Chapter 20
Kyle
The plumber gets to the house shortly after Wes leaves, and I roll my eyes internally. Of course that’s how the timing works out. He gets to go see Rory and I’m staying here, being the responsible one. That’s not fair. Wes is plenty responsible; this is just the kind of steady responsibility that I seem to take ownership of. I don’t mind, not really, I’m just jealous he gets to see Rory.
The plumber is able to fix the leak, but he’s not able to tell me what damage there is. I’ll need someone else for that. Makes sense, but still annoying. I thank him for his time and keep his card. He owns his own small plumbing business with five employees, and he was incredibly helpful and prompt, so I’ll be referring him and calling if I need help again. I put out fresh towels underneath the sink to soak up the rest of the existing water, and rummage around for a small fan to help move the air. When I check the basement ceiling, it doesn’t look too bad. There’s a tiny wet spot that you have to really look for, so I’m hoping there won’t be any water damage. I make a mental note to call a contractor to pull the ceiling open to check in the next couple of weeks.
Once I feel satisfied with that, I pull out my phone and check to see if they messaged at all. Nothing, but that’s probably good. I send a few messages to them, teasing their silence and asking how things are going. Hopefully, they’ll tell me to come join. I don’t invite myself, though, if they want me I’ll join but I’m going to respect their time together. There’s no reply for a few minutes, so I send another message just to tease. They’re probably doing the dirty, but I can’t resist the urge.
My feet take me upstairs and I flop on the couch in the living room before I hear my phone chime again. I pull it out of my pocket and see Wes has messaged, but it sounds like maybe they’re done hanging out.
Me: Everything ok? You guys get freaky then decide you need me? *winking face*
Wes: Uh, yeah. I’m gonna head home I guess.
My brow furrows as I start a message back. That seems like an odd way to phrase things.
Me: Oh, well, ok, everything cool?
Wes: Yeah, I guess so. Sounds like it is but I’m gonna head out.
That’s fucking weird. What does he mean by “sounds” like it is? Did she say something to him? Did they get in a fight? It feels like something is way off here. Why isn’t Rory saying anything?
Me: Rory, you’re pretty quiet, you doin ok?
She doesn’t respond, and neither does Wes. Something must have happened and now I’m worried. Maybe I should just go over there. While I get mired in indecision, enough time passes that Wes arrives home. He shuts the door with a little extra force and pops a beer open.
“What the hell, man?” I ask as I meet him in the kitchen.
“What?”
“What is going on? Rory’s radio silent, and you barely said a fuckin word. Then you stomp in the house and slam the door. What happened?”
He scoffs. “Fuck if I know. One minute we’re playing Mario Kart and having a blast, the next minute she’s zoned out like a goddamn zombie. She wouldn’t say more than two words to me, so I left. She clearly didn’t want me there.”
Wes storms off for the spare room where his guitar is, and I can tell his feelings are hurt. At first I was worried he was angry, but he’s just hurt and needs an outlet. As the strums of his six-string start to sound in the background, I send Rory another couple of messages directly, but when she still doesn’t respond, I decide to just go over there.
I don’t bother Wes with letting him know I’m leaving. He’ll figure it out. Hopefully whatever is bothering her isn’t too bad. The drive passes in a blur, and I make it to her door, realizing that Wes left it unlocked after he left. She never got up to lock it. When I walk in and see her laying on the couch, tears dripping down her face, her body still, I know she’s not okay.
The sight triggers me in a way I didn’t really think possible. I remember my dad getting sad when I was really young. Well, we called it sad, but now as an adult I realize he was dealing with depression. He would still talk to us though, sometimes would even play a game when he was down, so I’ve not directly interacted with someone this depressed before.
My protective instincts kick into overdrive and I shuck off my shoes, determined to show her she’s not alone. She has us whether she realizes it or not. Whenever I felt down, or saw my dad feeling down, we just wanted someone to exist with us, so that’s what I do. I sit and we exist for a while, my hand stroking her hair, reminding her with physical touch and a few words that she’s not alone.
Once I know Rory is coming out of her slump, and that she’s okay, I leave for home and the closer I get, the higher my anger mounts. When I get home, I’m about ready to punch Wes in the face. Fuckin’ idiot, he knows better than to just leave someone crying on the couch. While I know that wouldn’t actually help anything, the idea of punching him in the face has some satisfaction to it. Instead, I find him still playing his guitar, even though it’s been hours. He must have taken a break or his fingers would be bloody by now. Violence has never been something we subscribe to, so I make myself take a few calming breaths.
After opening the door, I’m greeted by the sight of Wes on the floor, where I expected him to be, guitar in his lap, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. There are a few beers sitting empty by him. He’s strumming out a random melody with no particular rhythm to which chords he chooses. I watch him for an instant, appreciating this man’s love for music and my love for him. Poor guy has no idea how to handle mental breakdowns, apparently.
