Page 29 of Together We Rot

“We’re not,” I reply, with a mouthful of pancake.

“Oh... Okay. Um.” Dad drums his fingers against the wood. If he’s looking to connect with me, the father-daughter bridge is burned to hell. Any chance now involves treading through gator-infested waters, and we all know “effort” isn’t in Dad’s vocabulary. Sure enough, he twists away from me and turns to Elwood. “You know you can’t hang out here forever. I ran away once as a kid. Eventually, your dad will—”

Elwood bristles at the mention of his father. The pancakes slide down his throat hard, and he has to gulp some juice to keep from choking. “I know,” he says, already panicking. The color’s all but sapped completely from his face. “I know he’s going to find me.”

Way to go.

Unable to close his mouth for all of five seconds, Dad starts back up for the third time. “So, uh... about the no-keys-off-the-rack thing, erm, I assume you’re staying in Wil’s room.” He looks between us both, his eyes shifty and uncomfortable. I can already tell what awful, embarrassing direction he’s planning on taking this in. “I can trust the two of you not to... um... do anything you shouldn’t.”

There it is. I knew that was coming.

“Dad,” I howl. Now I’m the one choking on pancakes. My sick subconscious throws back an image of Elwood fresh from the shower, towel hung loose to his hips, hair slick and dripping down his chest—

I need a lobotomy.

“I mean, your mom and I were young once, so I know how things are,” Dad backtracks, though he pushes his plate forward like he’s lost his appetite. That makes two of us now. “I don’t want any accidents.”

Elwood’s cheeks burn bright crimson.

“God. No. Gross, Dad.” My chair scrapes the floor as I stand up. “Elwood is here to hide from his family, and that’s it. Why do you have to make things so weird?”

It’s Dad’s turn to go red. He sucks in his lips, clamping down with his teeth to keep from saying anything else. He should’ve done that sooner.

So much for breakfast.

Neither of us talks back in the room.

I mean, honestly, what does one say after that? Sorry that your dad’s on the hunt for you. Sorry that my own dad implied you might knock me up if you’re not careful. Sorry you didn’t disappear into thin air like you wanted. If you figure that one out, let me know.

Silence with Elwood is the worst. It’s so hard to weasel myself into his thoughts. Borderline impossible. He’s got a fortress of a mind, and I’ve always been left at the gate. He sits there at the foot of the bed and stares down at the grimy carpet at his feet.

When he does open his mouth, fear drips off every letter: “Your dad’s right. It’s only a matter of time before my father catches up with me.”

Dad really shouldn’t have said that. I cough, crossing my arms over my chest and trying to look tougher than I feel. “My dad is rarely right about anything. I told you I’d keep you safe and I’m not backing down on that. You better not back down on your side of the deal either.”

He doesn’t acknowledge that at all. After five seconds of staring at the floor, he buries his head in his hands. “The whole town’s looking for me and it hasn’t even been a day. I’m doomed.”

“You’re not doomed.” I snarl. Jesus, he’s melodramatic.

“I feel doomed.”

Sympathy isn’t easy. Expressing it, at least. The words get jumbled on my tongue and I have no idea what to do with my hands or my face or anything. I plop down beside him and rest my elbow on my torn-denim knee. “Well, you’re not, so shut up.”

Okay, maybe that wasn’t very sympathetic. I cough and try again.“You’re going to be okay. I promise.” There, that sounds mildly convincing.

Except I guess not, because now he’s crying. He tears himself away from his self-pity cocoon, and I see that his eyes are red-rimmed and watery.

The sight carves through my chest. Makes me feel weird and hollow and gutted. I don’t mean to, but my fingers reach out in a fit of muscle memory. They twist through his hair, my thumb tracing slow circles against his scalp. I used to do this back when things were different. Back when he’d hold in tears for too long, his emotions flooding all at once. When it was just us against the rest of the world.

I lurch and sit on my traitorous fingers. I no longer trust myself.

The bridge of his nose is flushed soft pink, and I watch as he smears away his emotions with a sleeve. My father told me boys shouldn’t cry, Elwood confided to me in sixth grade, his face puffy from fresh tears. But it’s so hard to hold it in. How do you do it?

I make myself go numb, I told him. I do that now. I soak in everything and tuck it away. I recenter myself with the task at hand: get answers.

I clear my throat, feeling strangely sheepish. “We need to start searching for answers today, and we’re sure as hell not going to find them in the motel. I was planning on breaking into your house when we bumped into each other.”

His eyes go buggy, and as ridiculous as he looks, it’s a welcome change from crying. “Wait, go back, you were going to break into my house?”

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