Bear, Otter, & the Kid 03 - The Art of Breathing (28 page)

“Nothing,” I mutter. “I should probably go.” My face feels like it’s burning, and it takes everything I have to keep from running from this house, this neighborhood, this town, this world. Anywhere at all that he could no longer see me like this, this selfish little boy. This self-centered Kid.

He sighs and looks like he might speak. Instead, he shakes his head again and steps out of the doorway. Now’s my chance. Now I can run and forget that my throat is constricting or that it’s getting harder to breathe. I’ll find a bathtub (somewhere,
anywhere
) and wait for this earthquake to pass, because they
always
do. Some are worse than others, and some seem to stay for longer than they should, but they
always
pass, and I will beat this one like I will beat every one that comes after. I don’t need him to breathe. I can do it on my own. He shouldn’t have to carry me along with everything else. I’ll figure it out. Somehow. Some way.

And so I move to leave. I can’t even find the words to say good-bye to Ben, who is oblivious to the weird static charge in the room. Or maybe he’s not and doesn’t know how to respond. Or just doesn’t care. The last seems more likely.

Get out. Get out. Get out.

So many things to say. Of course, I say none of them. How cliché this is. How so like my brother am I or, rather, how he used to be. He said nothing and almost lost everything. It appears I will do the same.

I can’t look at him as I walk toward him. I can’t think of a single thing to say as I walk by him. For a moment, my arm brushes his, and it’s like every single nerve in my skin is firing off at once and shrieking
THIS IS IT! THIS IS IT!

He reaches out and grabs my arm. His fingers bite into my skin. There is so much pressure I’m sure the bones will shatter into tiny pieces. I relish it because it cuts right through the earthquake, and it’s like he knows. It’s like he knows every little thing I’m thinking at the moment, even if I don’t quite understand it myself.

The pressure increases.

He says one word and one word only:

“Don’t.”

Don’t what? Don’t come back? Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out? Don’t ever let me see you around here again?

Don’t leave.

He tightens his hand, and I have to stifle the groan that wants to rise. It hurts, but the earthquake is almost gone. As my mind clears, I can hear how heavily he is breathing, almost like he’s panting.

“Dom—”

“
Don’t
.”

So I don’t. It’s that simple.

Minutes go by. I hear him mutter, “You run. You always try to
run
.”

Eventually, he loosens his grip. His breath evens out. He drops his hand, and we stand side by side, our arms brushing together, and I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know if I should know.

Ben says he’s hungry without looking up from his crayons. He asks if I’m going to eat with them, and he wants a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Ursidae,” he says. “Mustelidae.”

Bear. Otter.

This is not their story.

This is my own.

I
SIT
in the kitchen, seated at the table next to Ben. He’s staring down at the sandwich in front of him. He touches it once. Then again. Lifts the bread to see the peanut butter. Sets it back down. Stares at it some more.

“He’ll eat it,” Dom says, sitting across from us. “Eventually. He just has to decide that he
wants
to eat it.”

“He likes it?”

“Most of the time. Kids with autism can be very picky about what they eat. A lot of it has to do with texture and smells. It’s back to the routine. He wasn’t so bad when he was younger, but as Spectrum kids get older, they become more resistant to new foods. We’ve been on a peanut butter kick for weeks now. It’s all he’ll eat for lunch now.”

Ben looks up at me, that flat look on his face. I pick up my own sandwich and bite into it, and he watches me as I chew. Some people might find the look to be disconcerting, but I know he’s just gauging my reaction, seeing if I’ll put the food down in disgust. I don’t, and he picks up his own sandwich and bites into it. It sits in his mouth for a moment before he starts to chew.

“You don’t like peanut butter,” I say to Dom, suddenly remembering.

He shrugs. “It’s easier to eat what he eats. Everything will look the same and smell the same.”

“That’s….” I don’t know what that is.

A small smile. “I really hate peanut butter,” he says.

My phone beeps. “Sorry,” I say as I pull it from my pocket. Text message. From Corey.

Need me to come save you or are you balls-deep?
Goddammit. My face burns.

Go away
, I type back.

The response is immediate.
Balls-deep, huh? That sounds hot.

“Everything okay?” Dom asks.

