With or Without You (19 page)

God, I don’t want him to go. Even if there’s more difficult talking ahead, I want him here. It means I don’t have to think about other things. Things like, What the hell do I do about Chasers now?

“Go,” I command, bravely as I can. “Be Super Nurse. I’ll be here when you’re done.”

He frowns. “I’ll feel guilty if you wait. I don’t know how long I’ll be. After we get the accident sorted, I have to check on my patients from last night. That’s an even bigger mess.”

“What happened?”

“You know that gay bar, the Darkroom? Huge brawl. I was here till two a.m. stitching guys up.”

I hope that, as I lean on the wall, it looks cool and not like I’m trying not to collapse.

“Anybody … seriously hurt?” I can barely enunciate.

My stomach falls when he nods. “One guy—some kid just out of high school—is in a coma.”

It could be anyone. But my gut tells me who.

Erik brushes my cheek with his hand. It should be comforting to be touched by him. I’m too sick to my stomach to enjoy it.

“Go home,” he says softly. “I promise we’ll talk soon.”

I nod. He leans in for another kiss, one hand at the nape of my neck, pulling me in.

“I’ve really missed you,” he whispers, poking my nose with his finger. A quick kiss, then he’s racing off down the hall. I stumble out of the hospital and catch the bus home.

A single word repeats and repeats and repeats.

Coma.

Back home, I duck into my room unnoticed. I slip off my shoes and start the yoga routine that Erik and I have done together at least once a week since that first yoga lesson. I’ve never done it alone.

My hands lift up over my head, palms together. Eyes close. Breathe in through the nose. Slowly.

Namaste.
I respect the divine in you.

Right now, I’m not feeling very divine at all.

My meditation crumbles when I hear shouts and squeals from the living room. I plod down the hallway to find Mom pulling Shan into a bear hug as Dad struggles to pull himself up to standing with a cane. Once he’s balancing on his good foot, he’s part of the hug too.

Mom spots me and beams. It’s unsettling.

“Your sister is having a baby!”

My eyes dart to Shan, whose smile fades only enough to remind me I’m not supposed to know this. Though I dropped out of drama club, I give a Tony-worthy performance, whooping and hugging my sister. I even slap Dad a high five. Maybe that’s a bit much.

What follows is what I expected. They sit in the living room and talk about baby names, buying Shan a crib. I watch them from the kitchen where I lean against the wall, nursing a glass of milk as they all talk a mile a minute.

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Mom finally asks, shaking a finger at Shan.

Shan looks across the room to me. “Because Spud just graduated. You should be congratulating
him
.”

Dad waves his hand. “Yeah, yeah. We did.”

They didn’t.

“Did you?”

I blink as Shan enters virgin—excuse the phrase, in light of the circumstances—territory. She’s never challenged our parents.

Shan shakes her head. “I saw the camera. You took one picture of him at commencement. One. That’s pathetic.”

Suddenly, both Mom and Dad are looking at me. Like I put her up to this. I look away.

Shan throws down the gauntlet. “What did you get him for graduation?”

Mom looks stunned. “We’ve been … busy. Your father …”

Dad nods at his cast. “My hip …”

“He’s leaving in a month!” Shan says, pointing at me. I wait for her to mention Erik, mention San Diego. She doesn’t. “And if he’s got any sense, he won’t come back. You might want to think about that.”

My parents have never done contrite. They don’t quite manage it now, but they’re certainly flirting with shame.

Mom and Dad make awkward excuses. It’s getting
late. Time for bed. Then they’re gone to their bedroom. But Shan’s new energy, complete with an iron pair, revs up. She joins me in the kitchen and rummages through the drawers, pulling out an arsenal of barber’s shears and placing them on the table. I slowly get up but she stops me with a look and a word: “Sit.”

She just went Angry Oprah on our parents and now she’s got sharp things. Like I’m gonna say no.

I take a seat and she puts a bath towel around me like a giant bib, then starts running her fingers through my hair. Growing up, Shan always cut my hair. We haven’t done this in a while. I can only assume it’s some sort of healing ritual. Or I’m about to lose an ear.

“Whoever’s been cutting your hair since I moved out should be brought up on war crimes charges. You look ridiculous.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, this year’s winner of our Most Likely to Become ‘M’ Contest …,” I mutter but she silences me with a snip of the scissors close to my nose.

