Page 11 of My Best Friend Is Broken
We linger by the little kiosk for a short while longer. Then we start ambling along with our half-drunk coffees in hand.
As we walk, a woman jogs past. Her tee shirt is tight-fitting, and she is well-endowed. Some creepy asshole whistles. The sound derogatory and suggestive.
The woman has headphones on. She either doesn’t hear it, or she chooses to ignore it.
Liam freezes, cheeks flushing, not with outrage but with some raw, animal shame. He hunches into himself, and forthe first time since he was released, his façade fully breaks in front of me. He looks so vulnerable. So small and broken.
I take his hand without thinking, fingers threading over his knuckles. It’s a tiny gesture, private. He doesn’t pull away. He squeezes back, a tight, clumsy pressure that says more than words.
He is holding it together. Barely. He has splintered, and now the thousand pieces of his sanity are teetering on the very edge of falling apart.
It is time to go. I never should have done this to him.
I hurry us back to the apartment as quickly as I can. Going out was a terrible idea. It was far too soon, and I am incapable of protecting Liam from the world.
When we reach the flat, his legs are unsteady. I lead him inside by the elbow, mothering him like a hen. I don’t think he notices. I think all he sees are the walls and the door and the fact that he’s back in a place that smells like safety. I hope so, anyway.
He sits on the sofa and buries his face in his hands. He looks like he might start to cry, like the dam inside him has a leak he didn’t know about. I sit down beside him, and let the silence sit between us like a third person.
“You did good,” I say finally, because the silence can’t last forever, and small things are the only things we can measure today. “You came out. You didn’t run. That’s huge.”
Tiny things. Things I never, ever thought in a million years would be a challenge for Liam. Yet here we are. In this strange new world where I am the brave one.
He lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed and tired, but they find me. “You didn’t let me go,” he says. There’sno accusation in it. Only recognition. Acknowledgement that I’ve kept my word. I’ve done what he asked.
I don’t answer with words. I press my thumb to his wrist where the coffee cooled, where he still bears the stain of the park. It is a ridiculous, tender gesture. He looks at our hands, and for a moment, something like peace eases the tightness in his face.
We both know the world will keep being loud. But for now, there’s a small island of quiet, and we can sit in it together.
He lowers his head again, and the silence settles over us once more.
Liam doesn’t move for a long while. He sits hunched over, elbows on his knees. I can hear the rhythm of his breathing, ragged, uneven, like his lungs still can’t decide whether to panic or rest.
I want to reach for him, but I don’t. Not yet. If I push too much, he’ll retreat back behind the walls I can already feel him building.
Instead, I flick the TV on. The sound fills the silence. A documentary with a low narrator’s voice about sharks gliding through dark water. It’s background noise, nothing more.
He liked the nature documentary the other day. But maybe I shouldn’t make choices for him.
“Here,” I say, nudging the remote toward him. “You pick.”
He peeks at me through pale strands of hair, skeptical. “It’s the fanciest TV I’ve ever seen. What if I break it?”
“It’s a remote, not a landmine,” I say dryly. “And if you do, I’ll buy another one.”
He stares at it like I’ve handed him a loaded gun. Then, slowly, he takes it. His thumb hovers over the buttons, uncertain. When he presses one, the screen jumps to some cooking competition. A chef is screaming about undercooked lamb. Liam flinches but doesn’t look away.
“Better?” I ask.
He shrugs, but I catch the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
We watch in silence. The contestants chop vegetables with frantic energy, and the judges bark critiques. Every once in a while, Liam shifts closer to the cushions, his body slowly unwinding. By the second commercial break, he’s leaning back properly, his legs tucked under him, the tension in his spine easing just a fraction.
I use the excuse of getting up for water to grab a blanket from the armchair. I toss it over him casually when I sit back down.
He freezes. Then, very carefully, he pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders.
“Thanks,” he murmurs.
