Burn Before Reading(88)

“Seriously?” I snap. “You’re seriously going to go for a run right now?”

“What else is there to do?” Burn mutters, tying his laces.

“We need you here,” I say. “We need to talk about this.”

“Talking won’t fix what’s been done.”

“Well it sure as hell would make us feel better!”

“Us? Or just you?”

Burn jerks his head to Fitz’s door, which is, for once, closed, all the lights off. Usually there’s the pale blue glow of at least one computer shining from beneath the door. He’s hiding. He always hides – in drugs, in girls – to stay away from confronting reality.

Burn takes my silence as an opportunity to leave, and I watch him go with disgust; disgust at him, disgust at Fitz. At Beatrix.

At myself.

I retreat to my room and pull the essay out. I reach for the lighter I keep in my drawer and hold the fire to the well-worn paper, the wrinkles I made and the finger imprints on the sheets eaten alive by the flames. Her words are consumed, once and for all, and I watch the ashes fall into the trash can one by one.

I was a moron.

I was a moron for ever believing someone like me could be loved.

****

BEATRIX



This is where I am now, pen-and-paper.

You’re caught up. That’s all the story I have, leading up to this night. An hour ago, I came home. Mom was, of course, gone, and Dad stared into the distance as he watched TV. I was numb, too, so I sat and watched a good hour of it with him, letting the bright, blaring commercials wash my mind free, for a moment. I’d never be free of what I’d done. But the yogurt ads and car ads let you pretend for a little while.

“Dad?”

“Hrm?” He grunted.

“Are you and Mom getting divorced?”

He went still for a moment, then let out a weary exhale. “I can’t lie to you, Bee. I don’t know what’s going to happen between your mother and I. It’s hard to think about.”

“Yeah.”

We watched another few mindless episodes of some sitcom. The guy lamented about how marriage was a ‘ball and chain’, and I inwardly flinched the whole way through.

“I finished my writing,” Dad said suddenly.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty good.”

“That’s great.”

More silence.

“What do you want for your birthday?” Dad asked. I thought about it, staring long and hard at the scan lines in the corner of the old screen.

“A hug.”

Dad laughed. It was faint, and so tired, but it was nice hearing his voice happy.

“I think I can manage that.”

I leaned into him and he wrapped his arms around my sides, and we stayed like that, unmoving, unspeaking. We were both too exhausted to question the other about what happened tonight. I’m sure when Mom comes home – if she ever comes home – she’ll confront me about taking the car and sneaking out. But that’s wasn’t what was happening right then. Right then, I was hugging dad. If I closed my eyes I could imagine I was young again, small, like six or seven, before he got too sick. Before Lakecrest. Before the Blackthorns. Before all of it.

“Do you remember the old playground?” Dad asked. “The one I took you to when you were young?”

“The one on the bluff? Yeah,” I nodded. “I liked that place.”

“Me too.”

The commercials came blaring on again, selling a movie this time. An escape.

“I don’t say this enough,” Dad muttered into my hair. “But I’m very proud of you, Bee.”

I fought back tears until I realized there was nothing left to cry. I was dried up from the parking lot.

I knew moments like this never lasted. Tomorrow, the next day – who knows? Dad might lock himself in his room again, or not smile at all, ever. But for now, he’s here. For now, in this moment, he really does feel like my Dad again, instead of an unpredictable stranger. I hold him close, and wish with all my might that time would just freeze.

But it didn’t. It kept ticking on, and Dad fell asleep on the couch. I extracted myself from under his arms (his arms are too light, too thin) and headed to my room. I opened my notebook, got a nice pen, my favorite pen, and here we are.

I wrote all of this, everything I could remember. My eyes feel dry and shriveled and old. I don’t know what time it is right now, let me check my phone. Crap – it’s not turning on. I’ll turn my laptop. Four am? Sounds about right. I have an entire week before I have to face the funeral music of going back to Lakecrest one last time. Dad said he’s proud of me, but how proud will he be when I tell him I lost my scholarship? Mom will flip. Everything is wrong – this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I feel like I’m living in another timeline, the bad one, and the real timeline is continuing on somewhere without me, happily and naively.

I can’t sleep. I try to, but Burn and Fitz’s faces haunt me, Wolf’s expression the most painful memory. I fucked up. I fucked up and the worst feeling is the helplessness – I can’t do anything to take it back. I can’t do anything to make it right again. Nothing will be the same, again. No amount of study or preparation can save this. No textbook has the answer. There’s no test I can take, and make it all okay again.