Page 75 of When I'm Gone

I’m definitely not saying that, so I simply comply. Brady shoots off the photo as soon as he takes it, and a moment later, my own phone buzzes in my pocket. So, it turned out good, then.

“I hope it works,” I tell Brady. Easton throws in a soft me too, but my friend is quiet in a contemplative sort of way that unnerves me a little.

They both deserve so much more than the sad excuse of parents they ended up with. Having living parents and still ending up an orphan is a brutal kind of grief, and it eats at Brady. Truly giving up and saying that it’s too late for redemption and forgiveness is a hard pill for him to swallow. It’s a cruel world, having to accept that the people who taught you to believe in the fundamental good of the human race are showing you the ugliest of hypocrisy.

It keeps me up at night sometimes. I’m sure it’s some form of unhealthy attachment, but I feel like I assumed responsibility for turning Brady’s outlook back around. For showing him that he can have a chosen family that loves him without the conditions that wrecked him. It was never a burden, keeping him upright for that dark time in his life, but the fear that I didn’t do well enough by him lingers.

We’re quiet for a long time, lost in the raging currents of our thoughts. Easton is a warm presence by my side, grounding me. Keeping me from getting too far away. It occurs to me that he filled a gap I didn’t know was even there, when he came back with all his sharp edges and wicked tongue.

Every day was fine. Work, gym, home, and occasionally some kind of outing that Brady would have to drag me to. I wasn’t unhappy, by any means. But it was almost robotic.Like I knew it was what I was supposed to be doing, so I did. If anyone had asked me to actively participate in my life though?

Nah, I was checked out.

Easton shook everything up, turned it upside down and made me scramble to keep up. Now that things are settling back out, it’s plain to see that I needed it.

My sweet Chaos. The perfect storm.

~~~

Easton

The sketchbook is mocking me. No, not in the,I hear voices kind of way, but still. It’s just so blank… empty. Meaningless.

I hate it.

Inspiration used to come to me like a broken dam. The challenge is getting it to slow down enough so I can put something on paper before moving on to the next. They follow me into my dreams, hovering at the back of my mind, just waiting to be brought to life. I refuse to believe it’s really gone now.

My imagination used to run wild, untamed. Fairies and goblins perched in the biggest weeping willows with hidden entrances to wonderland. Mermaids taming the mighty leviathan. There wasn’t anything I couldn’t come up with. I used to be able to make magic come alive. Travel worlds and jump universes with only a pencil.

I have to find it again. I miss it like a limb. It causes this gnawing pain under my ribs that steals my breath if I focus on it too much.

So, here I sit on the grass with a sketchbook balanced in my lap and a graphite pencil tucked behind my ear. The sun is shining high in the sky, but it’s not stifling like it was in Florida. Just enough to add some color to my cheeks and make me warm all over. It’s perfect. Chase says I seek outsunshine like a sunflower, but really, I’m just especially glad to be free of the bone-deep cold that never left me properly for years.

Now, I have to wonder if he wanted it like that intentionally. All the moving left me confused and uncomfortable exploring my surroundings so I was stuck in a freezing apartment all the time. One of the many things that I had no say over was the temperature, despite the fact that I was the one who was stuck with it all day. He even had the thermostat PIN-protected so I couldn’t change it.

So, yeah. I’m really fucking happy to feel the sun’s rays to my heart’s content. I don’t think I’ll ever take it for granted again.

If only I could find my artistic spark, I’d almost be a person again instead of an empty shell moving through life hoping to not be blown away with the wind.

I still don’t understand why it’s out of my grasp. I’m doing so much better. I’m preparing for the GED, eating consistently, and taking better care of myself. Sleep has been less elusive, as it turns out having Chase’s weight beside me calms me beyond measure. I’m doing better. Healthier. Happier.

You know, minus the metaphorical limb giving me phantom pains.

That sentence alone puts me firmly in head case territory still, I fear.

When a hand lands gently on my neck, I don’t startle. It can only be him. My heart can feel him close, even if my ears don’t. “Still having trouble?”

He’s got to stop looking at me like that, all mushy and familiar. Like he can find something important that he lost somewhere in my eyes if he only searches long enough. He’s going to make me say something that I definitely feel, but I’m not ready to admit yet.

Chase is still shirtless from our late wake up this morning. Brady gave him the day off from their daily torture session, and he was exhausted. I was too busy soaking up the sleepy cuddles to get up and do anything productive with my life.

I’m not even subtle about my eye-fucking him, the view never really gets old. “Suddenly, I find myself being inspired.”

Chase smirks down at me, but I’m only partially joking. Those damn tattoos decorating his sculpted muscles, they make my mouth water. Ever the adult, I make grabby hands at him to get him closer. My sketchbook falls to the ground as I pounce on him before he’s even halfway down.

We tumble together in a mess of arms and legs, laughing the whole way. “Miss me?” he teases against my lips.

I kiss him deeply in response. He groans into it, vibrating my chest. His mouth is addictive. Sweet, hot, and needy as he takes what he wants from me. As much as I want him, literally always, this feels like it’s more about the connection as it turns lazy and soft. Like he missed me too, even though I’ve only been out here for a couple hours. I’m panting as I pull away for much needed oxygen. “Not at all, why do you ask?”

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