My heart can’t take more of this. I feel shredded inside, bloody, a mess of a person who never should have opened his mouth in the first place.
“You didn’t lose anything, Mom.” I close the distance of the last two steps between us and wrap my arms around her shaking body, pulling her in tight. My mother buries her face against my chest, and I breathe in the stale scent of her shampoo and here we are, the both of us crying in the middle of the kitchen right in front of my brother and my…my Ely, as the pot of collards boils over on the stove.
32
ELY
I don’t get time to talk to Wyatt before the funeral the next day. He insists on sleeping on the sofa, of course, even if it means he looks a little bit raggedy from poor sleep come morning. It doesn’t help that we wake up so late we barely have time to eat breakfast, shower, and change into appropriate clothes before heading to the church.
Saint Francis’s is an old whitewashed building, home to the town’s small but tight-knit Irish-American community. Having never been to a Catholic Mass before, I find myself completely out of sync with all the other mourners: I’m constantly standing when I’m supposed to kneel, and I don’t know a single one of the hymns. I have to force myself to be still during prayer, rather than rock back and forth to my own private rhythm as I murmur the words under my breath.
But I’m not here to pass as Catholic. I’m here to support Wyatt. Although I’m not sure how much he really needs my support anymore—it seems like his family is more than happy to welcome him back with open arms now that his father’s tyranny is taxidermied in that coffin.
Don’t be bitter, I chide myself. Being anything less than thrilled for Wyatt would be asshole territory. And I am happy for him.
I’m just sad for me.
It’s not until the evening, after most of the mourners have left the house, leaving behind their casseroles and lily bouquets, that Wyatt pulls me aside and murmurs, “Let’s get out of here.”
A narrow sandy road leads away from the house, past the marsh toward a swell of sandy dunes. We clamber over the low hills, scratchy beach grass whipping against our calves. The beach on the other side is dark and empty, the black ocean crashing against the shore and washing tiny sea-worn shells onto the sand.
“You hanging in there so far?” I ask him as we kick off our shoes. The sand is cool between my toes, almost damp feeling even this far back from the water.
“It’s not so bad,” he says, offering me a little smile. “I still can’t believe I’m back here. Or that they even want me here. I guess a part of me is still waiting for my dad to come crashing through the front door calling me all kinds of names and telling me I’m no kid of his.”
We make our way across the beach to where the waves tumble against land. The ocean water is frigid, the air tasting like salt and grass.
“So it was just your dad, then,” I say.
I wonder what it must be like to see your entire life totally recalibrated like that. All the assumptions Wyatt had built up in his head about what his mom and brother might think overturned, just like that.
He shrugs and leans over to pick up a shell, turning it in his palm before giving it up to the water again. “I guess so. He was kind of like that. He was…Everyone was afraid of him. You never knew which version of him you were gonna get. Sometimes he was all hugs and throwing balls around in the backyard and making pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse. Then other nights he came home, and we’d spend the next morning patching up the holes he’d punched in the walls. I swear I don’t know how Liam turned out so well adjusted. Whatever genes he got clearly didn’t pass down to me, ’cause all I did was slowly try to kill myself for four years straight.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t know what else there is to say. I hesitate to take his hand, even though all I want to do is lace our fingers together and hold on tight. Instead I touch my fingertips very lightly to his elbow, just long enough—I hope—to remind him that he’s not alone.
Wyatt shakes his head. “That was a long time ago. And now he’s dead. No point spitting on his name anymore.”
Maybe that’s why Wyatt is a better person than me, because I’m not sure I could hold myself back. I still harbor enough resentment toward my own family to power a small city.
“Thank you for coming,” Wyatt says after a moment. He’s stopped walking, standing there with the tide lapping against his ankles and his hands stuffed in his pockets like a nervous schoolkid. “Seriously. I didn’t have any idea what to expect on this trip. And having you here…it’s made it easier. I know we haven’t had a lot of time to talk or anything, but it makes me feel better just knowing you’re around. Maybe that’s inappropriate for me to say—”
“Don’t you start,” I warn him. But I’m smiling all the same. “I’m glad. And don’t feel like you need to entertain me or anything. I just want to…to be here for you. The way you’ve been there for me.”
This time I don’t have to overthink it, because he’s the one who reaches over and catches my hand in his. His palm is warm and dry against mine, a little gritty from the sand on the shell he picked up earlier, his thumb rubbing at the back of my hand.
I try to find something to say, something to fill the silence that stretches out between us, but my head is full of nothing but white noise. Wyatt’s eyes are dark in the half moonlight, the crash of waves against the sand a dull roar.
When he kisses me, I suck in a sharp breath through my nose, and he cups a palm against my cheek, fingertips skimming my ear. I can taste salt on his lips and, when I press my body against his, feel his heart racing just as fast as mine.
“I’m sorry,” he says half a second later, although he still hasn’t really pulled back—his lips graze mine, his breath hot against my skin.
I slide both my hands into his hair and keep him close. “Don’t be.”
This time neither of us holds back. He kisses me like he means it, his tongue in my mouth and his hands sliding over my body, keeping me close. The ocean breaks against our legs, and the breeze picks up, tangling my hair around both our faces.
This feels like something inevitable, a conclusion we’ve been racing toward for weeks now. I wish I could pour myself inside his body, merge us into one being. I want to see the world as he sees it. I want to feel the air on his skin, the cold water and sand against his feet.
“Let’s go back to the house,” Wyatt murmurs against my lips, and there is no part of me that has the strength to resist.
The house is quiet when we make it back, Wyatt’s mother and brother apparently off to bed already, exhausted from the long day. We creep up the steps like teenagers sneaking back in after a night out partying, muffling giggles, Wyatt’s hand still laced with mine.