She starts cutting and we’re silent for a long time.

“Tomorrow,” she says … finally. “I’m going with M to the hospital to get D out of his cast. He’s going to be a bear for a few weeks while he recovers.”

“I’ll try to imagine what that will be like.”

“Then I’m catching a late flight home. Sorry I won’t be around for the unveiling of Erik’s sculpture.”

That’s probably a good thing. Erik will be nervous enough as it is without Shan giving him the hairy eyeball.

She runs a comb through my hair. “And I was thinking … Have you ever considered going to art school in New York?”

I had. Briefly, when I found out that’s where Keith Haring went to art school. But by then, Davis and I had settled on Chicago. New York was no longer an option. I know her question has nothing to do with her concern for my education, though.

I catch her scissoring wrist so I can turn to face her. “Do you really hate Erik that much, that you’re trying to get me away from him?”

She frowns and takes the chair across from me, putting her hands on my knees. “I don’t hate Erik, Spud. You two really work well together.” Her voice bears a small grudge but I’m glad she admits this.

“And that’s why you attacked us that night at dinner?”

She sighs. “On the weekends, Brett volunteers at a free clinic in Brooklyn doing pro-bono accounting. He never works with the patients but he overhears things. He tells me how he sees these gay kids come in, some of them younger than you, wanting blood tests, half of them not even knowing what their diagnosis means. They think it can all be fixed with some pills. They can’t tell you the first name of whoever they had sex with last night but
they can rattle off the names of the pills they want. These kids are getting sick because they’re stupid.”

Her eyes well up. “When you sat there with Erik, I kept thinking, ‘It could be Evan at that free clinic.’ I didn’t want to think you were …”

Shooting pains pierce my gut. She must see the hurt in my eyes because she quickly grabs my hands.

“And then I got home and went, ‘Shannon Marie Reynolds, you are the biggest moron on the planet.’ I’ve been regretting everything I said since that night. It’s taken me this long to say anything because I was too embarrassed about my behavior. I had a panic attack. That’s all. You’re smart enough to make your own decisions. I need to respect that.”

I squeeze her hands in return, thankful that I might actually get my sister back. “Next up, Shan Reynolds singing ‘I’m Bringing Stupid Back.’”

She laughs and swipes me upside the head.

“Now,” she says, marking a course correction, “I’m still not wild about you running off to California with Erik. When you finally drop this on M and D and they ask my opinion, I’m going to tell them what I think.”

“Which is?”

Her jaw shifts left, then right, and she admits, “I’ll let you know when I figure that out.”

“Okay,” I say. “Good to know.”

She gets up and resumes the haircut. “So … how are you?”

The question is loaded.

“Fine. Why?”

She snips near the top of my left ear, then tilts my head for a better angle. “I know I haven’t seen you much lately but you haven’t left the house. Not spending time with Erik? Or Davis?”

I almost tell her about Milwaukee. Almost ask for advice on how to fix things after a fight. But admitting my relationship problems now would only fuel her misgivings about Erik. I change tack.

“I’m hanging in there. I’ve … I’ve been thinking about talking with M and D. I just don’t think it’s going to happen. Does it really even need to? I mean, I’m eighteen. If I want to move to California—”

She sucks on her teeth and runs her fingers through my hair. “Can I ask you something?”

Has anything good ever followed that question? “Sure.”

“You’ve been dating Hottie McBubblebutt for a year. And you haven’t told anyone? Not even Davis?”

“Right.” She noticed his butt?

“And Erik’s letting you get away with that?”

Yes, because I take advantage of his trust.
But instead I say, “It’s kind of complicated. He doesn’t want to push me.”

“Push you into, what, admitting he exists to the people
who know you best? I’m sorry, Spud, but that’s lame. If this guy makes you happy, so happy that you’re ready to follow him to California, why aren’t you telling the world?”

Erik can zero in on my every mood swing, every evasion, in a way I never thought possible. But it’s Shan who can nail my every insecurity to the wall. She brushes my cheek. Apparently, I’m crying.

