Chapter 12. Liam
I always knew I was a depressed little shit, but knowing something in theory and living it in practice are two completely different things.
I'm in a great mood because my dad called me.
I go to the phone room, which is usually the place everybody wants to be, because that's where you get to talk to the outside world, but I almost never go, because I have nobody to call. This time, though, they come to find me and tell me I have an incoming call, so I go and wait.
Sometimes Ethan does his shift there, making sure nobody goes over the ten minutes we're allowed. Unfortunately this time it isn't him. It's a new guard I've never seen, hair pulled back and a resting bitch face, like most of the rookies still trying to establish that we'll respect them.
When it's my turn, I pick up the phone looking like everything is fine.
To anyone watching, I'm chill, no problems, nothing going on, absofuckinglutely fine.
The truth is I'm shaking on the inside, my hands trembling slightly, the same feeling that I'm going to pass out or come apart at the seams, like those little cracks that show up in asphalt right before the whole thing collapses.
"Liam." My dad's voice. Sounding upbeat, as if this is just another call, another father and son bonding experience we have all the time. As if it hasn't been months since we last spoke. "Hey, man."
I only ever used to hear my dad sound like that after several beers, a bottle or two of wine, and a couple of glasses of whiskey. But he'd quit all of that a while back. Or at least that's what he said.
"Dad, is everything okay?" I ask, and a horrible thought starts gnawing at me, like a rat in the walls at three in the morning: he called because something is very wrong. Maybe he's dying. Maybe cancer. Maybe a stroke.
"Yeah, everything's good. I called to tell you I'm coming to visit on the next visiting day. That work for you?"
My heart slams into my ribs. I can't even believe those words. The last time I saw him was last year, around my birthday, early December.
"Seriously?" is all I manage to say. Like an idiot, which I basically always am.
"Of course. I miss you, man." He laughs, and for a second I remember the days we used to go fishing when I was little, before everything got really bad. "You can count on it."
"I'd love that," I say, and it's true. It's ridiculously fucking true.
"Then it's settled. Next visiting day, I'll be there."
Fuck. Now I have this terrible thing called hope.
On visiting day, I'm shaking worse than when I'd gone a week without drugs.
I can't even hold a fork steady. Sitting at the breakfast table with everybody, I'm terrified they'll think I'm refusing to eat again — when I'm actually doing so much better with treatment, thank you very much — it's just nerves.
Ethan notices. Of course he does. He always notices. I see that specific fear cross his face for a second, the one I know well, but then he smiles warmly and says, "It's going to be fine, baby. He's coming."
How that bastard can read my mind like that, I genuinely don't know. Maybe he has secret mind-reading powers that he never told me, like a superhero in disguise.
I force a smile. Almost say it's nothing, that I have a stomachache, some bullshit excuse like that. But what's the point? It's obvious. After living with these guys for so long, I can't lie to any of them anymore, let alone Ethan.
"It's just… he's made a lot of promises before," I say, and there it is, that wound I can never stop finding ridiculous.
For how many fucking years will I bleed every time I think of my parents and my childhood?
Unfortunately, I know the answer: forever.
Just like everybody else. "It happened a few times, then a lot of times, until it became the norm. He just never showed."
"I know, baby," he says. "But this time he's coming."
"You can't know that."
"You're right," he admits. "But either way it's going to be fine, because I'm here."
He takes my hand and squeezes it. Jack, sitting next to us, pretends to gag.
"You two are disgusting," he says. But he's joking. Deep down he thinks we're the best. His words.
Then I remember, on top of everything else, that Ethan won't be there if my dad doesn't show.
Or if he shows up drunk, or annoying, or whatever.
Because Ethan is leaving right after breakfast. He's gotten permission to do his clinical hours at an actual hospital, some partnership deal with the facility, so he can finish his nursing degree and actually get a job when he gets out.
I'm genuinely happy for him. I really am.
I'm not going to be the selfish little shit who says otherwise.
