You Can Never Go Back

Chapter Twenty Five: I'm The Friend You Need, But Can't Be Trusted

A/N: The end, it approaches swiftly. I think. I'm a capricious bitch, so you never know. Okay, no. I'm resolving myself. Two more chapters after this. That's all. This chapter is going to be kind of short, to boot. For a reason though, I promise. Oh, and to my anonymous reviewer on polar bear diving- we do it in Jersey and New York too. It's not really a rare phenomenon. It only seems weird if you've never done it before, which I decided Kyle never had. Hmm, but maybe I'll jump on up to RI and join in the fun someday. Lord knows I enjoy swimming in frigid water. Woe is me; my sunshiney California girl blood is turning to ice from all these East Coat winters.

The day after my drunken escapades at Stan's apartment, I decide that I have to fix this mess. I know the bet was that we can't be friends without love, but how stupid is that? I'm starting to think I put up with this game because as it was, Stan had the upper hand.

I thought that I'd fucked up our whole relationship when I went to college, and I was desperate to fix it. Kenny called it best when he said I felt guilty, even after I was told things were okay. I can't live with stuff being unresolved, and when Stan proposed the bet, things still felt that way.

Maybe it's a result of having seen his orgasm face, but I don't feel accountable anymore. At least, not about leaving him. I've made a lot of mistakes, but everybody does.

Er, at least I hope everybody does. It would really suck to be the only messed up freak in the world.

Nah. I'm not the only one. Spending so much time with Kenny, who's like a tiger trapped in a cage, and Cartman, who's some lost little kid has taught me that. And Stan, of course. Stan, who burns like a star, like fire, but just can't stop himself from engulfing everyone else in his flames.

Funny that it took the friends I left behind to teach me that I'm human.

It's time I stop thinking that my one mistake should dictate how my relationship with Stan runs.

And…I care about him. Deeply. I'm not going to let that go just because he put a deadline on my love confession.

I don't even care that I sound like some kind of bad emo record. I'm going to…uh…get my man.

I'll just never say that out loud.

The only problem is, when I go to Stan's apartment after work, there's nobody home. I know he's off work by now, but there's every possibility that he's out with Wendy, or wherever. I don't bother trying his cell, because I think he's got me blocked. Every time I call it goes straight to voicemail.

I think about calling Wendy. Then I remember my puke stained shoes. I really loved those shoes. I spent the morning over cereal complaining to my mother about them; although in that version I attributed Wendy's sudden upchuck to bad sushi. My mother's not quite ready to stomach the idea of me as a party animal. Or I'm not ready to let her.

On instinct, I end up in front of the one place I'm pretty sure Stan's not at.

His house.

I know the way to the Marsh's like the back of my hand. Which is kind of a funny saying, because if somebody chopped off my hand and showed it to me, theoretically I'm not certain that I'd recognize it. So maybe I should say I know the way to the Marsh's better than the back of my hand. I've spent countless nights there; eating dinner, sleeping over, playing video games. You name it, and I probably did it at Stan's house.

He told me once that he goes home every Sunday for family dinners. It's not a Sunday, and he's probably not here. But I knock anyway.

After about a minute, I hear footsteps. The door swings back.

"Oh, Kyle, honey. Hello," Stan's mom smiles winningly at me.

Let me tell you something about Sharon Marsh. She's like, one of the sweetest women I know. Okay, so maybe she's not the brightest crayon in the box. I mean, she kind of fucked with Stan's head pretty good. On the other hand, I think it's sort of parents' jobs to irrevocably screw with their kid's minds. I'm not going to say Stan should have dealt with it better; he did the best he could. I'm just saying that despite the fact that Stan's mom and dad can be totally lame to him, Mrs. Marsh is still pretty cool to me.

"Hi Mrs. Marsh," I say politely, "How are you?"

"I'm good, sweetie. How have you been?"

"Okay," I taste the word like a lie. Lying to authority figures, while not exactly hard for me always makes me feel rotten.

Especially when they're not my mom, and haven't done anything to deserve being lied to.

Saying I'm okay is just a little white lie, and I know if I said life sucked hard I'd just make her worry, but still. She's just so damned nice.

And she makes really awesome pies. Not that her pie-making skills have anything to do with…well, anything. I'm just saying, her apple pies are epic.

"Why don't you come in, and I can make you some hot cocoa?" she suggests brightly.

At the 'why don't you come in' part I plan on turning her down and flat out asking if she knows anything about Stan's whereabouts. But the hot cocoa part reels me in.

Mrs. Marsh's hot chocolate is legendary. It's almost as good as her pies. I'm not a chick, so I don't get giggly and orgasmic about chocolate, but this stuff is killer.

"Sure," I shrug, trying to look nonchalant, while inside screaming 'YES' like a little kid.

I follow Sharon inside; treading over the familiar threadbare carpet of the living room, past Stan's dad snoring on a new looking LA-Z Boy. The TV's blaring a news show, which explains Randy Marsh's snores. He never was one for keeping up with the neighborhood.

