VERSE TWO. CHAPTER NINE
BRIAN
I lounge on the bed smoking a joint, watching Justin pack his shit. There's surprisingly little; apart from the computer - which is sitting on the table boxed up ready to take down to the Jeep – and his portfolio with his sketches, he isn't taking much more than he originally brought.
"Don't forget your meds this time," I tell him.
"Already got them." He crams shirts into his duffel bag and I wince.
I'm trying to feel upbeat about the whole situation. I keep telling myself that it's not like it was before; this time I know where he is and I can keep an eye on him, even if only from a distance. And he seems happier now that he's got his own place; or rather, he doesn't seem quite so jumpy around me now that he knows he's got an out.
I wish to fuck I knew what he was thinking. I've been watching for any hint of regret or sadness about leaving the one place where he'd always wanted to be, but all I've been able to detect is relief. But then I guess he left here, and me, months ago. All he's doing now is taking his things.
I suppose if I'm honest – and that's what this whole trip is about, right? – I'm relieved that he's going, too. Because the last few days waiting for the lease to be finalised and for Justin's royalties to be transferred have been fucking murder.
After that first night he was adamant about sleeping on the couch and I knew if I tried to push it he'd go to Deb until everything went through. He stayed out of my way as much as possible – he'd be out when I got home from work and wouldn't get home until after I was in bed. I never asked him where he'd been, though it killed me not knowing. I felt I didn't have the right.
But even so, he was still around. And that was … difficult.
I take a hit, holding the smoke in my lungs for as long as I can before exhaling. It's good shit. Mellow. That's what I need to be right now – mellow.
There's so much that's different about Justin, and I'm not altogether sure how much is part of this new 'improved' model and how much was already there but I'd simply never noticed.
We're both looking at each other with different eyes now.
Before, he was infatuated with me; and maybe I got so used to always seeing him that way I never saw anything else. His infatuation was part of him; like his smile, his talent, his enthusiasm. It would always be there. Now, unmasked, I'm seeing him clearly.
In some ways he's definitely regressed: many of his post-bashing symptoms have resurfaced, albeit in a less severe form. There's been no sign of nightmares since he came back, but his aversion to being touched is obvious. His tremor's worse. That cautious, closed look is back in his eyes when he's around people, and he's not speaking much. In fact, he hardly ever initiates conversation at all.
I think the most unsettling thing, though, is the way his moods swing from apologetic remorse to resentful, in-your-face aggression. In between he's just…silent. I don't know which is worse. Before he left I'd simply have assumed he was feeling sorry for himself and I'd have told him to get the fuck over it. But this is something different. There's something black and rotten in my boy's soul now, and it's killing the Sunshine.
What's killing me is that I helped put it there.
And yet. He has an independence now that was missing before – a strength of will that suits him. Before, his determination to get his own way was often just a bratty show of stubbornness, and I could usually fuck him into a more co-operative state of mind. Now he's making his own decisions and my opinions – or anyone else's – mean jack shit to him. In some ways the kid has come back a man. Or maybe – and this is what's worrying me – it's that he honestly doesn't think anyone cares what he does.
But he's still Justin, and the fact that he's around again is playing havoc with my testosterone. My brain might have reluctantly accepted that he's off limits, but there's no persuading my body of that fact. Especially when he lights up those totally hot roll-ups and I find myself longing to suck the liquorice from his lips. And his fucking hair is driving me nuts – I want to grab fistfuls of it, twine it round my fingers, fucking bite it … shit, Kinney, stop thinking about that or you'll have to go and lock yourself in the bathroom to jerk off.
Again.
Despite all my good intentions, having him so tantalisingly close and yet so utterly unattainable is sheer fucking torture. I guess all in all, it's probably best to have temptation out of the way, at least for a while.
Until I can figure what the fuck to do.
"How many times do you think we've slept in this bed?" He crams the last pairs of socks into his pack and closes the drawer.
I blink a little, surprised by both the question and his asking it. It's something I've considered a few times recently myself. "I don't know. It's got to be hundreds."
He's silent for a while, struggling to do up the zipper on the over-stuffed bag. "I bet it's seen some action since I left." His voice is neutral.
I stub out my joint and lean over to put the ashtray back on the nightstand before replying. "None."
Justin glances at me; then he laughs. "Like I'd believe that."
"It's true," I insist, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and sitting up. "I've brought nobody back since…" my voice tails off.
"Since Ethan," Justin finishes for me. He's still laughing. "And don't tell me he was so bad he put you off for life, because you looked like you were having a pretty good time from where I was standing."
Ouch. I turn towards him. "Justin, there's something you need to know. I've been seeing someone."
Well, that wiped the smile off his face. His eyes widen, and he can't disguise his shock before he looks down. I think perhaps there might have been something like dismay in his expression, too, or maybe I just hope there is. But he recovers himself well, and there's no trace of emotion in his tone as he says quietly, "You should have told me – I'd have stayed somewhere else." He chews a thumbnail. "Is it anyone I know?"
"What? Fuck, Justin, I don't mean like that. Jesus. It took me thirty years to find you, you think I'm going to replace you in a few months?" It's such a ridiculous idea I don't know whether to be pissed or laugh.
He says nothing; his head's down, his hair veiling his face; I want to grab him and make him look at me so that I can see his reaction to that little statement, or his lack of reaction or whatever the fuck he's feeling, but I don't.
"What I'm trying to tell you in my usual oblique way is that I've been talking to a therapist."
He's looking at me now. Gaping, in fact. "You mean … you mean you're seeing a shrink?"
I shrug. "I'm not making appointments. More like we're having informal chats. It's a guy I used to talk to sometimes, after you were bashed. When you wouldn't let anyone touch you."
"You talked to a shrink about me?"
"I didn't know how to help you. And you refused to talk to anybody about it."
He shoves me hard in the chest. "You fucking hypocrite! You were the one who kept telling me to forget about it, not to think about it!You said therapy was all bullshit, and yet you have the fucking nerve to discuss me with a total fucking stranger … or what, was he just a random trick who happened to be a shrink?"
Yeah, that was basically the way it was.
"Justin, this isn't about you. Not everything is." Just most things. "This is about me, about my issues. After you disappeared, things kind of came to a head … I had to take time off work because I was a fucking-fall down mess. And it had to stop. I had to start to deal with my own crap instead of just spreading it around and letting it stink. After all, I've got a son now. I don't want Gus to grow up feeling about me the same way I did about my old man." I smile at him. "So I've been trying to find a way not to be an asshole all the time. Or not so much of an asshole, anyway. And a man has to know when to ask for help."
I watch the anger slowly seep out of his eyes to be replaced by … what? Confusion? Doubt? Nothing? Please God, don't let it be nothing.
TBC