But I'm also drowning in self-pity, because I know, deep in the back of my mind, that his time here with me is running out.
He's already been at Aspire for four years.
Four years is way too long, especially for someone who never did anything wrong.
Ethan just hadn't had a good enough lawyer to get him out sooner.
But he's already served more than he owes, and with the degree almost done — a requirement for release under this system — his way out is just a matter of time.
I know that. I just prefer to ignore that part of my brain, like that dog meme where the guy's sitting in a burning room saying everything's fine. That's exactly how I feel every time that thought surfaces.
He's going to leave. Out into the world.
Into a life. And I'll stay locked up here for however much longer.
Our sentences aren't fixed — they're based on mental health, so we have to get better to earn the privilege of returning to society.
Which, let's be honest, might never happen.
Or they could ship us somewhere else when we turn thirty, the age limit for this facility.
Or at minimum we have to finish our programs to get out with any kind of diploma.
And I'm nowhere near that, especially since I'm absolute garbage at carpentry.
I'm not stupid, even if I act like it sometimes. I know Ethan knows too. And we both keep ignoring it, ignoring that one day this will have to end, because I'm not going to trap him here.
Even if he says he'll wait for me — and I believe that he believes that — my conscience won't let me do that to him. He got locked up at eighteen, same as me. He's had no time to live as a free adult. It isn't fair.
That thought turns my stomach.
"Who do you think's gonna win the Super Bowl this year?" I ask out of nowhere, changing the subject before my brain implodes.
They look at me for a second. I always forget to check whether people are in the middle of something before I pivot like that.
But they're used to me, so we go with it.
Talk football. Football always saves me: neutral ground, safe territory.
I can trash the Dolphins and talk about Jack's Falcons all day.
When the bell rings, Ethan stands up, gives me a quick kiss on the top of my head, quiet enough that it's mostly hidden.
"It's going to be fine, pup." Low voice, just for me, and it breaks me even more. That's my voice, and soon there would be no more of that. "I'll be back soon."
"Have fun!" I call after him, and I mean it. I want him to crush it, to love the work, to have everyone love him. And I'm sure they will, because he's responsible and sharp and careful, and handsome, and kind. I want that for him. Genuinely.
But there's still this tiny place inside me, small and ugly, where my heart is already scared, and the bad voices whisper: he's not coming back. He's not coming back.
I shove those thoughts down and follow Jack to first period carpentry.
The day takes a geological fucking age to pass. First because I hate every single one of those classes. Second because I know that any minute now my dad is going to show up. Or not.
I don't really believe he'll come. But the goddamn hope has already taken root, and my brain keeps going back and forth:
He's definitely coming. He wouldn't have called if he wasn't coming.
He's not coming. Have you forgotten every Father's Day at school? Every presentation he promised he'd show up to and didn't?
If he doesn't come, it's fine. It's fine. I'm used to it.
You know that's a lie, Liam. You're such a bullshit artist. You lie to yourself. It's pathetic.
That loop keeps running while the teacher explains quadratic equations — stuff I should've learned at fourteen but was probably cutting class to smoke weed. Very on brand. On top of passing every subject for the GED, I still have to complete the carpentry diploma. Fuck my life.
When the time comes, I'm escorted to the visiting room like I'm walking to my own execution.
Stomach churning. I try not to think about it.
Dr. Herrera taught me not to fixate on the urge to spiral.
So I think about one of the newer Green Day albums instead, which is an absolute masterpiece that I listen to on the contraband radio Ethan gave me.
Didn't expect the band to still surprise me like that, especially after their whole pop pivot.
Good thing to think about. Safe. I think about anything except my stomach.
The visiting room tries to look normal. Wide, open layout, round tables with benches, no handcuffs, no glass partition. We can sit and talk freely, except for the guards at the doors. It almost convinces you it's a normal place. Almost.
The guard tells me to sit at one of the tables and wait. I sit. No argument.