SAGE
TWO
Mac stares at me while I double over with laughter. The sound is unhinged and manic, ringing in the hot trailer. I lose my breath from the unexpected outburst. He left me because he’s gay. Like I didn’t already figure that out. I thought he was bi or something, but man, this makes so much sense.
Dave, his dad, would have totally lost his shit—and I’m guessing he did.
That night, Mac showed up at my door covered in blood, looking like he escaped a Saw movie.
I rushed him inside, worried he was about to bleed out.
Blood, snot, and tears ran down his face.
He wouldn’t tell me what got Dave’s panties in a bunch.
Just kept blubbering about how he had to leave, had to get out before he killed him.
He gripped my shirt with his blood-soaked hands and pleaded I ran with him.
He shot out fantasy worlds where we could live and be happy, not be surrounded by this fucking shit.
But I couldn’t just leave; my mom needs me.
Needed me. God, that still hurts to think of her in the past tense.
She died weeks after he disappeared. I was left by the two most important people in my life in the span of a month.
When he first reached out after he left—let me amend that—after he snuck out of my bed to vanish, he called. He texted. But it was too late, too much had happened for me to reply.
When I finally got him to bed that night, he promised he’d stay. He promised it was us against the world, but that was a lie. He fucking left me, then my mom left right after him.
The past two years have been fucking shit. My life has always been shit, but I always had Mac. I knew if I had him, I could get through any bullshit life threw at me. Since he left, it’s been one thing after another just like always, but I didn’t have him.
My thoughts kill my laughter. I’m not even sure why I started in the first place. Him being gay isn’t funny, and it isn’t even new information. Maybe it’s the weed and the drinks I had before he showed up, but I couldn’t not laugh at this moment.
Now he’s looking at me like I’m insane, and the laughter almost starts again. But I cut it off, sucking in air.
“Glad that’s so funny,” he deadpans, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His shoes are on the wrong feet, does he know? How quickly did he run to get here after picking up my call?
Fuck!
Mac is here. Taking up space in my trailer. The trailer I never wanted him to leave. He was supposed to be here for everything. He fucking promised me he would be.
But I can’t help but hate that two years are a mystery between us. Most of my life has revolved around Mac Stephens. Never had to face shit alone until two years ago.
Too many questions to count spin around my hazy head. Where does he live? Where does he work? Is he happy? Did he miss me like I missed him?
I could never bring myself to reach out. Even after my anger faded a bit, I still couldn’t bring myself to call. Until tonight. Until Evan beat the shit out of me for being a drunk dumbass. Until I stumbled back home and Mac wasn’t there. It was like that morning I realized he left all over again.
I didn’t expect him to answer. Fuck, I thought he would have changed his number. But when his voice came through on the phone?
“Sage?”
I broke, fucking shattered. A pathetic drunken mess just like Mom raised me to be. All the memories I kept locked down, all the sadness of losing him all came collapsing down on me. Temporarily snuffing out all the rage I felt when I picked up that phone.
And now he’s here. Now he’s looking at me after two years, and I’m conflicted. I want to punch him in the face, and I want to pull him in my arms and hug him. I want to rage and scream that he gets the fuck out, and I want to beg he never leaves again.
I wish I wasn’t still drunk and high off the weed Luna passed around. Maybe then I’d be able to decipher half the shit going on in my head.
My mom used to joke that Mac and I were soulmates. That we were put on this Earth to travel it together. That we would protect each other and keep each other safe. But he broke us when he ran, leaving me alone to deal with everything that came after. But now he’s back.
“Why didn’t you ever come out to me or whatever?” The question falls from my numb lips before I even finish thinking it.
“It’s…it’s complicated.”
I scoff. It’s not fucking complicated, asshole.
“No, it’s not. It’s simple: Hey, Sage. I’m gay.
Bam, easy. We told each other everything.
Why couldn’t you tell me this?” I never said anything homophobic, because I’m not homophobic.
I’m a hole’s the goal kind of guy. I’ve had threesomes that got confusing.
I don’t give a fuck. So why? Why couldn’t he fucking tell me?
