Page 73 of Tough Love

How can I be so upset about this, when I’ll always be the only one to blame?

Evan stands abruptly, his hands rubbing frantically over his thighs. “I should go.”

No response. No emotion. I feel like a spectator in my own body, willing it to move, to do something, toreact.But all I can do as he swears under his breath and strides to the front door is stare at the reflection of him leaving me in the blank television.

We were kids.

We were kids.

I can’t be mad at him for witnessing that and doing nothing, saying nothing. We were young and inexperienced in things so severe.Weren’t we?No. Fifteen was old enough to know that something was wrong, that he should have done more, that there were other ways to help than to get directly involved.

And he knows that.

It’s why he feels so guilty.

Why he left.

I need him back.

I need to snap out of this bullshit and drill it into his head, mine, that even if he had done something back then, the outcome probably would have been the same.

That it’s not his fault Tristan hurt me.

That he didn’t fail me by seeing what he did and walking away.

That I understand, because had the roles been reversed, I probably would have done the same.

He was just a kid.

We were kids.

My legs straighten out in a snap, my body catapulting off the sofa as I bolt for the door. Maybe I can catch him, tell him to stop being so stupid and come back inside? Maybe he’s on the front step, catching some fresh air?

The door flings into the stopper as I wrench it open and dash out into the black night, a solitary streetlight three doors down providing the only light as it reflects off the already dewy lawn.

Evan’s Jeep pulls away from the kerb; I’m already too late. The engine growls as he takes off down the street, exorcising his anger on the one thing he can without repercussion.

I run to the footpath, my feet sending heavy slaps echoing off the duplex as I come to a stop, hoping he sees me in the rear-view. But it’s no use; the taillights vanish as he takes the corner.

Yet again, here I am, standing alone because of the selfish actions of one fucking man.

Tristan.

And for the first time since he tore apart my life eight years ago, I’m angry. So fucking angry.

Angry enough to finally fight back.

Too little, too late.

TWENTY-SIX

Nineteen days have passed since Evan walked out of Kath’s house—not that I’m counting. Four days of unreturned texts, skipped calls, and fifteen more of heartache before I folded and tried calling one last time last night, only to get no answer.

I’m not upset with him, and I wish like hell he’d let me tell him that. But that night I was offered a glimpse at the boy I knew as a teenager: the recluse. He shut down, put up his walls, and faded into the background when things got too tough.

Kids used to tease Evan in school, mocking his quiet, alternative lifestyle. Ashamedly, I’ll admit I ignored him at first too. He made it so easy to. But I guess the thing that cuts now I can look back on it with the wisdom of an adult on my side, is that I never questioned why.

What made the boy feel as though he didn’t belong? As though he couldn’t join in with the rest of us?

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