Page 56 of Here In Your Arms

Wes storms off for the spare room where his guitar is, and I can tell his feelings are hurt. At first I was worried he was angry, but he’s just hurt and needs an outlet. As the strums of his six-string start to sound in the background, I send Rory another couple of messages directly, but when she still doesn’t respond, I decide to just go over there.

I don’t bother Wes with letting him know I’m leaving. He’ll figure it out. Hopefully whatever is bothering her isn’t too bad. The drive passes in a blur, and I make it to her door, realizing that Wes left it unlocked after he left. She never got up to lock it. When I walk in and see her laying on the couch, tears dripping down her face, her body still, I know she’s not okay.

The sight triggers me in a way I didn’t really think possible. I remember my dad getting sad when I was really young. Well, we called it sad, but now as an adult I realize he was dealing with depression. He would still talk to us though, sometimes would even play a game when he was down, so I’ve not directly interacted with someone this depressed before.

My protective instincts kick into overdrive and I shuck off my shoes, determined to show her she’s not alone. She has us whether she realizes it or not. Whenever I felt down, or saw my dad feeling down, we just wanted someone to exist with us, so that’s what I do. I sit and we exist for a while, my hand stroking her hair, reminding her with physical touch and a few words that she’s not alone.

Once I know Rory is coming out of her slump, and that she’s okay, I leave for home and the closer I get, the higher my anger mounts. When I get home, I’m about ready to punch Wes in the face. Fuckin’ idiot, he knows better than to just leave someone crying on the couch. While I know that wouldn’t actually help anything, the idea of punching him in the face has some satisfaction to it. Instead, I find him still playing his guitar, even though it’s been hours. He must have taken a break or his fingers would be bloody by now. Violence has never been something we subscribe to, so I make myself take a few calming breaths.

After opening the door, I’m greeted by the sight of Wes on the floor, where I expected him to be, guitar in his lap, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. There are a few beers sitting empty by him. He’s strumming out a random melody with no particular rhythm to which chords he chooses. I watch him for an instant, appreciating this man’s love for music and my love for him. Poor guy has no idea how to handle mental breakdowns, apparently.

“I can hear you breathing,” he says, continuing to strum.

“Well at least I’ve mastered the creeper breath then, wouldn’t want all that practice to go to waste.”

He snorts softly. After another moment, he stops strumming and sets his six-string on the guitar stand next to him. Neither of us moves, and I decide this is apparently where this conversation is going to happen.

“You fucked up.”

“What the hell?” He looks up at me, confused.

“You heard me.”

“How the hell did I mess up? She basically kicked me out!”

I cock my head at him. “Do you understand how to read people? I mean, I know not everyone has that skill set, but I thought you did.”

“Fuck off,” he grumbles.

“I mean it, Wes. I don’t understand what the hell was going through your head. You understand social nuance. She was sobbing on the couch, and you just left. Explain this to me.”

“I mean, we were there having a great time, then suddenly she stopped talking to me. She laid down facing away from me and every time I asked if she was okay, she just blew me off. She had some tears on her face, but she wasn’t crying. Clearly, she didn’t want me to stay, so why the hell would I?”

My eyebrows are as high as they can go and I whistle, actually astounded at him. Wes isn’t the kind of guy to just walk away from someone in need, so there’s got to be something else at play. I can’t reconcile the Wes I know with the Wes that is in front of me. Wes looks at me, annoyed now.

“Look, I don’t need you judging me right now, alright? She told me to go, so I went.”

“Did she say, ‘please leave’? Did those words come out of her mouth?” I ask him, anger starting to show against my better judgment.

“No…” He sounds hesitant.

“Okay, while you think on that I’m gonna go grab a beer and check on Rory. Again.”

“Wait, is she okay?”

“When you figure out what the hell you didn’t do, I’ll talk to you about it, otherwise don’t expect a fuckin’ word out of me.”

I storm to the kitchen, pop open a beer, and flop on the couch. Wes and I have had our share of fights, but I’m not sure I’ve ever been this mad at him. I shoot off a text directly to Rory to make sure she’s up like I said I would.

What the fuck was he thinking?

I know he didn’t grow up understanding about this stuff, really the only reason I even know as much as I do is because of Hannah, my stepmom. When she came into the picture, she taught me about her job as a psychiatrist and it got me curious about mental health in general. She helped my dad get the help he needs, and they both sat down and explained depression to me. Clearly I’m not an expert, I work in a business not a hospital, but I know enough from Hannah for this to trigger me. My mind takes me back to my childhood, remembering the things I noticed about this stuff before Hannah came along.

My mom died from lymphoma before I was five, so I don’t have any memories of her. I do remember seeing my dad looking sad and never really knowing why. Even then, I knew as a kid that he just needed someone there with him. The first time I asked him, he said he was just feeling sad, so I grabbed a blanket and snuggled with him. His sniffles still sit in my memory, but we don’t talk about it. The point was to not be alone, not to analyze his feelings. When I’m halfway through my beer, Wes finally comes out of the room and sits on the couch next to me.

“Nothing I do has ever been good enough.”

I wait him out to hear the rest of his thought process.

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