’re in this honeymoon—no, not honeymoon—starting over phase. Me being impulsive and kissing him would fuck everything up.
“Uh, when is the party?” he asks, but he’s not looking at me. He’s documenting every detail of my room. It’s oddly cute, how badly he wants to see everything in here.
It’s the same. Well, almost. After he left, I tore up some pictures. I regretted that after Mom died, I cried because they were gone. Grief makes you do some wacky-ass shit.
“Luna said show up whenever. It’s just a few people.” Luna runs with a small crowd. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen her, and I haven’t told her about Mac’s return.
Although, I’m sure she already knows. She said “you guys” in the text. I’ll leave out that piece of information. Mac doesn’t need to know everyone in the park already knows he’s here.
He’s about as stealthy and subtle as he always was.
“Cool. Cool. I’ll…uh…just go get changed.” Then he’s rushing out of my room while I’m still kneeling on the floor. I watch him go.
I’m worried this is a mistake. That going will push him over the edge. That I’ll end up spilling the secret he needs to hear. But he’s determined to prove something, so I’ll let him. I’ll be there if he loses it. Like I always have been.
The entire walk to the docks, Mac is tense. A walking ball of nerves he’s trying to play off. He stares ahead as we walk through the park and the trees, his mouth a thin line as he glowers.
“Remember that time you convinced me that the penis fish lives in the lake?” I throw that out there in a desperate attempt to get him to unclench. It works, slightly. At least he’s not scowling at his feet now.
“Shit. I forgot about that. You wouldn’t pee anywhere near the lake for a year. I miss gullible thirteen-year-old Sage.” He laughs and shakes his head.
“You’re still a dick.” I bump my shoulder into his, but I’m laughing, too. All the times he pranked me and got me to do dumb shit play through my head. A montage of us.
As we get closer, the music down at the docks starts to be heard. All my hard work goes out the window. Mac starts to tense, his shoulders are hunched, and his head is swiveling around, looking for a man he won’t find.
“Hey, we can just—”
“No. Fuck that, I’m good.” With great amount of effort, he pulls his shoulders back and straightens his spine. And off he goes, marching towards the fire pits and the groups of people. He rolls his shoulders but fails to release the tension he carries.
“Alrighty then,” I say to myself, trailing behind him, hands in the pockets of my swim trunks. Everyone spots him instantly, welcoming him back with open arms and smiles.
They all start demanding answers to questions I’m too chicken shit to ask. Everyone speaks over one another in their rush. Mac answers them all, sounding like he’s discussing someone else’s life instead of his own. Detached.
He tells everyone about Henry, his apartment, and working on cars.
Filling in tiny gaps in the knowledge of his two years.
I listen, quietly taking it all in, ass in the sand, hanging on every word.
He leaves out the fact that he’s gay. Leaves out why his dad almost killed him.
And I selfishly revel that I know something they don’t.
I feel weird. Overwhelmed and confused. My thoughts are a riot in my head.
Self-doubt isn’t something I’m used to, but right now, I don’t know what I’m fucking doing.
Mac is back. He’s back, and he’s different—but the same.
And I can’t stop looking at him. I can’t stop memorizing every small detail.
Or thinking about that damn kiss that never even happened.
Time for more booze. I reach into the cooler that rests beside me, fumbling through the melting ice until I grab something. I don’t even bother looking at what it is, I just pop it open and pour it down my throat, hoping it washes away whatever the fuck is wrong with me.
When the questions finally die down, he comes to sit next to me, leaning against my side. He smells like smoke from the fire, and his skin is so goddamn warm. I have to stop myself from leaning into him.
“You good?” he asks, nudging his thigh against mine. I should be asking him that, not the other way around. He’s the one who had a panic attack before we got here. I need to get my head on straight and stop thinking so damn hard.
“Yeah, you?” I lie. I’m not good; I’m a mess. But I lie so he doesn’t stop having a good time. He relaxed when everyone was happy to see him. When he realized no one here would have called Dave.
“Yeah. Fucking weird being back, but good.” He lets more of his weight lean into my side, and I love the feeling of him.
“You’re being weird. You sure you’re good?
” he asks. I am being weird. Usually, I’m the one drawing everyone in, dancing, starting fights.
I don’t sit on the sidelines and watch. But my head is a mess.
All I can think of is kissing him, wondering what it would feel like for him to lay completely on me.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” I scrub my hand down my face, forgetting it’s are covered in sand. But it helps. I think? I either need more booze, or I should stop altogether. Like always, I say more and grab the cup out of Mac’s hand. Tossing it back, it’s strong and plays nicely with everything else.
We sit and watch everyone together for a while. Drinking more, Mac turns down a joint someone passes him, but I’m quick to take it. For a while, I’m just happy to be together; happy he’s having fun. Feeling better now that he’s next to me again.