Page 2 of Tears and Other Fears

Young rolled his eyes before dialing his voicemail and putting it on speaker. “Nathaniel, please, man. I just need to talk to her; I fucked up,” he said, words slurred. There was obvious distress in his voice, but it felt hollow. “I know you have her. Her mother called me—”

“Turn it off,” I ordered. I wasn’t in the mood to talk about how he had nice little conversations with my nice little mother. Rage was bubbling below my numb surface, and I was clawing through my reality.

“Where are we going, Tav?” Young asked again while looking out the windshield and up to the sky. He looked handsome despite the bags under his eyes and his wrinkled shirt. He was wearing slacks and a button-down shirt that his massive muscles filled nicely. It didn’t escape my notice how he saidweor how somehow in my fucked up vendetta, Young attached himself to me.

“We, huh?” I asked with a frown. “Are you trying to save me because you couldn’t save William?”

He let out a long sigh, and I waited not so patiently for his response. “Yes. We. Yes, I’m trying to save your crazy ass. Is that such a bad thing?”

“Butwhy?What are we doing, Young?” I asked. I might not have been like myself...but I knew enough to understand that I couldn’t make a decision if the lines weren’t clear. I was starting to realize that the world had a lot of really messed up rules about what to say and what not to say. William understood me, and I never felt the need to hide my don’t-give-a-fuck nature before, but now I understood that there were consequences for letting the screams out. I had to do better. I had to know what Young expected of me.

“Since when do you like labeling things?”

“Since I got sent away. Since I found out that Samuel murdered my brother. Since I started thinking that maybe something is wrong with me and I should work on doing things…right.”

Young let out a huff of air, probably trying to decide what problem to address first. “I still can’t believe the whole Samuel thing. I believe you, but I’m not like you. I don’t just jump from one vendetta to the next. I’ll need proof.”

Fair enough. I could be impulsive enough for both of us.

“And as far as...whatever fucked up thing we have going on? It’s simple. I need...something you can offer. I need closure. And information. You’re wild and annoying and the best thing to happen to me since William died, so if we could just not label this weird symbiotic relationship we’re working through, that’d be great.” I loved Young’s version of honesty. He danced around it, clinging as closely as possible to the truth but never really jumping over the edge.

I bolstered up enough of my old self to tell him what he was really thinking. “So you’re basically saying that you want me and feel like shit because of it?” I asked. It wasn’t exactly what he’d said, but I could read between the lines. Young gripped the steering wheel of the parked rental car so hard his knuckles turned white. Seeing that burst of barely contained emotion fueled me. “Well, here’s something for you. I want you, too, Young.”

He snapped his attention to me, his dark eyes appraising the hollows of my cheeks and my pale lips. “So what do we do?” he asked.

I let out a sigh, wondering how to decide. I could go back to New York. I could see this thing through. I could hurt. Bleed. I could fight for my life back and get the closure I needed to shut off my brain. Shut off my fucking soul.

“Let’s go to New York. I’m going to get you that proof. I need your help finding a certain drug dealer, though.”

If he was surprised by my choice, Young didn’t show it. Instead, Young did that cliche, bullshit, rich-boy act. The kind where I told him where I wanted to go and he waltzed up to the ticket counter and bought two first-class seats last minute, sliding his black credit card across the desk while smiling at the ticket lady. It all happened so fast. A decision was made, he followed through. No wavering, no asking me if I was sure. If anything, he seemed relieved that I was letting him join me.

We got on the plane first and settled into the comfortable leather seats while everyone else boarded the plane, staring at our privilege with annoyance and jealousy. I half expected him to apologize for not taking the private jet, but instead, he sat there in silence, staring out the window and thinking about life or William or the champagne in his hand.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” I observed while he took a sip.

“I don’t.”

Why did he look so sad? I settled into my seat, feeling comfortable and, for the first time, okay about where my life was headed. I had direction. I had a plan, and I was clinging to it like it was the only possession I had in this world, and I guess it was.

“You look sad,” I said while looking down at his arm resting against mine. Some things never changed; I was still me, still willing to call people out on shit that made them uncomfortable.

“I am,” he replied, keeping his tone simple and not giving away any additional information. Young was drumming his fingers against the armrest, and I did this crazy thing: I reached out to hold his hand, to thread my fingers through his and offer him a bit of the better parts of myself for a moment. Why couldn’t it be that easy for the rest of the world to be as upfront about their feelings?

“Why?” I asked.

Young squeezed my hand once, then threw his head back, looking up at the ceiling of the airplane as businessmen pushed down the middle aisle to sit in their seats. “I went into this determined to give you a choice, but I wish you’d have picked differently. I want you to come back with me. I just don’t want to find out that Samuel did this. You know he’s the first boy I ever kissed?” Young said with a chuckle. “When we were kids, I told him I thought I might be gay, and he told me to try kissing him, just to test it out. That’s the kind of friend he was. Most thirteen-year-old boys would have called me names or teased what they didn’t understand. But not him.”

My pills made everything feel...dulled. Like the emotions couldn’t fully reach the surface, but my amusement at their friendship did manage to pound in my cage of a chest.Amusedfelt like a hollow description, but saying joy hurt too much. Nevertheless, I smiled. It was a sad little smile, but still a smile.

“I bet Samuel was a terrible kisser. Made you question yourself even more,” I replied.

Young chuckled again, the sound burdened by his disappointment. “He was. We looked weird, like two dumbasses trying to recreate what we’d seen in a porn video. Our tongues were a slobbery mess.”

At that, I laughed. From my limited experience with Samuel, he was nothing if not talented. He knew how to use his body effectively. It was weird to think of him as inexperienced. I kind of wished that I knew that side of him. That was the problem with Samuel: he was too cocky, too experienced. The thing that bothered me most was that he knew the right words to say, the right touches, the right looks. Everything about him was choreographed, and I wanted nothing more than to see him sloppy.

“He just wiped his lips with the back of his hand, nodded awkwardly and asked, ‘You good?’ Then he left my bedroom without a word. He didn’t bring it up again for the longest time. Not until we could look back and laugh about it.” Young tried to look nostalgic about that memory, but his expression revealed how he truly felt. He was sad, and I knew that at the end of this, I’d be ripping away these good memories and replacing them with regret. Vengeance had consequences, and it was no longer just my life on the line.

I was trying to think of words that would help. That’s what a person with sympathy would do, right? But I struggled for too long to think of what to say that would make things better for Young and failed miserably. By the time I finally realized to just sayI’m sorryyour best friend is a selfish murderer, it was too late, the moment had passed, and all that was left was this realization that I’d always be too late or too brash to comfort him. William was better than I was at this. William was better at everything.

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