Page 100 of Misguided

“For being exactly what I need.”

He scoots forward as I sniffle pathetically, trying to get myself back under control. His hips collide with my butt, the evidence that he’s a man pressed undeniably against the small of my back. Dog nudges my head, and I lift it as far as I can to allow him to slide his arm underneath. He settles my temple on his bicep, curling his other arm over top to snuggle me in his solid, yet soothing hold.

The knee-jerk reaction to stiffen, to hole up my weakness and parade as some hard-ass who doesn’t feel, washes over me. The “stiff upper lip” Daddy used to tell us kids we needed to have. Dog’s arm weighs heavy as I suck in a deep breath and focus on shoving my burgeoning breakdown back in the remote corner of my mind it belongs in.

“You thinkin’ about them?” he whispers, his breath tickling the back of my head as he nuzzles in close.

“A little,” I manage to say without losing hold of my wits all over again. “Just hearing you talk about your mom, about how hard your dad was on you …”

He makes an understanding grumble, the kind that says, “I know what it’s like; I’ve walked the path too.” My eyes slip closed as he hinges his elbow, pulling me into his front a little more. The sense of being confined is strangely comforting, as though I could let go and trust him to catch me. As though he’d be there no matter what.

It’s a beautiful lie of a love that could comfort a lost and lonely heart such as mine.

“They loved you,” he mumbles against my hair. “You know that, right?”

And there they go again, the tears, rushing forth like a fire hydrant smashed open on a hot summer day; destructive, yet welcomed for the relief it brings.

“Yeah,” I sob. “I know.”

“You think they’d want you unhappy?”

I twist in his hold, wiping my nose with the back of my hand as I settle on my back, head still on his arm. “What are you saying? That I shouldn’t be allowed to grieve?”

“No.” He frowns, the outline of his face illuminated by the dull glow of the fire through the tent. “Just …” He sighs, clearly exasperated with his inability to find the right words. “I wasted time wishing things weren’t how they were after Mom died, and all I’m sayin’ is that I know in retrospect how much of a waste of time it is dwellin’ on the things you can’t change.” He leans away, running his free hand over his face. “Honor them by makin’ the most of what you’ve got: life.”

“Is that what you do?” I snap, pissed he’s still effectively telling me that my grief has a deadline. “Honor your mom by fucking and bingeing your way through life?”

My head hits the bedroll with an unwelcome thud as he rips his arm free. “Fuck, Mel. Why do you have to be so goddamn difficult?”

The opportunity’s there, laid out before me with flashing neon, to argue this and turn it into one hell of a shit fight just so I can validate my need to push him away. I’m unfairly taking my frustrations out on him, and he knows it.

I know it.

“I’m just saying,” I whisper, “that we all handle things differently.” I roll back to how I was, my hearing attuned to the rapid, yet deep breaths he takes.

“He says I killed her.”

What? “Your dad?” I look up to find him lying with both hands over his face.

“Yeah,” comes his muffled reply. “He said it was my fault her heart gave out.”

“Jesus, Dog.” I push up on one elbow. “Why?”

He drops his hands, rolling his head to face me. Blond lengths stick out at odd angles, highlighted by the amber glow of the fire. “I went for dinner, like I always used to, on a Friday night. I’d go have dinner with the family, and then spend the weekend getting wasted so I’d forget why they were so disappointed in me.” He shrugs. “It was routine.”

I shuffle so I lie on my stomach and rest my chin on the heels of my hands while he talks.

He drops an arm over my back to toy with the ends of my hair and continues. “Mom had chemotherapy a few years before and they say it weakened her heart. She was on medication and stuff, but she’d never been right since. I went there that night and told them I’d been patched in.” He takes a deep breath. “She just stared at me, and I thought she was shocked by what I said, but truth was her heart was failin’ and she couldn’t voice the words to tell us. She’d been sick for weeks, but stubborn as she was she said it was just a virus and that it would pass.”

“That sounds awful.” And explains so much. I nestle in closer, resting my head on his chest.

“Her hand hit the table as she reached out for me, and when I touched her I knew it was bad. Shot out of my chair, laid her out on the floor, and yelled at my brother to call an ambulance.” He snorts, a bitter contempt sound. “Dad didn’t even move. Just stared at her as though he couldn’t believe what was happenin’ at first. I held Mom’s hand until she stopped breathing.” His chest jerks, and as I tilt my head I realize why: he cries. “Fuckin’ stared at me with her lifeless eyes and just went. She looked … it was like she wanted it.”

“Dog, I’m so sorry.” Here I am selfishly wallowing in my own pity, not even thinking that he may have experienced the same or worse.

“Don’t be.” He wipes his eyes clear with the side of his hand and then pats me on the back as though finalizing the conversation for himself.

“Thank you for sharing that with me.”

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