37. Indy
THIRTY-SEVEN
INDY
I’ve gotten into this habit of doing the wrong thing.
Give me two choices, and I’m almost guaranteed to pick the worst one.
Not on purpose. I don’t wake up in the morning thinking, how can I ruin my life today?
It’s a bit more subtle.
Like a compass that randomly sometimes doesn’t point north, so I never know I’m about to fuck up.
If there’s a safe option and a dangerous one, I’ll somehow convince myself the dangerous one is the way to go.
When my sister calls me and asks for a favor, it doesn’t feel like I shouldn’t do it.
Still, it’s difficult not to feel like this time I maybe could’ve used an extra minute of deliberation. Out of all the places I could have chosen to end up, Boston should never have been on the list. It’s too close to… everything.
I purse my lips, suppress a yawn, and rub the back of my neck.
I’ve been up for nearly two days straight, packing all my shit into boxes and shipping them to Boston, tying up loose ends as I went.
Somehow I made it here though. I nudge the suitcase with the few clothes I brought with me to tide me over until the rest of my stuff arrives out of the way and walk farther into the apartment.
It’s a three-bedroom in Charlestown with high ceilings, large windows, and trees on the street outside. Dia has the bedroom across the hall and Bridget has the one on the other side of the apartment.
This place is clean. And I mean clean. It’s like serial killer’s bathroom after he went on a murder spree and then got tipped off that the cops have a search warrant.
I’m not a slob, but I don’t think I can do this level of tidy.
This is brain-surgeon-scrubbing-his-hands-before-diving-into-your-prefrontal-cortex type of clean.
The floors are gleaming hardwood. The walls are white.
The furniture looks vaguely Scandinavian and is probably named something unpronounceable that sounds like “byornklyft” or “v?strok.” It’s all very neutral.
Like a blank canvas waiting for someone to come around and inject some personality into it.
The glass walls of the shower stall in the bathroom don’t have any water stains on them. Not a single one. Anywhere. It’s unnatural.
I absently pull one of the drawers open and inspect the inside. The freakish neatness has spread here, too. Everything is arranged by size: bottles, containers, boxes—everything. It looks like a luxury department store, to be honest.
I close the drawer, hang my towel on the rack, and place my shaving kit and my toothbrush in the second, empty drawer. Everything here seems to be color coordinated, so all my stuff sticks out like a sore thumb.
There’s the distant sound of a key in the lock, then a thump of shoes, and footsteps.
“Go?”
“Here,” I say.
My sister appears in the doorway and looks around, a wide smile spreading across her face. “All done here?”
“Almost,” I mutter. I turn on the tap, wet the tips of my fingers and flick water toward the mirror.
Dia’s lips twitch. “Better?”
I study the mirror for a bit before I glance at her. “Marginally.”
She shakes her head before she steps closer and throws her arms around me.
We hug for a long time before she pulls away, rolls her eyes, and strolls out of the bathroom. I take one last look around. My blindingly neon-green towel really brightens the place up.
I follow Dia into my new bedroom. The bland white walls could use some art to break up the monotony. Maybe a plant or two. But I’ll wait a bit before I hang anything up. Wouldn’t want to jinx myself.
I sit down on the mattress, bouncing once, twice.
Not bad. Not bad at all. I’m exhausted, but I make myself get up again, go back to the bathroom, and change into a pair of sweats.
There’s no laundry basket, so I drop the clothes on the floor in the bathroom and leave them be for now.
I absently scratch my right shin with the toes of my left foot while I stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom.
I splash some water on my face and feel out of place for a bit before I retrace my steps to the bedroom once more.
One could probably mistake it for homesickness, but I don’t miss San Francisco. It never felt permanent anyway. No place has. I’ve spent years in limbo.
Dia keeps eyeing me calmly. She nods at one of the duffels I pushed into the corner of the room earlier. “Want any help with unpacking?”
I make a face and shake my head. “Let’s see if I’ll still be here tomorrow before I put too much effort into this move.”
She quirks her brow the slightest bit. “And why wouldn’t you be here tomorrow?”
