11. Two Broken Birds #4
Gus thought he had built something really special with Bridger—whatever it was. Bridger made him happy. He hated that Bridger now consumed his every thought.
But at the same time, Gus loved it.
Bridger had unlocked in Gus new passions he never knew he could love.
He came to Montana with no plan and nothing to do.
Bridger helped this summer make sense. Without him, that sense was evaporating, leaving Gus feeling as lost and isolated as when he arrived.
He loathed that feeling of moving backward, of not knowing his next step. What’s happening to me?
For the first time in his life, Gus felt terrified of a blank page.
I wish Mom were here.
Gus smiled morosely, remembering all the late-night advice his mother would always give him, even when he didn’t ask. School bullies, challenging classes, failed art projects—his mom’s sage words and warm hugs had soothed them all.
She’d know what to do.
Gus’s nose twitched. His eyes started burning. He felt slow tears starting to flow. A renewed grief hit Gus, punching through the emptiness left from losing Bridger, a loss so raw and new that it ripped open a deeper wound.
I’ll never get to hug her again.
She’ll never see the art I make.
She’ll never meet my first… boyfriend.
Alone in his room, Gus wept. He couldn’t hold back as his cramping stomach pulled him into a cradled ball of heartache. Waves of sadness flowed through him. He couldn’t stop sobbing. Couldn’t stop thinking about all his tiny cherished dreams for their future Mom had taken with her.
Gus wiped a fresh wave of tears and his gaze fell upon his sketchbook lying on the locked wooden trunk by his bed. The sketchbook he hadn’t touched since kissing Bridger. The sketchbook his mom gave him last year before she got sick…
If I don’t have her, why am I even drawing anymore?
With a vicious, callous grunt, Gus began tearing out all his work page by page.
Each and every stunning sketch was ripped from the book’s spine by hands trembling with anger and disappointment and hurt.
He didn’t want these memories anymore. He wanted the regrets to stop.
Minnesotan loons in clear lakes—torn in half.
The blue jays amongst the flowers behind his grandparents’ house—crumpled into balls.
Every eclectic object in his mother’s Minnesota apartment—ripped into scraps.
Gus scooped up the first pile of torn paper and dumped it into the wastebasket at his feet. He grabbed his sketchbook and continued again, unable to stop. As Minnesota drawings transitioned to depictions of Montana, Gus’s sense of loss morphed into bitter betrayal.
If Bridger doesn’t want me, I don’t want Montana.
Gus ripped out the pristine mountains he’d sketched as his dad drove him from the airport, and tore them down the middle.
He furiously shredded all the stupid pages of various skater boys and their boards.
The baby sparrow stuck on the ground with its broken wing, he shredded without a care. Gus wanted them all gone.
His fingers paused with the last drawing he found: a golden Bridger sunbathing in their secret spot.
Gus had drawn every muscle on Bridger’s torso as he lay on the rock above the spring—had captured every water droplet streaming down his drying legs.
It had been Gus’s final sketch right before his and Bridger’s muddy escape in the rain, their first passionate kisses.
Gus hesitated. He strained against the heated pain.
His face scrunched up with depressed confusion, and tears welled anew.
Staring into the sketched eyes of the beautiful Bridger, Gus lost himself once more in that golden moment.
He craved the safety he’d thought they shared.
He had taken it for granted, how close he and Bridger had come, not knowing it could all crumble so fast.
I’m not letting anyone get that close again. No one.
Gus’s wet sullen eyes fell to a dead stare as he slowly ripped Bridger’s sketch right through his sun-kissed chest. With scorched ambivalence, Gus dumped the two halves of Bridger into the trash can on the ground with all the rest of his memories.
It was done. All his pages were gone. No going back.
Gus chucked the empty sketchbook on top of it all.
One loose paper he’d missed slipped out, torn halfway from the binding. Gus grimaced and reached down to rip it in half. It stuck to the front cover; he pried it away.
Smiling up at him from the page, sitting on the porch of their Minnesota home, was his mother. Gorgeous, serene, and happy.
Gus clutched this last sketch he’d drawn of her in his fist. The world stopped. His hand relaxed. In a panic, he smoothed it back out, wiping away the creases of damage he had done.
No. Not this one.
When he lowered back onto his bed, gently cradling the sketch of his mother close to his chest, Gus found he had no tears left to cry. Numb, he reached for his headphones and played metal so loud he couldn’t possibly think.
She’s gone, too.
No more Mom. No more Bridger.
Gus lay there, his music a racket, feeling as torn, discarded, and useless as the scraps in his trash.