I shake my head, cutting him off. “She’s gone. She’s gone back to where ever she came from.” I look back down at Ty. “Go with Creed, Kid,” I tell him softly. “He’ll take care of you until I get home.”
“What did you do!” he shouts, causing Creed to jump back. I don’t even blink. “What the fuck did you do, Bear!”
“I did what I had to, Ty,” I say dully. “I did what I had to, to keep you safe. I don’t expect you to understand.”
His eyes start to plead as he grabs my hand again. “Whatever it is, we can fix it!” he begs. “Whatever she did, she’s gone now! We can make everything right again.”
I shake my head, and his tears start flowing freely now. “Go with Creed, Kid.”
“Bear?” a voice says from the top of the stairs, and the earthquake begins. I feel it roll up through my body and every ledge that I’ve ever made, every safe haven that I’ve ever constructed breaks apart and blows away. Daggers stab through my eyes, and I turn and see Otter standing at the top of the stairs, his hair sticking up every which way, rubbing the last bit of sleep from his eyes. He smiles down at me but it slowly fades as he sees in me the same thing that the Kid has seen.
“Otter, something’s not right,” the Kid says loudly. “Something’s wrong, and Bear promised me—”
“Creed,” I say. “Please take Ty home. I’ll be right behind you.”
“No!” the Kid yells as Creed picks him up. “No, Creed! You don’t understand! You have to stop him! You have to stop Bear!”
Creed looks helplessly at me, and I point toward the door, and the Kid begins to sob. “I hate her!” he cries. “I hate her! You can’t let her do this, Bear! You can’t let her win!” There’s more, a lot more, but it’s buffeted as Creed closes the door behind them. I hear Otter moving swiftly down the steps, and he peers through the window, looking out into the driveway. Moments later, his body is illuminated as the lights on Creed’s car turn on. I hear him reverse out of the driveway, and then it’s quiet.
“What is going on?” Otter says suddenly, turning to face me. “What the hell was that all about? What happened with your mom?”
I look over at him, and his face is stony, his eyes suspicious. It pains me further to have him ever look at me this way, but I know it’s not going to get any better from here. I take a deep breath and open my mouth to speak, to say what it is I’ve hastily rehearsed, when it catches in my throat. I gag on it, and molten steel presses against my stomach, and it’s sharp and blazing, and I think it will tear me apart. I bend over, clutching myself, and I hear Otter rush over to me, and then his arms are around me, and he’s rocking me like he always does when the world gets too loud, when the water threatens to rise. He doesn’t know now that I’m already gone. He doesn’t know now that it’s already too late.
“It’s okay, Bear,” he whispers in my ear. “It’s going to be okay. I’m here, and it’s going to be okay—”
“No, it’s not,” I gasp out and push myself forcibly away from him. He reels back and catches his footing just before he falls on his ass. I didn’t mean to push him so hard, but I felt him starting to pull me up from the depths. I felt myself starting to rise, and I know that if I breach the surface now, there’s going to be no way that I can do this, there’s no way that I can carry out this farce. Ty is depending on me now, more than ever, and I can’t have Otter pulling me up for air.
“What’s going on, Bear?” he says, his eyes hard again. “What happened to you?”
“I can’t be with you anymore,” I say, knowing I can’t take them back. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to recapture my breathing, trying to keep it under control. In the darkness, I see the thunderstorm flash brightly above the surface. Lightning shatters its way across the sky, and it looks like a shooting star. I’m not so far gone yet to know that it’s a lie.
He snorts. “What? Like hell, Bear. That was a nice try, though.”
“I can’t be with you anymore,” I say again. “It’s not who I am.”
“What did she say to you?” he snaps.
“She didn’t say anything,” I tell him. “This has nothing to do with her.”
“Like hell it doesn’t!” he snarls, and I feel a rush of air and think it’s the wind again, but then I feel Otter’s breath upon my face, and I know he’s standing right in front of me. I don’t open my eyes. I can’t.
“What did she do, Bear? It’s only been a couple of hours! What the fuck did she do to you?”
“Please, Otter,” I whisper.
“Please what?” he says angrily. “I leave you alone with her against my better judgment, and now you’re here standing in front of me, not even able to look me in the eye, telling me you don’t want to be with me? Of course I’m going to ask questions. Of course I’m going to make you explain everything. You’re not getting away that easily. You’re not going to sit there and spout your stupid bullshit!”