“Because … I keep waiting for it to end.” I don’t recognize my own whisper. It’s wan, colorless. “Every time I want to tell someone about Erik, I look at my paintings. No two people look at a painting the same way. Everybody brings their own perspective. If I tell someone about Erik, I’ll see me through their eyes. And if I see them doubting that someone like Erik could love me, I’ll see it too. And I’ll know it’s true. Then I’ll blow it. I’ll completely wreck things with Erik and everyone will be right. But keeping Erik from Mom and Dad and Davis means I get to protect who I am when I’m with Erik.”

Shan pulls the towel from around my shoulders, shakes off the excess hair, and dabs at my moist cheeks.

“Wow,” she whispers back. “Really? Being embarrassed that you love someone is worse than losing Erik? If that idea is worse for you than the actual loss itself, you need to seriously reexamine your feelings.
Do
you want to move to San Diego?”

Shan starts to pack up the shears into a small gray
pouch. She’s doing her very best not to look at me.
C’mon, Shan—right now, more than ever, I need sage advice. What do I do?

But the wisdom never comes. I think she’s about to speak but there’s a knock at the door. We both look at the clock. Too late for visitors. I answer it to find a tall, lean police officer, notebook in hand.

“Excuse me.” He nods respectfully, glancing at the notebook. “I’m looking for Evan Weiss.”

He’s in the house. His uniform is black. We sit. Shan’s hand rests on my shoulder.

Incident at the Darkroom. Brawl. Boy in hospital. Classmate.

“Do you know Pete Isaacson?” Baseball bat. Brown wood.

Details sketchy. Someone said I was on the scene helping. Was I on the scene?

Shan eyes the hallway. Summon Mom and Dad? Keep them at bay?

I think of Erik. I want Erik here. No. No, I don’t.

Where was I the night of the fight?

Baseball bat.

Shan speaks up. Whoever said I was there was mistaken. I was at home. Painting in my room. When the fight happened.

If I wasn’t there, do I know who was? Lots of red, crimson, carmine.

Baseball bat.

He gives me a card. Call if I remember anything. Call if I hear anything.

I can’t look at Shan as I close the door behind Officer Brogan. I rest my head against the door.

“I just lied to a cop, didn’t I?” she whispers. “You were there.”

“I was …” I don’t know how to finish. “… looking out for Davis.”

“Shit,” Shan mutters. “How’d I know COD was mixed up with this?”

I turn. My face feels like it’s caving in. “Shan, it’s not like that. He was … in over his head. Pete threw the first punch. Davis just …”

Again, Shan’s eyes dart to the hallway. This time, I know she wants to wake up Mom and Dad, get them involved. I grab her arm, squeezing desperately.

“Please,” I beg, “let me handle this. It doesn’t sound like they know who—”

“Jesus, Evan, there’s a guy in the hospital. You can’t just pretend this didn’t happen.”

“I won’t. I’ll … try to get the guys who did this to see reason.” It’s a hollow promise. Sable won’t take reason.
“It got out of control, that’s all. It was a mistake.”

“It was more than just you and Davis. Who else was there?”

“Please, Shan. I know what I’m doing. I promise … nothing stupid like that will happen again. Trust me.”

And in that moment, her face reminds me of Erik. That look he got when he gave me my graduation gifts and asked, “I’ve been a good boyfriend, haven’t I?” That look that says,
This isn’t what I signed up for. Who are you, anyway?
Both then and now, the look is justified. I’m ashamed of this.

Shan glances one more time at the back hallway and then fixes me with the most potent stare I’ve ever seen. “No more violence or Mom and Dad find out, got it? I’m not covering for you again.”

I put my hand to my heart, my eyes welling with wet. “I promise. I swear, oh God, I swear.”

She squints. “Was Erik—?”

“No!” I almost shout, then I gulp down a huge breath and shake my head. “No, Erik doesn’t know anything about it. Please don’t—”

“I got you out of trouble with the cops,” she says, pulling away, “but you have to decide what to do about your boyfriend.”

And she’s gone to her room. I have to decide what to do about my boyfriend. But I can’t. I don’t know what’s
wrong with me, but all I can think about is my best friend. I picture Davis, or, at least, how I remember him. Not who he is now. A Chaser. A Chaser wannabe. Does he know any of this? Does he know what happened to Pete?

The old instincts kick in. I have to hope that Erik will understand. Because everything I’ve ever known screams at me: Protect Davis. And right now, that means getting closer to him. Getting closer to the Chasers.