A midget in a swimsuit is discussing the upcoming march on the Mayor's office, organized by none other than my mother. She's highly offended by the lack of dog parks in our town, or some bullshit like that. I don't know. We're not exactly on speaking terms right now. It's more of my mother shooting me frosty glances across the dinner table and questioning my life choices, while I ignore her and make snarky remarks to my little brother. Who knew mom could get her panties in such a bunch over not taking Ike to hockey practice?

Oh wait. I knew. And yet I did it anyway. Sometimes being Sheila Broflovski's son sucks.

Mrs. Marsh leads me straight into the kitchen, which is as homey as I remember. It's my favorite kitchen in the world; stocked with all the sweets and non-kosher food my mother denied me as a child. Stan and I used to sit at the kitchen table when we were freshmen in high school and joke about which chick we'd bang first in our womanizing careers. We were still talking about the same thing when we were juniors, ironically enough. I was kind of a late bloomer. Stan was…well, I'm not really sure what his excuse was. Maybe, if he ever speaks to me again, I'll ask.

When I'm settled at that same kitchen table with a steaming cup of hot chocolate, Sharon puts her hands on her hips, "So, Kyle, honey. What's wrong?"

I stare at the gooey skin beginning to form between the chocolate and melting marshmallows in the mug rather than meeting her eyes. Am I that easy to read?

"Um, nothing Mrs. Marsh."

She makes a 'tsk'ing sound and says, "You never were a very good liar, kiddo."

Wow. Sweet and perceptive. And kind of scary, what with the way she's narrowing her eyes at me. I didn't know Stan's mom was such a tough cookie. Although I guess she has to be to put up with Stan's dad's antics.

"Okay. Well, I was just wondering if…uh, if you've seen Stan today? Or maybe know where he is?"

Sharon purses her lips, and I feel the need to babble overwhelm me, "I mean, I've tried calling him like fifty times, and I think we kind of got in a fight so he's mad? Maybe? I understand if you don't want to get in the middle of it though."

I finally take a breath. Wow. I don't know when the last time I talked that fast was.

"Kyle, Stan's in New York."

I nearly choke on my cocoa, and yelp, "What? I mean- what the fuck?"

She frowns, and I murmur a quick apology for my French.

But WHAT???

"He received his acceptance to New York University for graduate school, so he's out looking for an apartment and touring the campus," she smiles fondly, "He's such a clever boy."

"Er, yeah."

Clever my ass. What the fuck is he doing in New York? Without even telling me? Has he even been to New York before? He's going to get mugged! Raped! Killed! And then I'll end up telling him squat, because he'll be dead in some alley with a dildo shoved up his ass.

FUCK.

I really hate Stan right now.

The worst part is I can't let Mrs. Marsh know. I take a calm sip of the hot chocolate, although I think my real feelings are kind of belied by my trembling fingers, and say, "Oh."

"Was it a really bad fight?" Sharon asks, her eyes sympathetic. She's so maternal at this moment, and it kind of makes me wonder why she had to be such a total bitch and make Stan into a philandering asshole who decided to go live in New fucking York.

Suddenly even the best hot chocolate in the world tastes like ash. I stand up.

"We'll make up. Thanks, Mrs. Marsh. I really appreciate the hot cocoa."

"But you've barely made a dent in it," she protests.

"I know," I shrug apologetically, "I just remembered I have somewhere to be."

I make my way out of Stan's parents' house out into the snow. Stupid fucking snow. I hate this town. I hate this state. And I hate NYU. I've been the city a few times on weekend trips with friends from my old university. It's not that great. Who decided to make New York part of the Union anyway? Do we really need the empire state building and the statue of liberty? Okay, so there are some pretty good bars in SoHo, but still.

Goddamnit. Why is it that every time I try to make amends with Stan, the universe insists on interfering? Maybe it's a sign. Maybe we're really not supposed to be together. Maybe this whole damned shebang is fucked.

Fine. If that's what the universe wants, I give up. No more Stan.

Not as friends, not as lovers; I want shit from him now. Even if he comes groveling to me, I'm not going to listen.

I kick the snow. Screw this. I'm going home.

Somewhere around midnight, I'm brooding. I may be a recalcitrant asshole, but I'm not actually giving up on Stan. I thought earlier that I'd wait. Give him time. Let Stan simmer down and maybe then try to talk to him. I mean why do things have to be so urgent?

Then I realized; things have been slow for so long that urgent is the only way to be. I'm…

I'm miserable without him.

I'm miserable thinking he hates me.

You know what? I've spent the last four months in South Park, just plain miserable.

The only time I really can pinpoint being happy is with Stan.

I debate the idea that I even deserve happiness. Every time I try to achieve anything, I seem to fall flat on my face.

I fail.

I fuck up.

I'm biting my chapped lips so hard that they bleed. I don't know if I can take Stan rejecting me. It's just going to be a reminder of how much I suck. But…

A knock sounds off on my bedroom door.

