Barry shouldn't have been that big of a deal. I should have been totally cool about my dad having a former foster kid who was basically his best friend and his favorite coworker and his ideal housemate all rolled into one. I shouldn't have called him a coward, and I should have been adult about it when he tried to help me out with my projects, even though it was awkward.
But I wasn't. Whenever I saw him, the feeling of gnawing fear that it was all going to collapse came rushing back, the thunderclap of terror that Joe and Iris would figure out I wasn't much of anything by comparison and decide not to keep me in their family after all.
Iris already had a brother. Tall, nice, freaking handsome, like some kind of male model. And he was good at everything. I told myself he was always trying to rub it in my face, but he wasn't. He was just that smart. He couldn't help it.
I mean, maybe he could have been a little more welcoming. I blamed him for all of the awkwardness, but it's not like it was his fault Joe had taken him in when he didn't know I existed. He never chose to be first.
But it still felt like somebody, somewhere, had pointed a finger at the two of us and picked Barry instead of me—Mr. Smart, Mr. Nice, Mr. Perfect. Iris lit up when he came into a room. Joe hugged him all the time. They couldn't stop telling me about what a great guy he was, what a smart scientist and great friend.
I didn't realize how mad I was until the "coward" comment came out. It was ugly, like something you would say to somebody in sixth grade, not something reasonable adults say to each other. That's how I knew that it wasn't the adult Wally who was upset—it was the kid who'd had to explain to people all of his life that he didn't just not have a dad; he didn't even know who his dad was—and thought he never would. That kid was terrified that he was going to lose the dad he'd finally found, because of perfect teeth and hair and a guy who'd already taken up all the love for a son that Joe West had to give.
So Joe did a thing he does a lot—not that I knew it yet. He took me out for a meal. And he told me he was proud of me; that's something else he does a lot. I tested him. It was petty and kind of childish, but I gave him a chance to give Barry all the credit for my work, and he wouldn't do it. He saw right through me like he was looking through a clean window pane, and he looked right at that scared kid and told him what he needed to hear—told me what I needed to hear. About bringing Barry home, a kid who didn't have anybody. About being proud of a man who could have turned ugly but hadn't. About the kid he and Iris had claimed for their own. A kid who wasn't me, who had a different place in Joe's heart than mine, but not a place that was any bigger or more important.
I tried to play it cool, but I felt pure relief rush through me like an avalanche, and my sickening anxiety eased for the first time since I'd met Joe and Iris. I could feel myself smiling like a dolt, but Joe didn't seem to mind.
At the end of the meal, he paid the bill and walked me outside. "Wally, you coming over tonight? Iris is making her mac and cheese from scratch, and Barry plans to beat me in chess again." He had his hand on my shoulder, casually, like it was no big deal.
Like it was no unusual thing for Wally West to be standing outside a diner in Central City, talking to a dad who actually wanted him around. And it occurred to me right then that it wasn't going to be an unusual thing any more, because I had Joe, and he had me, and neither of us had any interest in letting go.
"Sure," I heard myself say. "I'll come." I'd been coming up with a lot of excuses to avoid Barry, but I didn't care so much any more. It wasn't like all the difficult feelings went away all at once, but for the first time, I didn't care that I was me instead of Mr. Perfect. I was Joe's kid. I was the one standing there with his hand on my shoulder.
"All right," he said finally, "I have to get back to work. Be good, Wally." He grinned and held out his arms, and that kid inside me dove into his dad's embrace. I closed my eyes—and thought of Barry. I finally understood the look on his face when he'd just gotten a hug from Joe—pretty often, actually; Joe likes hugs as much as he likes coffee.
Joe's not that complicated. He's honest, and he's decent, and he has your back. And when you're in his arms, you feel like you're in the safest place in the whole world, no matter how old you are. That kind of love is powerful; it can change you and heal things inside you that you didn't know needed healing. That's how it was for Barry, I realized, just like it was for me. He needed Joe as much as I did, and we both had our places. It wasn't about competing; it was about belonging to a family that had more than enough love to go around.