“I can hear you breathing,” he says, continuing to strum.
“Well at least I’ve mastered the creeper breath then, wouldn’t want all that practice to go to waste.”
He snorts softly. After another moment, he stops strumming and sets his six-string on the guitar stand next to him. Neither of us moves, and I decide this is apparently where this conversation is going to happen.
“You fucked up.”
“What the hell?” He looks up at me, confused.
“You heard me.”
“How the hell did I mess up? She basically kicked me out!”
I cock my head at him. “Do you understand how to read people? I mean, I know not everyone has that skill set, but I thought you did.”
“Fuck off,” he grumbles.
“I mean it, Wes. I don’t understand what the hell was going through your head. You understand social nuance. She was sobbing on the couch, and you just left. Explain this to me.”
“I mean, we were there having a great time, then suddenly she stopped talking to me. She laid down facing away from me and every time I asked if she was okay, she just blew me off. She had some tears on her face, but she wasn’t crying. Clearly, she didn’t want me to stay, so why the hell would I?”
My eyebrows are as high as they can go and I whistle, actually astounded at him. Wes isn’t the kind of guy to just walk away from someone in need, so there’s got to be something else at play. I can’t reconcile the Wes I know with the Wes that is in front of me. Wes looks at me, annoyed now.
“Look, I don’t need you judging me right now, alright? She told me to go, so I went.”
“Did she say, ‘please leave’? Did those words come out of her mouth?” I ask him, anger starting to show against my better judgment.
“No…” He sounds hesitant.
“Okay, while you think on that I’m gonna go grab a beer and check on Rory. Again.”
“Wait, is she okay?”
“When you figure out what the hell you didn’t do, I’ll talk to you about it, otherwise don’t expect a fuckin’ word out of me.”
I storm to the kitchen, pop open a beer, and flop on the couch. Wes and I have had our share of fights, but I’m not sure I’ve ever been this mad at him. I shoot off a text directly to Rory to make sure she’s up like I said I would.
What the fuck was he thinking?
I know he didn’t grow up understanding about this stuff, really the only reason I even know as much as I do is because of Hannah, my stepmom. When she came into the picture, she taught me about her job as a psychiatrist and it got me curious about mental health in general. She helped my dad get the help he needs, and they both sat down and explained depression to me. Clearly I’m not an expert, I work in a business not a hospital, but I know enough from Hannah for this to trigger me. My mind takes me back to my childhood, remembering the things I noticed about this stuff before Hannah came along.
My mom died from lymphoma before I was five, so I don’t have any memories of her. I do remember seeing my dad looking sad and never really knowing why. Even then, I knew as a kid that he just needed someone there with him. The first time I asked him, he said he was just feeling sad, so I grabbed a blanket and snuggled with him. His sniffles still sit in my memory, but we don’t talk about it. The point was to not be alone, not to analyze his feelings. When I’m halfway through my beer, Wes finally comes out of the room and sits on the couch next to me.
“Nothing I do has ever been good enough.”
I wait him out to hear the rest of his thought process.
“I hate to say it’s middle-child syndrome, but that’s basically it, you know? My parents always put emphasis on my older sister’s or my younger brother’s accomplishments. I was just there, existing. Nobody needed anything from me and when I asked, it was glossed over.”
Taking a sip of my beer, I nod. “I get that. I remember you telling me about being a middle child. I guess I never realized how badly you felt about it growing up. How badly you clearly still feel about it.”
“I don’t feel bad about it still. I’ve come to terms with it as an adult, but there are things I never bothered to learn. Things like how to really comfort someone when it’s a big thing, what real mental illness looks like, how to dismiss people’s opinions of me. Nobody wanted me to comfort them, so I never tried.” He sighs.
His body language is defeated. Spine curled, he’s slouched down on the sofa with his head tipped back. I reach out and grab his hand. I might be mad, but I’m not petty. Wes clearly needs someone, and I’m right here for him. Always.
His fingers grip mine tightly. “I’m afraid I fucked up too much. What if she doesn’t want this anymore? I don’t want to ruin it for you. Obviously, I don’t want to let her go, but if she decides she doesn’t want me anymore, then I want you to at least be able to have her.”
“Hey.” I get his attention softly. “Just talk to her. Depression isn’t some untouchable taboo thing. It’s like having a cold, but you feel like shit mentally instead of physically. I think Rory has a pretty bad mental cold.”
“What if she doesn’t want to talk to me?”
“She will, especially if you approach her with genuine interest and an apology. One afternoon of bad won’t eradicate the relationship, have more faith in her than that.”
Wes nods, and I use our clasped hands to pull him closer to me and wrap my arms around him. Showing him without words how to be there for our girl.