Fall Apart (34 page)

“I’m not mad, Day,” she answered softly. “Nobody’s mad at you, baby.”

Damon woke at noon and decided that was a generous description for opening his eyes and looking at the ceiling. Realizing he was still alive was more apt. A faint stink of puke was in the air—his mom was probably pissed about that—and smelling it, he wanted to provide a fresh offering. He ran his tongue over his teeth and smacked his lips a couple times. It was like a cat had slept on his tongue all night.

God. I’m disgusting.

His bedroom door opened with a bang and he was greeted by the sight of his mom with a pitcher full of water. The gleam in her eye told him that it wasn’t for his refreshment.

“Well, you’re awake!” She announced coldly. “I guess I won’t have to pour this over you.” Molly waved her hand in front of her nose and winced. “Smells like a gladiator pit in here.”

“Shower,” he croaked and slowly tried to rise. His head revolted, his stomach groaned, and his ribs told him to go fuck himself. “A little help, please?”

“Oh, no no no. You don’t need any help.”

“Ma, I get it. You’re mad, but—”

Molly slammed the pitcher onto the dresser, sending the water sloshing over the brim. “I don’t think you
do
get it. How old are you, Damon?”

“Mom.” Damon glared at her.

“How old?”

“I’m thirty-three years old. A glorious age.”

Molly’s lips twitched in disappointment. “It
could
be a glorious age. It could be a lot better than puking in your parents’ garden and hurting a man that
loves
you.”

“I’m not going to talk about that,” he spat at her. “That’s none of your business.”

Molly lifted her arms and laughed, confusing the hell out of his soggy brain. “I see what this is—oh, this is wonderful! A pity party. Hold on, let me get your dad.” Molly poked her head out into the hallway and shouted, “Leo, come here! Damon’s having a pity party and everyone’s invited.”

“Mom!” Damon barked. “Don’t!”

“My house, my rules. If you’re having a party, it’s only polite to invite us.”

Leo shuffled into the room with a stormy expression. “You two stop yelling.”

Molly’s eyes blazed but she clamped her lips shut and pointed at her son with the finger of death.

“If I’m bugging you guys, I’ll just go to my house.” Damon tried to punctuate the statement by standing up in as dignified a way as possible, but the end result fell well below the mark. “I’m healing. I’m fine.”

“You’re fit as a fiddle,” said Leo blandly. “That death pallor and barf residue makes you the picture of health. The BO scent is an extra special touch. If you tell us which bridge you live under, we’ll take you there.”

Damon took baby steps to the pile of clean laundry resting in the same place his mom had left it days ago. “Is this your idea of an intervention? Helping your angry son?”

“Are you angry?” Leo asked, direct as usual. “That’s
something
at least because it’s like a zombie has been living here. Anger is something we can work with.”

“Dad, I don’t want to be ‘worked with.’”

“Yes, you do,” his mom and dad said at the same time and Damon wanted to yell gibberish at them until his voice was gone.

Leo came to his side and forced his head around until they were eye-to-eye. “You’re so mad you don’t know what to do. You want to push everybody away because you know you need them. You want to blame yourself for everything that’s gone wrong and you want everyone else to blame you, too.”

“What I want is peace and quiet without the two of you barging in to analyze my feelings. I don’t really need the
People Die All The Time
speech. Nobody understands better than I do that Todd is dead. He’s gone. He’s not fucking coming back. Now, can I have a goddamn minute to myself please?”

“You think I won’t find a clear spot on your bruised face and smack it, kid?” Leo asked, his stance saying he meant the threat. “Don’t shout at your mother. We care about what’s happening to you and watching you fade away is unacceptable.”

Damon ground his teeth together, his nostrils flaring as he took a breath through his nose. “All I want is a fucking shower!” he hollered.

“Coming right up!” Molly answered, lifting the pitcher from the dresser with both hands and tossing the contents in Damon’s face. “Don’t shout at your dad, either,” she added.

Damon stood there dripping, looking down at his soaked clothing and the water in a puddle at his feet. He had no clue why, but he was suddenly fighting off another wave of hot tears.

