The Art of Being a F*ck Up - Chapter 11: Chapter 11

They say time is supposed to heal all wounds, but I call bullshit, because it's been weeks and I haven't seen much of an improvement in Jonah since we got back from his mom's funeral. I'm trying to make the best of it, and I do love getting to spend all this extra time with him, but he's still been creeping up to my room every night to stay with me. We don't do anything fun, I'll just hold him and he'll curl up and go to sleep. Then, when I wake up, I usually find him right on top of me, like he can't get close enough or something—not that I mind that either. Today is no different, my alarm goes off and I swat my phone until it goes quiet, hoping that it hasn't woken him.
Not yet, anyway. I know I have to start my day but I can't bring myself to move, not when I find him sleeping comfortably on my chest just as I suspected I would. He looks more at peace than he has in a while, the morning sun trickling in through dusty blinds to settle around him. Once upon a time he used to think he was average, though I'll never know how, because I've only ever saw this—his smooth skin and nearly perfect features, even the way his messy hair has a bad habit of constantly falling in his face. He's always been so goddamn perfect to me, and I wish I knew what more I could do to reignite the fire that burned so brightly in him.
All I can do now is try, the same as how I worm my way out from under him so gradually that he couldn't possibly notice. I've done everything I can think to do, I sit through the constant marathons of his favorite musicals—which is torture—but each smile it forces out of him is worth it. I give him all the massages he could ever want, and text him cute little messages throughout every day. I do whatever I can to bring him back to life, while making sure he's as distanced from my shit as possible. He doesn't need that negativity right now.
After all, I know better than anybody what it's like to be stuck in this half-life, to continuously feel like you're asleep, and I don't want that for him. It may be too late for me, something I'm reminded of while I slide on my hideous knee brace before getting dressed, but I'll be damned if I let it happen to Jonah too. No matter what else becomes of me I have to save him, whatever it takes, and I sneak back over to the bed to kiss his cheek softly one last time. I love him so much. After that I head to the bathroom, and then down the stairs, hoping to leave a bit early.
"So you're not even going to say good morning? Ouch." Devin calls when I get to the door. He sits over on the couch, obviously putting off going to class as he bites into his apple. "What's up, dude? You look like hell."
"Do I? I'm so glad you pointed it out, I totally didn't notice, you dick. I was up late again," I engage him sarcastically. He's so quiet that I wouldn't have even noticed him, but then, most of the guys have been, I've really appreciated how supportive they're being of Jonah crashing here. If his mom hadn't died, I'm not sure Devin would've shown such mercy to either of us so soon after the whole double date thing, but he's only been supportive since we got back. I wait until he rolls his eyes to answer more seriously, "I didn't get much sleep anyway because, you know."
"Yeah I definitely know, it's kind of creepy actually. Usually I can hear you guys through the wall but it's been super quiet lately."
"Show some respect, Devin."
"Calm your tits, I'm just trying to lighten the mood. Which is more than I can say for you, I mean fuck, maybe if you actually forced Jonah to go out and get some fresh air he would cheer up a little." Devin appears to have an opinion on the matter, same as everyone else.
"All he needs is space." There's no right way to grieve, but if anybody knows what's best for Jonah, it's me. "Losing somebody like it, it's messed up, man."
"You don't think I know that? I actually called my mom yesterday for the first time in over a month, and she started freaking out because she thought something was wrong. I guess I don't check up on her enough." My dimwitted best friend is unusually somber. "We've all lost people, and it sucks, it does, but it seems like maybe you're focusing too much on his shit and not yours."
"My shit is handled, my only goal is to pass the semester."
"And how's that going? Maddy still being a bitch? Feel free not to answer that, it was more of a rhetorical question." It's always a big joke with Devin, but while he truly seems to be amusing himself I can't help but wonder why he's suddenly decided this is any of his business. In his own way, I'm sure he thinks he's helping. "This could be a good thing, bro, you can use it as an excuse to get Jonah to help you again, it'll take his mind off of everything."
"Absolutely not, I won't bother him, I can manage." Nothing has changed, all the reasons why it wouldn't have worked before still apply, except now it's more important than ever for Jonah to use whatever time he has doing what makes him happy—whether it's watching those godawful musicals or delving into his photography. I'll admit that I'm kind of freaking out about exams, but that's how much I love him, that I would rather risk failing than burden him. Devin's not convinced, so I go on. "Besides, I've got a plan to make things right with Maddy—and don't worry, it doesn't involve you."
"Whatever, asshole. Don't take my advice then." Though he's not completely sold, Devin is smart enough to respect how stubborn I am. After he exhales loudly, pretending to be completely exasperated, he lobs his piece of fruit through the air at me. "But you still look like shit, at least eat something before you go."
"Thanks, mom." I respond with more sarcasm, taking a bite of the apple as I leave the house. With about a half hour to spare before my first class I know I could probably use the time more wisely by studying or prepping or something equally as responsible, but I wasn't lying when I told Devin that I have a plan to ease my way back into my ex-girlfriend's heart. We haven't talked really since the date, I did try to send her a text later that day, but instead of just not responding like a normal person she sent that dumb middle finger emoji.
Truthfully I wouldn't have expected anything less from her though, for all that talk I know she's very sensitive—one of the many things I learned from dating her for so long. I take a short trip down to the corner store to do some shopping, grabbing all the stuff I know she'll like. I used to make these runs for her all the time in high school, when she was having a bad day or she was on her period or one of her recitals didn't go well. For the hell of it I even buy her some flowers, and then I take it all over to her dorm. I think about knocking so I can just give it to her in person, but I'm too much of a coward so I leave it out in the hall before I hurry on to class.