He stares, and I stare back. Refusing to break eye contact first. Both of us are trapped in this intense staring competition. And I’ve never backed down from winning against Mac. So, I cock an eyebrow and stare back.
The trailer fills with the sounds of everyone outside. Lizzy’s recently discovered K-Pop forces its way inside. The girl is convinced she can get all of us to love it—she won’t. I try to focus on the song instead of studying Mac like I want to.
I lied. I study Mac.
He looks the same, but also different. He’s broader than he was before.
More muscular and defined. His hair is longer, and he has more stubble than he used to.
But the small scar on the bridge of his nose from learning how to skateboard is still there.
The scar on his eyebrow from the fight against Dean is still there.
However, there’s a new one on his forehead from that night two years ago.
My entire life is etched into someone else’s face, and I hate it. At least I tell myself I do. He’s still clutching the damn beer bottles, the glass clinking together whenever he shifts around, which is a lot.
Mac opens his mouth, then snaps it shut.
I wait. The trailer is tense. Him fighting to keep his secrets, me fighting not to…hug him? Punch him? It could still go either way.
The seconds tick by, the K-Pop outside switching to a new song. I can’t take this anymore. The tense silence is too much. I raise my hand, and Mac snaps his mouth shut again. “I need stronger shit if we are just gonna stare at each other.”
“I uh…I’ll have to drive home.” He fumbles with the bottles, setting them down carefully on the edge of the counter. His eyes snag on the microwave.
The microwave he got for me. He said I was a fire hazard in the kitchen, that I’d kill us all with a failed attempt at making pasta. He stole a bottle of moonshine from his dad and traded it for that piece of shit. Telling me even I couldn’t fuck up by pressing a button.
For a second, I wonder if this is as weird for him as it is for me. I see this shit every day, pass by memories that haunt the trailer like ghosts. But he’s been free from them for two years. Is it weird being back?
“Still responsible, I see.” My voice is laced with sarcasm.
No one would describe Mac Stephens as responsible.
Unless that’s changed, too. Damn it. Has that fucking changed?
“You can crash here.” He tears his eyes away from the microwave and looks at me in shock.
Like I haven’t offered that a million times in the past.
I’m just as shocked as him, though. The offer fell from my mouth before I thought it through.
But now that it’s out there, I don’t want to take it back.
I’m still mad at him for leaving. But…he’s Mac.
And he’s back, and I’m not ready for him to walk out that door again.
I want more time. I want to know where he’s been.
If he’s happy. If he ever thinks about me.
I just want more fucking time, goddamn it.
“Uh…um…ok?” I grab a bottle of vodka from the cabinet and gesture towards the couch.
He moves, looking out of place, sitting on the edge of the couch awkwardly.
I want to hit him. Snap him out of this weirdness and get back to where we were before that night.
Or maybe I just want to hit him in general.
I take a swig from the bottle. The cheap vodka burns a path down my throat and does nothing to ease the tension. I hand it over, plopping down next to him on the couch, the material dipping under my weight. He mumbles a thanks and takes a long pull.
“Hey, where’s Mom?” he asks, wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand. He twists his body and looks around, like she’s hiding behind the kitchen table, about to jump out and bitch about him leaving. I fucking hate that he has to ask that. I hate that he doesn’t know.
He probably thinks she’s over at June’s.
Since high school, Mom and some others started going to June’s every Friday night.
They’d sit outside and drink boxed wine while bitching.
Bitching about kids, husbands, too much work, not enough work, whatever was going on.
“Old biddies bar.” That’s what Mom started calling June’s trailer.
I can’t look at him. I grab the vodka roughly, jerking it from his hands and taking another drink. I don’t even feel it going down—maybe more alcohol isn’t the answer. But I can’t deal with him not knowing she’s dead.
He should have been here. Should have helped me with her funeral. Should have helped clean up my mess when I tore the trailer apart after. But he wasn’t.
In his world, my mom is still alive. In his world, she’s over at June’s with the other ladies. No matter how angry I am, I can’t seem to take that away from him. Another drink joins the others.