“Just Corey,” I mumble as I turn my phone off. Of course he would think that sounds hot, because it
does
sound hot, and now I’m thinking dirty things while eating lunch with Dominic and his three-year-old son who is watching every single bite I take. I’m an awful, awful person.

“Your ex, huh?” Dom says, as if discussing the weather.

“Yeah.”

“Date long?”

“A while.”

“How long’s a while?”

“Months.”

“He good to you?”

I’m pretty sure I’m being interrogated. Can a person be both the good cop and the bad cop? If so, he’s doing it perfectly. “He’s fine.”

“Why’d it end?”

“It just did. We’re better friends than anything else. He’s my best friend.” Well, that sucks to say out loud—telling your former best friend about your new best friend, who also happens to be your ex-boyfriend. I swear, these situations I find myself in sometimes are not my fault. They just happen to me.

Dominic, of course, doesn’t even flinch and continues to do that “vaguely interested, you’re guilty of something” cop thing. He must be very good at his job because I can’t quite seem to shut the hell up. Either that, or I just talk way too much. I don’t think I’d make a very good master criminal. I’d give everything up far too easily. In prison, I’d probably become a snitch and would eventually meet my end by being garroted in the prison showers after I’d met with FBI agents and given up the secrets of my cell mate, Pauley “The Destroyer” Galucci.

“I don’t want to die in the prison showers,” I say fretfully.

“Uh. What?” He arches an eyebrow.

“Pauley Galucci would get me.”

“I don’t think that’s a real person.”

I bury my face in my hands. “I’d be a snitch.”

“Snitches do get shivved,” he agrees, taking another bite of his sandwich. How he can stand to eat something he hates, I’ll never know. He’s got this annoying fucking smirk on his face, like he knows something I don’t. I want to punch him in the mouth.

“Garroted,” I correct him.

“That too. I’m not interrogating you, Tyson.”

Oh shit. I should have remembered he was one of the only people who could reverse-follow my line of thinking. Of course he knew exactly what I was talking about without having to have an explanation. No wonder he’s a cop. He’s, like, psychic or something.

“I didn’t think you were,” I say. I am a big fat liar.

He knows this, but he lets it go. Okay, we’re back to Good Cop. Fun. “Good to know.”

“Uh. Sure.”

And he immediately switches into Bad Cop. “So, how have the past four years of your life been?” Or maybe it’s Make You Feel Guilty Cop. It’s said with such an affable tone that I almost miss the words. “Seems I haven’t heard from you in some time.”

Asshole. “Oh, just fine,” I say. Two can play Bad Cop. “Thanks for the invite to your wedding. Sorry I couldn’t attend. It seemed rather sudden, and I already had plans.” Okay, maybe I’m Jerk Cop.

He grins, and it’s a feral thing. “That’s okay. You probably wouldn’t have had much fun. Lots of grownup stuff happening.”

“Sounds boring, though I heard the service itself was quite lovely. You know, for a wedding that came on such short notice.”

“It was nice,” he says. “Lots of flowers. You would have liked them.”

“I’m allergic,” I say sweetly, stepping onto thin ice as if it’s solid ground. “Probably good I didn’t make it. I would have sneezed through the whole thing.”

“Probably good,” he echoes. “Wouldn’t have done to have distractions. Vows and all that. You know about vows, Tyson? They’re usually inevitable, after all. Still, it was a lovely day, even in your absence.”

The ice doesn’t break, so I decide to take a jackhammer to it. I figure, why not? You only live once. “Shotgun weddings usually are. Hopefully Stacey found a suitable dress. I assume she was what… three, four months along at the time?” I smile at him. It’s a nasty thing.

His eyes flicker dangerously. Bad Cop is Pissed Cop. “Something like that.”

“And you, the sanctimonious man that you are, decided to do the right thing.” Of course he did. He’s Dominic, after all.

“Careful, Tyson,” he warns. “You’re speaking about my son.”

Ben pays little interest to the goings-on around him. “You’re right,” I say softly. “I
am
speaking about your son. Who you had with Stacey. It was, after all, inevitable.”

“Kind of like your leaving,” he says. “Who knew you’d end up being a runner? Not after what happened with Bear and Otter.”