Fucking Todd. Why did this happen, he thought.

He walked between his parents to the door, and then sloshed in his wet clothes down the hall to the bathroom. His parents didn’t try to stop him and he wasn’t offering any apologies at the moment, though he knew he was in the wrong. Just as he was about to start the water, he remembered his cast and the pins… All that shit had to be covered up if he was going to clean anything.

His shoulders fell and he lifted his eyes toward the ceiling. “Mom!” he called out. “I’m an asshole! Please come in here and help me with my stupid arm!”

There was a moment of quiet and then:

“Do you promise not to drink on medication again and clean up this water in your room?”

Damon groaned. “Yeeeaaaaasssss.”

“Say it!”

“I promise not to drink on meds again and I’ll clean up the water in my room!”

The door to the bathroom opened a second later and Molly stepped in, all business. She helped cover up his arm and got him out of his t-shirt, and when she lifted her eyes to his, they were full of sorrow.

“We’re just worried about you,” she whispered and he nodded in acknowledgement. “We don’t want to lose you, too.”

When Damon tried to look away, she ducked her head and followed the motion so he couldn’t evade her.

“My boy’s still in there somewhere. He’s just a bit lost.”

“I’m here, ma,” he answered heavily. “Somewhere.”

***

Alarik sank deeper amongst his couch cushions and watched as young girls threw batons and kicked their heels up during the Thanksgiving parade broadcast. A perky announcer came on the screen to provide an obvious comment or two, and he took another sip of tea to fortify himself.

“Well, Alarik,” he said aloud, “here you are. Alone at home while Americans give thanks for turkey and whatever else comes to mind.” He propped his feet on the coffee table and lifted his glass to imaginary friends. “To those of you happy tossers with healthy relationships and matching sweaters, about to eat too much and get fatter—Happy Fucking Thanksgiving!”

The announcer came back, beaming at him like she appreciated the toast, and teased at the imminent arrival of Santa Claus.

“I’m going skiing for Christmas, Santa. Please deliver my self-respect and sanity to the mountains of Tahoe.”

Alarik checked his phone, which probably would’ve told him to bugger off if it could’ve because there were
still
no new messages. His envelope icon continued to stare at him with its empty inbox. Four emails had gone out to Damon last week, all of them unanswered.

Yesterday, depressed and feeling sorry for himself, Alarik had braved the crowd at the grocery store and bought a small roasted chicken, a few pre-baked side dishes and several bottles of wine.

He was usually alone whenever he wasn’t at work, but it was different today because he knew that all around him, people were happily greeting loved ones. It made him feel cut off from the rest of the world. Like a sap, he’d called his aunt last night and sniveled a tad. She wouldn’t mind a little more of it, if that was what he needed, but he didn’t want to make it a habit. At eleven, he planned to open the wine and eat his food, then, he’d wallow until the television network aired
The Sound of Music.

He was whistling the tune to
How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?
and opening a robust red wine when his doorbell rang.

Undoing the chain and deadbolt, he cracked the door, trying to douse the hope that rose to his chest picturing Damon on the other side. It wasn’t Damon. It was Max Hayama standing on his doorstep with a couple “Go Green” bags of groceries in each hand and a hopeful look on his face.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he began. “I thought: I can work all by myself, or I can find the other foreigner in town and make a day of it. No expectations; I promise.” Max lifted the bags and his brows rose in encouragement. “I have food.”

No one had ever been in Alarik’s home except for Damon. The dull throb in his chest at the thought had him opening the door wide to make room for Max to squeeze by.

Take a dose of rejection; add loneliness and a pinch of interest. Shake well for the perfect recipe for Trouble.

He would now be dialing down his alcohol intake because one glass of wine made him winsome and flirtatious, three or four glasses and a scotch for fun, and he’d find humping his armchair attractive.

“Ah, you had the same idea,” Max pointed to the roasted chicken on the counter. “Except, yours is a little more healthy than mine.” He plunked a plastic container with a sad, Tiny Tim sort of bird encased within. “It was the last one they had.”

Alarik still hadn’t said anything, but he stuck his head into the closest bag and took inventory. Cookies, a box of microwave popcorn, a container of salad, rolls, and marshmallows.

