my fingers into his hand, squeezing just hard and long enough to let me feel him.
That’s when I finally smile for real.
We finish our meals, and Andrew pulls a twenty from his wallet, not letting me chip in for my half. I follow him to his car and wait while he lifts the handle, then move into my seat.
He attempts to slide over the hood of his car, but his skid stops midway, so he pushes down the front and walks to his door, reaching into the backseat to grab a beanie for his head, sliding it on and pulling it over his eyes, playing up his humiliation.
“Massive fail,” he says, poking fun of his bombed attempt on the hood.
“Oh, I just assumed that’s how that was supposed to go,” I say, pretending to be impressed.
“Uh yeah…I mean, bitchin’…” he says, puffing out the collar of his shirt and shrugging with a sniff before breaking into a short laugh.
“Wow, I was willing to fake it until you said bitchin’,” I say, unable to help but smile so hard my cheeks hurt.
“Fuck,” he says, his head slung forward, his eyes down. “Ruined by my own lame vernacular.”
“ Bitchin’ will kill you every time,” I say with a short tisk and headshake.
He turns the engine over, but looks at me from the side, his eyes moving in quick motions from mine to my mouth and back again. He chuckles to himself before looking up into the rearview mirror and shifting the car into reverse. “I’m pretty sure you can say anything and own it,” he says.
I don’t answer, and I watch his cheeks turn just a little redder. I fight grinning at his compliment, pushing my lips together tight, but losing the battle and smiling anyhow.
Andrew picks up where our tour left off the time before, driving me through various neighborhoods and streets, pointing out places he and his brothers used to sled, places where he got into fights, and then down his street, stopping in front of his old house.
It’s a simple two story, the color dark brown with brick, the yard neat but simple, and a few trees towering in the front, their branches growing bare for the winter.
“You miss living here?” I ask.
He leans forward on his steering wheel, folding his arms and resting his head on top. “Sometimes,” he sighs. “But…I don’t know. Never mind.”
“No, tell me,” I say, for some reason not wanting him to feel he can’t tell me things.
He leans back in his seat, his gaze still out the window, on the dull porch light shining in the front. “This house wasn’t full of happy memories. At least, not for me,” he says, his eyes lost to the light now, and I can tell he’s letting it pop in and out of focus.
“Your brother James?” I ask. I pull my sleeves down over my knuckles and bite on the fabric, hoping that question was okay to ask.
“Yeah, that’s most of it,” he says. “James died here.”
I heard the story—both from the gossipy tale my neighbor told my parents and through the whispers spoken in the diner tonight—but hearing Andrew say the words, even though he didn’t offer any details, made the pain of it all palpable. His brother was an addict, and when he got caught up in something with the police, he ended up shooting himself in the driveway. When I heard the story, I couldn’t imagine it was true. But as Andrew mentions James now, I can tell just by the look in his eyes that it is. And it’s awful. And I wish I’d done more to those assholes in the restaurant who thought his pain was funny.
“But I didn’t really have much of a life here. I mean…I had my brother’s life, my brother’s friends. And we lived next door to Owen’s girlfriend. But, it was all Owen. None of it was really me .” His head falls to the side, and I reach up cautiously and let my finger run along the ridge of one of the gauges in his ear. It’s not very big, but it’s edgier than anything I would ever have the courage to do. I envy him for it.
“I met you while I lived in my apartment,” he says, his eyes
That’s when I finally smile for real.
We finish our meals, and Andrew pulls a twenty from his wallet, not letting me chip in for my half. I follow him to his car and wait while he lifts the handle, then move into my seat.
He attempts to slide over the hood of his car, but his skid stops midway, so he pushes down the front and walks to his door, reaching into the backseat to grab a beanie for his head, sliding it on and pulling it over his eyes, playing up his humiliation.
“Massive fail,” he says, poking fun of his bombed attempt on the hood.
“Oh, I just assumed that’s how that was supposed to go,” I say, pretending to be impressed.
“Uh yeah…I mean, bitchin’…” he says, puffing out the collar of his shirt and shrugging with a sniff before breaking into a short laugh.
“Wow, I was willing to fake it until you said bitchin’,” I say, unable to help but smile so hard my cheeks hurt.
“Fuck,” he says, his head slung forward, his eyes down. “Ruined by my own lame vernacular.”
“ Bitchin’ will kill you every time,” I say with a short tisk and headshake.
He turns the engine over, but looks at me from the side, his eyes moving in quick motions from mine to my mouth and back again. He chuckles to himself before looking up into the rearview mirror and shifting the car into reverse. “I’m pretty sure you can say anything and own it,” he says.
I don’t answer, and I watch his cheeks turn just a little redder. I fight grinning at his compliment, pushing my lips together tight, but losing the battle and smiling anyhow.
Andrew picks up where our tour left off the time before, driving me through various neighborhoods and streets, pointing out places he and his brothers used to sled, places where he got into fights, and then down his street, stopping in front of his old house.
It’s a simple two story, the color dark brown with brick, the yard neat but simple, and a few trees towering in the front, their branches growing bare for the winter.
“You miss living here?” I ask.
He leans forward on his steering wheel, folding his arms and resting his head on top. “Sometimes,” he sighs. “But…I don’t know. Never mind.”
“No, tell me,” I say, for some reason not wanting him to feel he can’t tell me things.
He leans back in his seat, his gaze still out the window, on the dull porch light shining in the front. “This house wasn’t full of happy memories. At least, not for me,” he says, his eyes lost to the light now, and I can tell he’s letting it pop in and out of focus.
“Your brother James?” I ask. I pull my sleeves down over my knuckles and bite on the fabric, hoping that question was okay to ask.
“Yeah, that’s most of it,” he says. “James died here.”
I heard the story—both from the gossipy tale my neighbor told my parents and through the whispers spoken in the diner tonight—but hearing Andrew say the words, even though he didn’t offer any details, made the pain of it all palpable. His brother was an addict, and when he got caught up in something with the police, he ended up shooting himself in the driveway. When I heard the story, I couldn’t imagine it was true. But as Andrew mentions James now, I can tell just by the look in his eyes that it is. And it’s awful. And I wish I’d done more to those assholes in the restaurant who thought his pain was funny.
“But I didn’t really have much of a life here. I mean…I had my brother’s life, my brother’s friends. And we lived next door to Owen’s girlfriend. But, it was all Owen. None of it was really me .” His head falls to the side, and I reach up cautiously and let my finger run along the ridge of one of the gauges in his ear. It’s not very big, but it’s edgier than anything I would ever have the courage to do. I envy him for it.
“I met you while I lived in my apartment,” he says, his eyes
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