Back to You(50)

“Would you cut it out?” he said with a laugh. “This will all come out. You can have it detailed.”
“I don’t care about the stupid car,” shend I will try to fix you.
“Then why are you crying?”
“Because your cake is ruined,” she said through a barely contained sob. She took a steadying breath to calm herself before she added, “I know this used to be your favorite thing about your birthday, and I really wanted you to have it again.” Her chin trembled pathetically when she spoke, and Michael watched as two large tears welled along her lash line and spilled over her cheeks as she scrubbed the mat in front of her.
He stopped cleaning, the rag he was using dropping slowly to his side as he stared at her. He hadn’t even remembered telling her that—the tradition of his mother making him a triple chocolate cake for his birthday—but obviously he must have.
And she had remembered. She had tried to recreate it.
It was one of the few times he remembered feeling like something happened to his heart, almost as if he could feel it swelling in his chest as he looked at her.
With a sigh, Michael shook the memory from his head as he sat up on the couch, looking around the room.
What he really wanted was a drink.
He had done that often when he was younger, drink until he felt like he had stepped out of his life for a while, but the older he got, the less he relied on it. And as soon as Erin had come into his life, he had nearly stopped drinking altogether. He had seen too much of what using alcohol as a coping mechanism did for people in his own house, and he’d be damned if he became his mother, if Erin had to watch.
He wished he had some other, safer vice. Ice cream. Reading. Playing video games. Anything he could use to escape the feeling he had tonight.
Michael inhaled slowly, pushing off his knees as he stood and walked to Erin’s door. He cracked it open slightly, watching the rise and fall of her chest under the blanket. Just as he was about to close the door, he noticed the little red photo album on the foot of her bed.
He gently pushed the door open and walked over to her, sliding the book off her bed before exiting the room just as quietly as he’d entered.
He returned to his spot on the couch, opening the book and flipping ahead a few pages to the one he wanted.
His graduation photo.
He stared at the smiling, beautiful girl by his side, and he couldn’t help but ask himself the question he’d been asking himself for the past eight years: if he could go back and do it all differently, would he? In all the time the question tortured him, he had never been able to come up with a definite answer.
But that was before she had come back into his life. And seeing her again, being near her again, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he could go back, if he knew then what he knew now, he’d never have made the decision he did. He’d do it all differently.
Michael ran his finger down the edge of the photo, and it lifted slightly, revealing the image on the next page. He turned it slowly, staring down at the picture of his brother, and at that moment, he realized just how bad of a f*ck-up he truly was.
Because there were so many things he should have done differently.

May 1992
Michael tiptoed out of the strange bedroom, his pillow and his st important ry, bringuffed turtle clutched to his chest. The old lady was sitting in the chair in front of the TV, her head lolled to the side and her eyes closed. He froze for a moment, waiting, and the slow, rasping sound of her breath was enough to convince him that she was fully asleep.
He shuffled slowly into the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds, careful not to wake the strange woman. She seemed nice enough when his mother brought him there earlier, but he didn’t know her. He didn’t know if she could be mean, if she would yell.
If she would do worse if he made her mad.
He didn’t want to be in this strange place anymore. He just wanted his own bed. He just wanted his own house. He just wanted his brother.
Michael placed his pillow and turtle on the kitchen table, slowly and quietly dragging one of the chairs over to where a phone was mounted on the wall. At one point he stumbled, and the chair screeched against the linoleum; he froze, cringing as he turned toward the door. When a few moments passed, and he could hear nothing but the low murmur of the television and the soft breathing in the other room, he pulled the chair the rest of the way over and climbed on top of it.
He dialed the number, the one his brother made him memorize if he ever needed to speak to him when he wasn’t home. It was Aaron’s girlfriend’s house, the place he spent basically all of his time if he wasn’t spending it with Michael.
After a few rings, it sounded as if someone picked up the phone, but all Michael could hear was laughing and music. There were a couple of shouts in the background, but he couldn’t understand what anyone was saying.