She remains on my mind throughout the day—her and Jonah both—which only makes trying to focus that much harder. Of course it doesn't help when my professors start going over stuff I swear they haven't even taught me yet, but I attempt to rely on my own intellect to carry me through each of my classes. Is it possible for your brain to literally hurt? Because that's definitely how I feel. There's also still this persistent dread that I can't escape, knowing that exams are barely more than a week out, to the point where I find myself actually looking forward to going to work later despite how weird things have been there too.
When my last class finally ends I do just that, eager to have some space of my own to unwind. With how distracted Bill's been lately he won't notice if I'm only pretending to sort through the files, so it'll be a good excuse to put on some music and relax—something I haven't gotten to do much of recently. Back in my room, in the top drawer of my desk, is the journal that Lilah gave me, and for the first time I've been thinking about maybe writing something since the whole thing with the funeral and everything it dredged up. It's been so long though, I don't know if I even still have it in me.
Lilah's one of the lucky few who ever got to read any of my stuff, I never meant for it to be like a serious hobby or whatever. Penning those little poems and stories was something one of my teachers taught me to do when I was in middle school to help with my reading and writing, which—shocker—was far behind my peers. I remember when my dad found out about it, he made fun of me because he said it was too girly, but when he left the room Bill dug the paper out of the trash and smoothed it back out. He said he liked what I wrote. It's just another way he's different than his brother, despite their shared heritage.
Something doesn't feel right when I get to the garage, it's unusually quiet, like Devin or the guys back at the frat house. Things have already been getting way out of hand, and I want nothing but to restore the order of the universe so I can find that balance, so I can walk in both worlds again. Yet the minute I step inside I see my dad standing right by my desk, deep in a hushed conversation with a few of the employees. I'd say its weird to see them all gathered like this, weird that my dad looks this upset, but no weirder than the sympathetic glances I earn when I approach.
"What's going on, what is everybody talking about?" As stupid as I am I worry that my dad might have finally garnered the support to stage an intervention, but the disgusted glare he offers—for only a moment—tells me that I'm the last thing on his mind. Whatever's going on is big enough to have him this worked up, so when nobody wants to answer me I try again louder. "Did something happen?"
"I'm going to head over to the hospital now, I want to be there when they admit him. I'll call if I find out anything." My dad acts like he can't hear me, but as he converses with the guys I begin to pick up the necessary pieces of the story I've missed—something about my uncle, and an ambulance, and a trip to the emergency room no more than ten minutes ago.
"Is Bill okay?" I ask again, much to the same response. I get a few more sympathetic glances, but the guys won't cross the picket line—they remain neutral between my dad and Bill and me. My dad on the other hand has no sympathy, and he practically shoves me with his shoulder when he pushes passed on his way out. Apparently he can't put his feelings aside to do the decent thing and tell me what's going on, but I surprise more than myself when I reach out to barely graze his arm. "Can you at least tell me if he's alright?"
"Get your goddamn hands off me!" He whips around, smacking my hand away as though the very touch might corrode his skin. For the first time in ages we're truly face to face, yet he proves just as well that time heals nothing. "This doesn't concern you, so I suggest you wipe that dumb look off your face and go cry about it at home before I really give you something to cry about."
"I'm not trying to piss you off, please, just tell me if Bill's hurt. Was there an accident or something?" Be it brave or stupid—or stupidly brave—I continue to face him. Standing up in the face of my dad's anger isn't anything new, I've been here a thousand times before, I probably still have the scars to prove it. But I don't want to fight, I'm not even all that mad at him, how could I be when all I am is worried?
"You're not fooling anyone, don't start acting like you care all of a sudden."
"I do care, he's my family."
"Family? What the hell would you know about that? Don't think I haven't seen you, calling off and skipping out early whenever you feel like it—making a sick man work twice as hard so you can run off and go fuck that little boyfriend of yours!" My dad keeps right on going, out to the parking lot.
"Sick? What do you mean he's sick?" I'm caught off-guard as I follow after him. He's just upset enough to speak without thinking, and when he gets to his truck he somehow manages to stomach the sight of me again.
"Are you telling me you don't know?" He goes dark, smiling cruelly at my expression of shock. How could I forget how much he loves to hurt me when he's hurting? "So much for family, huh? You think him taking you in, giving you a job means he cares about you? He pities you, Brent, he always has, so why don't you do us both a favor and get lost. Let me deal with me and mine."
"You're wrong, it's not like that." I refute him defiantly, unable to comprehend why I don't just leave. The boy I used to be would've—he would've walked away and muttered something under his breath, or gone to his room to tear something up or punch the wall. But for whatever reason I stay, and ignore the lump in my throat.
"God, you're worse to shake than a fucking dog. Get out of here, I don't have time for this, I've got to get to the hospital." My dad opens his door, but I grab ahold of it.
"I'm going with you then."
"No you're not, what don't you get? You're not wanted."
"I don't care what you want."
"You best be careful, don't push me, boy."
"Or what?" The words come flying out with no forethought, much like that boy I once was. The universe had had a different order back then, which I'm reminded of when he pulls his hand back abruptly. Five years later and I still remember what happens next, and with that same instinctive reflex I release my grip on the door and flinch back, bracing to get hit. Luckily that fear is enough for him for now, so he only scoffs as he climbs up into his truck.
"That's what I figured." He doesn't care that he hurt me. About any of the times that he's hurt me or how he manages it still. He doesn't care that I'm worried about my uncle or that there are plenty of other things in my life that cause me pain besides him. He doesn't care to know about that life, about Jonah or Devin or Jason or Lilah. He doesn't care about anything besides himself, which really sucks when I can't make myself stop caring about any of it. He takes his last chance to look down on me, "and don't even think about coming up there. Billy does need to be with his family—and that's not you."