It's Like This (18 page)

“Your parents have thirty or forty grand kicking around?” He refutes, “Actually, even if they did, it wouldn’t matter. She wouldn’t take their money.”

“She takes money from you,” I counter.

“I’m not better than her,” he replies.

“You are.”

“Not to her.”

I know I should shut up now but it worries at my insides and the words keep bubbling up.

“Is it—I just—Ry, I know she’s fucked up. I know she hurt you, and embarrassed you and all that. But if this is going to weigh on you…I don’t want you to feel—not guilty, because I don’t mean guilty, but like hurt? Or remorseful?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t forgive her,” he says simply. “And I don’t want to.”

“That’s a lot of anger to—”

“Look, babe, you don’t understand.” He smiles softly at me. “Let’s walk.”

I get out of the car. He walks ahead for a few paces before turning and waiting for me, taking my hand when I get close. He kisses me, and then starts walking again, quiet for a few minutes.

“There’s more than I’ve told you about, or that you’ve seen,” he explains, carefully. “I mean. You know I’m a sucker for my own pride, but…it can take a few hits and still survive. I’ve gotten over most of the shit that happened when we were kids. But—” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t going to move out. You know, like I was convinced it was my duty to stay and take care of her, but, fuck—remember that night I was over at your place? And we played like, Taboo—you know, the board game? And Kya went all nutters with that annoying buzzer and chased us all around the house? And Matilda got pissed at her and you let me kiss you when I left, like a proper goodnight kiss and we’d never done that before.

“And, like, I remember being so fucking happy, when I got home, like nothing could faze me because I was with you, and your family was so good to me, and maybe I was going to be alright after all. And then of course I got home, and my mom wasn’t passed out on the couch like she usually was. Instead she was sitting on the floor and she had this stupid fucking grin on her face and I knew—I just knew something was wrong.”

I don’t interrupt him because I don’t have any words to make it better.

He keeps talking: “And she’s all, ‘I have a secret, baby, a surprise!’ And so I said, ‘Oh yeah, Mom, what’s that?’ And instead of answering, she just started giggling like crazy and goes, ‘Look, look, look!’ And so I did. And next to her week’s collection of empties there’s a fucking positive pregnancy test, and she goes, ‘You’re gonna be a big brother, baby! We’re gonna be a family, finally!’”

Rylan stops and swallows. He grips my hand tight, but doesn’t look at me. “It turns out she’d gotten herself knocked up at some office party, like, months earlier.”

“Oh my God. Ry. I…”

He just keeps holding my hand.

“By morning, of course, she realizes she’s told me and she’s done a complete one-eighty, is freaking the fuck out—she can’t raise another kid. The kid will be all fucked up and it will be all her fault, and kids are so much work and so much trouble and aren’t even around when you need them and when can I drive her to the women’s clinic so she can have an abortion? Which, fine, yeah, I want to, but she’ll need to be sober for at least a few days. Which was just another layer of hell. And after that, I left. I didn’t see her again until grad, where she confirmed that I had made the absolute right decision. I wasn’t—I’m not going to let her drag me under. I’m worth more than that. I know it’s not an easy thing to understand, especially when your family is so great, and they are, Nigh. They are so, so great, but I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t stay. I wanted more.”

He’s not crying, but I wrap my arms around him anyway, as if I am making up for all the opportunities I missed over the last few years. He clutches my sweater and bites into my shoulder and I kiss his head and stroke his back and wait.

“I’m so sorry, Ry. I’m so sorry.”

His breathing sounds like it’s happening for the first time ever: that the oxygen hitting his lungs is foreign and painful. There’s nothing more I can say.

Except, well. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

He laughs. It’s sharp but honest. He kisses me hard. “I love you,” he says, which does not answer the question.

“I love you, too.” I reply.

“But,” he starts.

“There’s a but?” I demand.

He smiles and straightens the collar of my windbreaker and presses his palms flat against my chest and then kisses me again.

“Look,” he says. He shakily grabs my hand and starts back towards the car, “You’re…you’re not the only one with completely irrational complexes.”