Worried mom's decided that midnight is the ideal time to have one of her mother-son-I'm-Right-You're-Wrong talks I creep over and hiss, "Who is it?"

"Open the fucking door, artard."

Oh. It's Ike. I live to face off against the Sheila-monster another day.

I let my brother into my room, "Don't you have school tomorrow, genius?"

Ike shrugs, "So?"

"Healthy minds need a good night's rest," I mimic our mom's voice.

"I'm a prodigy," Ike shrugs, "It's not like I'll fail if I stay up all night playing video games."

Ouch. That hurt. That was a total jab at the time I failed pre-calc because I was playing WoW with Stan and Cartman every night.

I do the brotherly thing and hit him on the head.

"Hey! Violence isn't the answer, dude," he whines.

"Thanks, Gandhi," I snap, "I'll keep that in mind."

"God, Kyle. You used to be fun. What crawled up your butt and died?"

"Mmkay, I think this little brotherly seminar is at an end. Get out," I scowl, "Short stuff."

"I am not short," Ike protests. And he's not. He's just shorter than me; a fact I take immense pride in.

"Right," I snort, "You can't even reach the pedals in the car. That's why mom won't let you get your license."

Ike rolls his eyes. He's a nearly a senior in high school. He has a right to be offended. It's not his fault he started young, and can't do any of the things his friends can. Like drive. And buy porn.

"Didn't I tell you to get out?" I query, since he's still standing there in his plaid pajamas, courtesy of our overbearing mother. When I went to college, I'd never bought a single article of clothing for myself.

Might be why the freedom was so overwhelming that I flunked out, hunh?

"Yeah, but I don't listen to you," Ike replies pointedly, "I wanted to ask you something."

I sigh. The brat's got balls, "Shoot."

"There's this kid in school who's making fun of me-"

"What are you in kindergarten still? Kick him where it counts."

Ike glares at me, "If you'd listen to everything I had to say, maybe you'd know I already thought of that. I am a hockey player. I know how to defend myself."

My little brother is a little burly. He might be as good a fighter as me. He's just not exceptionally witty. I'm also better looking.

I might be lying, but give it to me. It's not easy growing up with a child prodigy; I have to beat him at something.

"I give you permission to continue."

"Like I need your permission, dillweed," he rolls his eyes for the second time in the last five minutes, "So he's like, the son of the principal. And if I kick his sorry ass, he's going to go running to his pop. When I diss him, he cries. It makes me feel all guilty, and stuff."

"Is that all?"

"No. The guy's been hitting on my girlfriend."

"You have a girlfriend?"

"Could you stop interrupting, asshole?"

"Fine," I hold up my hands in defeat.

But really, since when has my little brother gotten himself a girl?

"Actually, I'm done," Ike admits, "What do I do?"

I'm a little warm and fuzzy. Having a brother has it's bad points, like when he scores higher on his PSAT's than you when he's a sixth grader (not my fondest high school memory), but I kind of enjoy getting to play big brother.

"Kick his ass," I recommend.

"But I'm going to get in trouble!" Ike's eyes widen. Even though he can hold his own, he has an unnatural fear of mom that I shared in my younger, pre-independence years. Maybe I can break him of it early.

"So?" I shrug, "Dude. You're brave. Suck it up, let the kid go cry to the principal, and then do that thing where you turn the tables and make it all his fault in mom's eyes. You're pretty good at that, if I recall."

He's damned good at it. Ike's made me the scapegoat for his pranks since he could talk. I've got a lot of pre-Stan experience at being the Bad Guy.

"What if he cries?"

I shake my head, "Ike, if you've asked the kid to stop being a douche, and he won't, and he cries if you dish it back, how else are you going to stop him? Talking to him doesn't work. Dissing him doesn't work. You can't just tolerate him anymore. Maybe getting physical won't work either, but it'll make you feel better."

Not the best brotherly advice, I'll admit.

"I don't know…"

"Well then here's an idea. Why don't you figure it out? You're the genius."

Ike blinks, "I am, aren't I?"

"Good job, moron."

My little brother looks up at me and says, "Thanks, Kyle."

"No problem," I beam. One problem solved tonight. If anything, I made him feel better, bad advice or no. It's nice to finally do something right.

After Ike leaves, I realize that there was some good advice in there. Be brave. Suck it up.

That's what I have to do, too.

I've put off telling Stan the truth for long enough. So I pick up the phone.

A/N: I know. Horrible place to end a chapter. I have a wicked headache right now, and can barely thing (which accounts for all the suckiness). But I swear the next one picks up right after this one. And the New York thing is…well, I'm not going to ruin it, but it's probably not what you think? Maybe? Not that I'm psychic and have any idea what you think. Maybe it's exactly what you think.

Also, I was doing the math, and I think Ike should actually be a senior in high school, but I made him almost one because…well, just because. He can't drive.