Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
It’s so quiet out here. So peaceful.
I say nothing, he says nothing, and everything’s unexpectedly perfect. For some reason I won’t understand for years, I’m fucking thankful for this moment.
That’s when my eyes pop open.
The dream’s gone.
I’m an adult again, staring at my tío and tía’s ceiling, on a bed that isn’t mine, in a house with unfamiliar air.
I go to the hallway closet, pull down a box, and take it straight to the living room, opening it up on the coffee table. I’m on the hunt as I dive through photos. Sticky albums. Memories and old crap that’s been left behind to deal with when the house sells.
And I’m just about to give up when I turn one more page.
And it’s that birthday party.
Which obviously wasn’t just a fucking dream.
I see the photo, taken by my mom, maybe my tía, or even my dad, from the back window of our old house, a mystery observer.
Two boys on the swinging bench.
Ten times more vivid than I remember. We didn’t look happy, but we didn’t look sad. Just sitting there. Not swinging at all.
Was that me and Wyatt?
The question sits with me and my coffee in the kitchen, long before the sun’s even risen. The orchid stares at me from her spot on the counter, like a tired cartoon fairy godmother in the shape of a flower, mildly interested in my wellbeing, maybe just as much as I am in hers, all out of magic, just waiting for the morning, for something to happen.
Hours later, I make a decision: I’m going to church.
For the first time since my dad died.
Nah, this isn’t some big thing. Not a grand emotional turn or sappy bullshit moment where I come to terms with a loss that I’ve already processed years ago. It’s Sunday. I’m just going to church. Equivalent to getting some fresh air. Means nothing.
Even if Wyatt’s there.
The quiet boy who may or may not have come to one of my birthday parties and joined me on a swinging bench to not swing.
To not ask if I was okay.
To do me a favor and not say anything at all.
I’m just going to church. That’s it.
The weather does me no favors, so it’s balls hot as I walk to the church. My lower back and pits are soaked when I finally show up at the doors, which are open. An older couple’s walking up the steps when I approach. The lobby only has a few people, none of them paying me any mind. That’s fine, since I don’t want any mind paid to me. I’m just fine minding my own business over here.
Different story when I’m at the doors leading into the chapel.
The smell of old wood and people’s perfume hitting my face.
The rows of wooden pews.
The backs of heads filling them, every row, all the way to the front, rows and rows of fucking hair.
A father in the back putting his hand on his son’s shoulder, a kid, leaning in and saying something. The kid laughs.
Suddenly it isn’t a thirty-two-year-old man standing here.
It’s a kid who’s still got his dad.
His mom hasn’t left.
He’s got this feeling he’ll never be alone. The world is always around him. His dad laughs all the time and is a happy drunk at parties. Tío Marcos is with him, smoking on the back porch where they think my mom and Tía Lottie won’t find them.
That kid was so fucking happy.
Because his life hasn’t happened yet.
He hasn’t become a teenager, where he started seeing all the cracks in his parents’ marriage. How his mother’s smiles were too tight to be real. She threw parties all the time to distract everyone from what was happening. Smiles and laughter and confetti.
Like my own birthday parties.
Like some clown fussing with his wig, keeping up the illusion that he’s not just a person at a gig making a living.
Even as a teenager, I was becoming less and less fooled by the fantasy that my life was perfect just because my mom could smile through it all, teaching me that kindness is a lie most adults learn how to use to control the world around them.
Then Dad died.
And in a lot of ways, so did she.
I’m not gonna take the next step into the chapel. I realize that right now. It’s a lost cause.
I turn and see myself the fuck out of this place.
Drop my ass on the front step of the church, right at the edge of the shade where the awning ends.
I rub my eyes, then rub my hair, then stare ahead at nothing, not wanting to think about it a second longer.
And suddenly it’s like I’m on a swinging bench.
Choosing not to participate in that crazy party inside.
Enjoying the silence like those two boys were, long ago.
Does Wyatt remember that party …?