I eye him carefully. That’s news to me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He sighs and scratches his chin. “It means—it means that I was afraid that if I showed myself, like that, to you—that you’d think I couldn’t take care of you. And I can, I really, truly can, and I just…didn’t ever want you to doubt me.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “You’re kidding me. And here all this time I was thinking that I was the fucked-up one.”

He smiles bashfully. “I know, OK? I know you better than that. And I did then, too. I was just being a stupid coward.”

I cannot freaking believe this. I stop walking, lean against the banister overlooking the beach, and pull him in towards me. “I really, really wish you had told me, just because I really, really wish I could have been there for you, you know?”

He looks me straight in the eyes and nods.

I keep going. “Look. I love having you, like, take care of me, or whatever. I don’t know why. It’s probably fucked, but I love feeling…protected, under your control, Christ, whatever the hell it is that we do, how we are. I love it. It does it for me and it’s what I want, but don’t you ever think, that if I had to, I couldn’t take care of myself. Or that I couldn’t take care of you. Because I will, any time you need it. So don’t you ever fucking deny me like that again, because really you’re just denying yourself, and that doesn’t do anyone any good, OK?”

“Yes. OK. I got it.” He nods, eyes big and deep and burrowed in mine.

“Fuck, Ry.” My hands slope around the sides of his neck. “I love you so, so much. You hurt yourself alone again like that and I—I’ll fucking kill you.”

He smiles. “Ah, the romance that is murder threats.” He kisses me and I wrap my arms around his shoulders and press my cheek against his hair and we stand like that until we start to feel OK again.

I meet Rylan at the bus stop downtown. He said that if it will make me feel better about how fucked up things are with his mom, he’ll introduce me to his dad, because apparently their relationship is slightly less fucked up.

He looks weird. Not noticeably—he just doesn’t look like himself. Like, he’s wearing jeans that don’t fit. Well, they fit, but not like his jeans usually fit. These are kind of baggy, he actually requires a belt. Usually he just wears a belt because they’re shiny and plastic and come in fun colours or have ridiculous belt buckles, but the one he’s wearing is just plain and brown. He’s also wearing a T-shirt which is also not-too-big-but-bigger-than-usual and there’s not another one underneath it—no layering. And it’s not pink or electric blue or polka-dotted or Rylanish in any way. It’s just grey. With—

“Hey! Is that my shirt?” I demand.

“Maybe.” He stalls. “OK, yes. But you got it free at Orientation, so it’s not like you can really claim rights to it.”

Jesus. I’d pretty much forgotten about that. First year orientation: my parents made me go. Fifty bucks for the weekend; I left after a half hour. The place was swarming with lonely out-of-towners who only cared about fake IDs and the club scene. I didn’t want to be the one to break it to them that so far as clubs went, they were in the wrong city.

“Fine. T-shirt rights relinquished,” I allow. “But why exactly are you wearing it?”

“This is my father-friendly, dart-throwing wear,” he informs me, tearing violently at a hangnail with his teeth.

“Really?” I state, unconvinced.

“Mmhmm.” He doesn’t really look at me.

“You just look—”

“Straight,” he cuts me off. It’s not what I was thinking but once he says it, it’s obvious he’s right. “I know. Promise you’ll be good and play along, ’kay?” He digs around in a wallet, (a black one—one that looks nothing like the vintage
Captain Planet
zip-pouch he usually pockets) for his bus pass.

“Crap, Ry, you should have said something, I mean…I didn’t think…”

“You always look straight,” he says, flatly, eyes scanning the upcoming buses for our number. It pulls up and he steps on. He takes the window seat, which is unusual. He tends to prefer boxing me in.

I don’t drop it.

“What does that mean, even?”

“You know.” He sighs. “People assume you’re straight. People aren’t quite sure what to assume about me.”

He slings his arm up onto the window ledge, with none of his usual poise. Instead his movements are sullen and deliberate and strangely masculine, not that I’ve ever thought of him as not masculine. It’s just…this is different. It’s like suddenly he should be out drinking beers and talking about cars. Except that’s not right, because he does those things, we both do. You can’t grow up friends with Brice and not end up knowing more than you ever wanted to about V8 engines and torque. I just find it kind of disconcerting to see Rylan looking so unnatural in his skin.

I don’t push it though, just shrug and give him a you-win face and go to kiss him.