I shrug as casually as I can manage. “He might still reconsider.”
“Because we’d all find it funny to have you uproot your life and then once you show up be all, ‘Psych! There’s no job?’”
I stare back impassively.
“Oh, come on,” she says. “You don’t really think that.”
I make myself laugh and shake my head. “No, not really.” Even though, at this point, I very much do expect to walk into my new job next week and have them escort me out before I manage to settle in.
They wouldn’t even have to give me that cardboard box so I could put my sad cactus and a photo of that generic family that comes with the frame in it.
“Go,” Dia says with a sigh, “Callum wouldn’t do that. He’s great. You’ll see.”
I suppose she would know since she and Bridge are the ones who organized this job for me. Still, I reserve the right to be cautious. Not even cautious. Realistic.
In the six years since my life imploded, I’ve become cautious to the extreme. Nothing good will ever last. It’s like a mantra at this point.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Very excited about this opportunity and ready to… do stuff.”
“You really have to get a better faking-it face. And voice, while you’re at it.”
“I already have the next few days reserved for practice in front of the mirror.”
Her shoulders slump, and she presses her lips together.
“I’m kidding,” I say.
“Uh-huh. You know what? I’ll cancel some stuff, and you and I will hang out.”
“A pity hang. Thanks.”
“You’re like a kicked puppy.” She reaches out her hand and pinches my cheek. I bat her arm away.
“I’ll have you know I already have plans, so you can go and stuff your pity hang.”
“Do you really? Or are you just saying it?”
“No,” I say, affronted at the skepticism in her voice. “I’m meeting up with Dylan.”
The look of relief on her face that I won’t be a hermit and will actually have a life only makes me feel more pitiful. So that’s nice.
“How is Dylan?” she asks.
I shrug. “Happy.”
That kind of sums it up, and considering everything Dylan’s been through, the universe owes him happiness for the rest of his life.
Dylan is the nicest and most thoughtful person I’ve ever met.
He cares deeply and is faultlessly genuine.
Beneath his composure, though, there’s a stubbornness that borders on self-destruction.
Once he believes something matters, he has a hard time letting it go.
We met a few years after I moved to San Francisco, both of us lost in different ways.
I guess heartbreak recognizes heartbreak or something.
What started as an accidental one-night stand developed, against all odds, into a real friendship.
I didn’t plan on it. I was mostly okay with being on my own.
It felt easier. But then Dylan and I just…
fit. Even now, when he’s head over heels in love and settling into his life with Adrian.
“What are you guys up to, then?” Dia asks.
I shrug. “Grabbing a bite to eat somewhere, I guess? Maybe have a few drinks.”
She nods, satisfied that I’m not going to mope here alone. “Okay. Have fun. I mean it, Go.”
“Once I’m done, you’ll have to peel me off the bar floor.”
“Not that much fun.”
I throw my arm across her shoulders, pull her against my side, and kiss the side of her head. “Pick a lane.”
She punches me in the side. “I’m allowed to worry. You’re my brother.”
It’s a testament to the brain’s ability to become numb to certain things that I don’t flinch anymore at the word brother.
Mostly it’s thanks to the fact that Dia has been very purposefully calling me her brother ever since...
that day. Also the fact that with a stubborn streak worthy of an award, I avoid thinking about the thing.
I refuse to let it get to me. I refuse to analyze it. I refuse to contemplate it.
I’ve built a life that centers around keeping myself busy.
Late hours. Two jobs. A phone full of names and numbers so I never have to be alone with my thoughts.
It’s what keeps me going these days. No more quiet moments on the bay.
I haven’t touched a shell or held a paddle for years.
Rowing is a silent activity and silence is the enemy.
Otherwise I start to think. And when I start to think, the inside of my skin starts to itch.
Like the life I’ve so carefully designed for myself suddenly doesn’t fit anymore.
Like I’m playacting as somebody else. Pretending to be a character in a life that isn’t my own.
I shake my head to clear it and paste on a smile. “I promise I’ll only be mildly stupid.”
Dia laughs and sticks her tongue out at me. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
I’m just keeping my fingers crossed it won’t end up being a lie.