Page 39 of One Little Problem
7. Now you see him, now you don’t
The worst magic trick ever.
Ryan
Running fast was a defense mechanism. I wasn’t the biggest or the toughest. I couldn’t hurt anyone with my fists, except for myself, but I could escape. Retreat. Run away. That was all in the world though, physically. The way I’d been running around and playing catch up in my mind was different.
My thoughts were too quick. They’d sneak in at random times. I’d remember a moment between Luke and I and my heart would swell like always and then it would keep going and I’d start thinking of words to describe the feelings I felt, and one word kept repeating itself over and over and then I’d rush in, tackling that thought to the ground and subduing it, too afraid it would ruin things if I thought about it too clearly, gave it its due.
Now Luke was gone, and I kept thinking about it anyway, what I didn’t want to face. I was too tired to play catch up, so the feelings I’d been trying to keep in check were roaming free. I hadn’t been thinking the words, I certainly hadn’t been saying them. But they were there anyway. Coloring my decisions. Would they have made a difference? Would that have made Luke change his mind if he knew I wasn’t just hanging around because I was being silly? I was a guy in love.
These thoughts and other depressing musings brought to you from my bed, specifically the cocoon of sadness I’d encased myself in, blankets wrapped tightly around me. I wanted to stay here being miserable until it didn’t hurt anymore or until the end of time, whichever came first.
Dad didn’t agree. “You haven’t gotten out of bed all day.” Sounded like he was speaking from my doorway.
Didn’t raise my head from my pillow but asked, “Only a day?” Dammit. Hoped at least two had passed. Three if I got really lucky. I never got really lucky. Or I did just for a moment so that the world could show me how awesome it was when things worked out, only for it to then be taken away.
“I’d almost think this was an act for my benefit,” Dad said. “I caught you guys, so now you’re really selling it.” Huh? Oh right. We’d been fake broken up. And then Luke broke up with me again, even though we weren’t dating. Was that a double negative? Did the two cancel each other out? Yeah, I should just call Luke up and tell him that: ha ha, grammar loophole, we’re still together bitch.
That would go over great.
The whole thing about fake breaking up… The risk inherent in the plan was the worry that it would turn real. That it would cause strife and distance and ruin what we had. Only we had avoided that pitfall. Hadn’t really thought to look for other problems. That if something did go wrong, it wouldn’t have anything to do with our fake breakup at all.
I stayed curled up in my bed, eyes closed, blanket over my head, but I could still feel Dad’s presence trying to worm his way into my cloud of misery. “I don’t want to talk about this,” I told him. Or about anything. Leave me alone to my misery.
“I’m not sure you’re faking,” Dad speculated out loud. “There’s no way you could sell it so well.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. Do you have to kick me while I’m down?”
“You guys really aren’t together anymore,” he said instead of asked.
“Yeah, you think so?” Ding, ding, ding. Give the man a prize.
“Oh good, you can still make sarcastic comments. I was worried there.” I didn’t respond. I could always make sarcastic comments. It was actually easier, not harder, when I was sad or mad because then dark and/or sarcastic comments were the only ones running around inside my head. “Do I have to kill Luke?” Dad asked.
“Go ahead.” Would I be invited to the funeral? Probably not. How dare he die and not even let me go to his funeral? Typical men. Even though I was a men too.
Dad took in my response and said, “That means he broke up with you.”
How—oh, because if I ended things with him, I wouldn’t want Dad killing Luke for something that wasn’t his fault. Dad thought he was so clever, squeezing information out of me. I wasn’t at my best, so it was natural I’d let a few things slip. “Yeah, so you can go ahead and kill him now.”
“What exactly am I killing him for?” He’d crept closer and closer in while talking to me. And now he pulled a chair out from my desk and I heard him sit down.
“He’s a communist sympathizer.” I didn’t want to talk about it.
“Ryan, come out of the Pathetic Burrito and talk to me.” Dad’s voice was a weird mix of encouraging and weary.
“It’s a cocoon of sadness,” I corrected without coming out.
“Think what I said works too.” We had been talking the whole time without any trouble even though I was under blankets, so I don’t know why he thought that comment would be hidden from my ears—oh, I got it. He wanted me to hear that. So rude.
Every now and then, my penchant for overdoing it came in handy. Like when I wanted to embarrass Luke. Usually though, it bit me on the ass. Like now, when I emerged from my cocoon of sadness only to see pictures of me and Luke scattered all over my desk because that had seemed like a good idea at the time, rubbing salt in the wound, but now it was just like… well, rubbing salt in the wound. Except on accident instead of being a glutton for punishment and on purpose.
There were a couple pictures of us at school, some with the rest of our friends. Most had been taken with a camera phone of course, but I had to go and print them out because I wanted actual photos to hold onto and to plaster onto my walls. Because relationship. Ugh.
My favorite is one of Luke and I covered in mud, making his hair darker, covering both of our shirts. My dad had the old barn on our property torn down after I got hurt there and was going to rebuild. Construction was supposed to start soon, so there were supplies and markers for it out there now, but it had just been a blank space when the picture was taken. One day when it rained, Luke and my friends came over and Dad hadn’t tried to kill Luke and we played baseball or soccer, I’m not really sure which. I would think baseball because that was what Luke and Zach played, but it looked like there was a soccer ball in the picture.
It had rained the day before and whatever we had been playing, we weren’t playing it for too long before it turned into a giant mud fight. This picture documented the aftermath. Neither Luke or I were looking at the camera or at each other or even looking in the same direction, and the picture was un-posed and a little blurry, but I still loved it. That he was gesturing at something to one side while I was talking to someone on the other side and we didn’t seem to be paying each other any attention, but our hands were still firmly linked.