“Marshmallows?” he asked.

Max nodded. “I’ve never actually had an official Thanksgiving meal; I was always working. I think the marshmallows go on something as a topping.”

“Did you
bring
that something?”

Max shrugged. “They were out of everything—but look at this.” He reached into the second bag and pulled out chocolate bars and graham crackers. “S’mores.”

His expression was so innocent and natural compared to the serious gaze he usually sported that Alarik had to smile.

“Very American.”

Max held up a finger in pause. “Let’s be fair; Canadians like them, too.” He pointed at all the food and then looked back at Alarik. “What do you say?”

Alarik considered the other man for a moment, from his magnificent hair, to his impeccable choice of clothes, back to his shy smile.

“…
Fine
,” he caved. “You can stay.”

“Good. Let’s feast.” The lopsided grin came and stayed longer than usual.

***

A thick envelope rested on the counter in Damon’s kitchen. It was made of the kind of paper that was textured and heavy, so even if he hadn’t known it was from Todd’s lawyer, he would’ve assumed a legal assistant in an office somewhere had delighted in cramming the paperwork inside of it before licking the seal closed. The color was in between cream and white, not at all buttery. If he opened all the folded seams, he’d probably be able to use it as a napkin because of its absorbent powers.

Aside from observations like these, Damon had ignored the envelope. Each time he entered the kitchen and passed it, the thing shamed him with its officialness. Todd’s lawyer had sent him a short note along with the courier to say, “Mr. Howard wanted you to have this letter.”

Damon didn’t know why he waited until Thanksgiving Day to open it. His parents expected him, under no uncertain terms, and if he didn’t show up on time, they would send Franco or Luke, or God forbid, his sister.

Snatching it up off of the counter, he held his breath and stared at it. Using his cast to hold it to his chest and his free hand to bust the seal, he removed a second sealed envelope. The handwriting on the front was Todd’s and blood rushed to Damon’s face at the sight of it. His emotional side came online with a shudder and he fought off the sadness.

He ran his fingers over the writing.
Damon Wright
. Todd must have used an inky fountain pen; his name looked fluid and perfectly written. Opening the envelope, he leaned back against the counter because he wasn’t confident his legs would hold him the way they should.

Here goes, he thought. Todd speaking to me from beyond the grave.

Damon—

Dude. I’m so curious how I died. If you’re reading this, I must’ve kicked it. That blows! A few things before I get to the gloomy crap about my final wishes and what not:

My porn stash is in the shoebox on my closet shelf. If I have a girlfriend, destroy that shit before she’s weeping in a ball on the floor because she thought a guy like me never rubbed one out. Franco and Luke can’t be trusted to get rid of it. They’ll just look at it and I’ll feel their awkward judgment from the grave.

Also, I was the one who hid your baseball mitt in high school. Luke paid me to do it and I needed the money. I kept forgetting to give it back. It’s next to the porn. You’re welcome!

Now, back to official business—my untimely demise. God, I wish I knew what happened. You’re probably devastated. No, wait. Let me rephrase that.

You’d better be devastated.

Nah, kidding.

I just know how I’d feel if something happened to you and the thought makes me want to puke all over my desk. So, here’s what I want to say to you:

Miss me, but don’t be a dick about it. You always try to deal with crap on your own, even though you have friends who would help. Don’t shut everybody out because that’s rude and it will hurt your mom’s feelings.

I care about your parents, Day. They were everything my parents weren’t because they actually showed some interest in me. It was so weird having them take notice. Weird, but great. I thought it was a fluke that would pass, but your folks kept on caring. I love them for that. I’m always scared about your dad’s health. I never told you that, but I worry.

One thing that my old man managed to hammer into my head was that I should have a will. I should keep my affairs in good order. It was the lawyer in him and later on, the accountant in me that said he was probably right.

I took out a life insurance policy and I made your parents the beneficiaries. They should find out after you read this, if my lawyer is doing what I paid him to do. I wanted to help out with the store debt and medical bills. I knew they wouldn’t accept money from me any other way outside of me dying and giving them no choice.