He lets me but then says, “No more, OK? We’re just bros, today, alright? I know it sucks but I have to compartmentalize. You and my dad in the same room. Jesus, this will be weird.”

I remove my hand from the collar of his-slash-my T-shirt, and he doesn’t reach for me. “Yeah, alright. Sorry,” I say.

“No, I’m sorry. I just—give it a few years. You’ll get used it.” He offers me a defeated little smile and I feel guilty or something. Rylan’s been living this private life that I don’t even know about, while he knows my life inside-out and backwards. I can’t tell if I’m feeling cheated out of something or protected, but either way I wish I wasn’t so in the dark. It makes him and me on uneven footing. Or else it just makes me a jerk for never asking the right questions, or him a jerk for hiding all the answers.

“So. Should you quiz me on sports stats or some other manly topic? What do you and your dad talk about, even?” I ask, lamely. Sitting this close to him without him touching me is unsettling. My gut instantly suspects that things are wrong between us, even if cerebrally I know they aren’t.

“We don’t. We just drink beer and throw darts. It’s easy. You’ll be fine,” he affirms.

“That or I’ll fuck it up.”

“Well. Don’t,” he replies, not very helpfully.

“Thanks for that.”

He offers me a token grin and I guess I feel a little more at ease, but not much.

“You know, you’re lucky this bus is full, or you sitting here would be totally gay,” he informs me.

“What?”

“Bro code. You never sit next to your bro if there are seats available across the aisle or behind, or in front. It is decidedly gay to sit next to your bro.”

“Uh. OK.” Not really something I’d thought about. “You a strict observer of bro culture?”

“Are you kidding? Watch Brice next time. He can’t bring himself to sit next to any of us. Across the aisle, behind, in front, but never beside. He’ll take up two seats if he possibly can. I mean, I love Brice like a brother, but he is a total bro and, to be frank, kind of a shit.”

He’s right. About Brice anyway.

“I’m sure I’ve sat next to Parker,” I counter.

“Parker’s hardly a bro,” Rylan retorts.

I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, but he’s straight.”

“Yeah. But doesn’t feel the need to prove he’s straight. Brice does.”

“You’ve certainly put a lot of thought into this,” I observe.

“Either I assimilate or I don’t see my dad at all. I can only handle being estranged from so many parents at once, you know?”

Christ, I cannot fuck this up on him. “Should I have some kind of a training manual or something?”

He laugh and shakes his head. “No. Don’t worry, Alberta. You look straight and he thinks I’m straight, so the thought won’t even cross his mind. You’re just a buddy of mine who likes beer and darts. No problems.”

At least I like beer.

* * *

I make it through the first pitcher and the first game.

Rylan wasn’t lying when he said his father didn’t talk much. He mostly just listened as Rylan described the renovation being done to the back room at his work. I barely knew the reno was occurring, let alone details about the uneven drywalling and the resulting kerfuffle between Rylan’s boss and the construction foreman. I mean, I’m not exactly surprised he hasn’t told me, because I’ve since realized that I don’t actually give a shit about home renos, or, in this case, work renos. I’ve always just assumed that Rylan feels the same way, but it actually sounded like he knew what he was talking about. His dad, Darrell, sat there, jean-jacketed, tan-faced and horseshoe-mustached, just nodding along, like he knew what the fuck Rylan was saying, and asking questions about routing pipes or something. Questions that Rylan seemed to have legitimate answers to.

Rylan didn’t look at me. He certainly didn’t touch me. There were no quick glances to check on me and no hand grazing my knee under the table. There were no affectionate or sarcastic pet names and worst of all there was no sense that Rylan—the Rylan I know—was even there at all.

I realized that this is what it must be like for him: that to maintain the last familial relationship he has, he has to pretend he’s not himself. That knowledge—it just freaked me out. I felt claustrophobic and overheated and scared and so I just—left. I drained my glass, and said I needed a smoke, and that they could get started on the next round without me and then I left.

I knew Rylan wouldn’t contradict me in front of his smoker father, and besides, I wasn’t lying. Fuck was I ever not lying. I practically ran across the street to buy a pack of du Mauriers and a lighter at a gas station and once I had them I just sank on the curb, lit and inhaled.