“We’re not Bear and Otter.”

“Clearly.”

“You’re not even….”

He watched you like you were the only thing that existed in the world. For him, I’m pretty sure you were. For at least those moments.

“What?”

“Never mind,” I say instead. The coward’s way out.

The doorbell rings. “Shit,” he says, glancing down at his watch. “She’s early.”

“Who?” I ask, like it’s my business to know.

“Stay here with Ben,” he says without looking at me. He stands and disappears toward the front door. I hear it open, followed by low voices. Eavesdropping is bad, I decide, but only after I realize I can’t hear anything.

“This has been a weird day,” I mutter.

“You gonna stay here with my dad?” Ben asks me. He’s got peanut butter on his face. How he managed to get it on his forehead, I’ll never know.

“I have my own house,” I say. I get up and wet a paper towel in the sink.

“With Bear?”

“With Bear.”

“And Anna? I know Anna.”

“You do, huh?”

“She picks me up from school sometimes.” He watches every step I take toward him.

“You’re wearing your food,” I tell him.

He cocks his head at me.

“Peanut butter,” I say. “On your face.”

He doesn’t say anything. Children are so weird.

“I’m going to clean you, okay?”

He doesn’t react as I gently grip his chin and dab the peanut butter away. His gaze never leaves me, and his eyes are blue, the same shade as his father’s. In fact, this close, there would be no mistaking who he belonged to. I wonder briefly if he’ll be just as big. I don’t know much about autism, but it’s not a death sentence. He might grow out of a lot of it. And even if he doesn’t, from what I’ve seen, he’s remarkable. Kids like him usually are, deserving far more credit then they’re given. He’ll probably prove himself to be more resilient than I ever was.

I half expect him to pull away while I clean his face. “Ursidae and Mustelidae,” he says to me.

“You sure know a lot about animals,” I tell him.

“I like them.”

“Me too.”

“There’s bugs,” he says. “Outside.”

“That’s how I met your daddy. Because of bugs.”

He nods as if that makes perfect sense.

His face is clean and I let him go. “All finished.”

“Told you,” I hear from the entrance to the kitchen. I jump, feeling guilty, but over what, I don’t know. I turn and Dominic is there, leaning against the doorway, arms across his chest. Standing next to him is Ben’s mother.

Stacey.

She looks at me with something akin to awe. I look at her as one would look at another if unsure they’re friend or foe. She was always so nice. So upbeat. So friendly.

And for the longest time, I would not have been sad had she been eaten by a walrus. Awful, that. Of course, had she defended herself and killed said walrus, I would have probably labeled her an animal-killer and would have expressed my moral outrage by bashing her character on the PETA message boards.

Wow. Apparently, she brings up very conflicting feelings for me. She’s nice, but she’s also the definition of pure evil. Sort of.

“Hi, Mom,” Ben says. He scoots himself down from his chair and walks around the table. He stops in front of her and she leans down, smacking a wet kiss on his lips. He smiles up at her as he presses his shoulder into her leg. She looks as beautiful as always, and standing together, they seem to make the perfect family. I wonder just how far off base we were, if they’re still married. I’ve probably somehow found myself on Dominic’s only day off in a month and they’re all planning on doing something as a family, and here I bust right in, talking about shotgun weddings and playing Bitchy Cop.

My life is a travesty of epic proportions. This is probably going to get very awkward very quickly.

“It’s amazing,” Stacey says. Her voice sounds a little thick, as if she’s getting ready to cry. “You were right, big guy. That’s something else.”

Oh boy. Here it goes. The secret language of married couples who are madly in love and talk right in front of me about things I don’t understand. Lovely. I’m so glad I came here and got to have this rubbed in my face. Knowing my luck, she’s probably pregnant again. If I squint hard enough, it looks like she’s gaining weight in her face, so she sort of has jowls (okay, not really, but it’s making me feel better, at least a little bit). Where the hell is a walrus when you need one? Come to think of it, can a person even
buy
a walrus? I don’t know if I could do that. PETA would probably end up banning me for life, and even though the organization is pretty much off its meds now, I still want to be in good standing with it so that when I take control of it one day, there won’t be too much of a fight.