My eyes flash open, and for the first time tonight, I am angry with him. Irrationally so, but angry nonetheless. I don’t know what I expected to happen, but the way it wells inside me makes me nauseous. I want to lash out and hit and scratch and bite, and as much as I try to tell myself that he has every right to act this way, every right to demand an explanation that’s not a flat-out lie, I can’t help it. It’s like all the capillaries have burst behind my eyes because all I see is red.
“It’s not stupid!” I shout back, spittle flying from my lips. “Why can’t you understand, Otter? I can’t do this anymore with you! It’s not who I am!”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch at my raised voice; it’s like he’s turned to stone. “What the fuck you mean it’s not who you are?” he growls. “Who do you think you’re talking to here, Bear? I know you better than anyone in the world. I know when you’re lying.”
“We were only kidding ourselves, Otter,” I say, my voice as cold as I can make it. Something inside me shifts then and falls into the chasm that has opened up inside of me, and I don’t think I’ll ever get it back. “This… this thing we had, it was wrong. It was a mistake.”
OTTER! the voice suddenly roars from inside of me. OTTER! DON’T LISTEN TO HIM! HE’S A FRAUD! OH, OTTER! PLEASE HEAR ME! HE’S LYIN—
It ceases as I shove it back into that secret place inside of me.
“A mistake?” Otter says incredulously. “How was it a mistake? How can you stand in front of me and say that? What did she do to you, Bear? What does she have on you?”
“Nothing! She’s gone, Otter! Why the hell would I be doing this if she already went away?”
“Fine,” he says turning away from me. “Fine. Let’s go.”
“Go? Go where?”
He starts walking up the stairs. “I’m changing, and we’re going to your house. We’re going there so I can see for myself that she’s gone. And then we’re calling every goddamned hotel in Seafare to make sure she’s not camped out somewhere. You’re lying to me, Bear, and I swear to God I’m going to find out why.”
I follow him. “We aren’t going anywhere!” I shout after him. “Why can’t you get the point, Otter?”
“Because the Bear I know would never do this. The Bear I know wouldn’t crap out on something like this. On me.”
“Then obviously you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” I say with a scowl, feeling my insides turn to liquid mush. I reach up to try and stop him. My hand grabs hold of his arm, and I’m already thinking of the next line I could feed him, how to cut him where it would hurt the most. I hate her and will hate her for the rest of my life. I feel his arm tense, but I don’t have time to prepare even though I know what’s coming. I wonder if I could have stopped it even if I did.
“Bear,” I hear him say, and his voice is tinged with something that I can’t quite place. Then he’s whirling around, jerking his arm out of my hands and inadvertently striking my chest in the process. I try to keep myself from falling back, but gravity is a funny thing. It never works when you think about it. I reach for t
he railing. I reach for him, and I can see his eyes widen as his arms shoot out, but by the time they reach where I was standing, I’ve already fallen back. I take a moment while I’m suspended in free fall to ponder just how fucked this situation is, and then I try to curl myself up into a ball, but my back hits one of the stairs, and my arms shoot one way, and my legs shoot another, and the breath is knocked out of me as I roll down the stairs. Carpet! I think hysterically. Thank God for carpet! It’s over before I have time to register that it is. I lay on my back and stare up at the ceiling, wondering how it could have come to this.
“Bear?” I hear him whisper, and my eyes find him still standing at the top of the stairs, and I see him shaking in horror. My body goes through a preliminary check list, trying to find the places that hurt, trying to batten down the hatches against the inevitable waves of pain in case something is broken. “Bear?” he says again.
“Oh God,” I whisper.
Hearing my words seems to have more of an effect on Otter than anything else. One moment he’s at the top of the stairs and the next he is by my side, and I allow myself to admire how fast he can move. He sinks to his knees and puts out his hands but stops right before he reaches me. It’s almost like he’s scared to touch me, like I’ll crumble beneath him. “Jesus, Bear,” he moans. “Jesus Christ, are you all right?”
The diagnostic check is done, and I am fairly certain that the only things broken within me are my heart and soul. My body seems to be fine, or at least as fine as a body can be after telling the only person I have ever really loved that it’s over and then falling down a flight of stairs. This strikes me as funny in some sick, twisted way, but the laughter dies in my throat, and I take in a harsh breath.
“I didn’t—I didn’t mean—” Otter says, his eyes wide and shiny.
“I know,” I mutter. Do I? Do I really?
I want to believe I do.
His hands are finally on me, rubbing up and down trying to find where I am broken, trying to find where I bleed. I close my eyes for a moment, against my better judgment, relishing the feeling of his hands on me through the low ache that has already raised its ugly head. His hand reaches my thigh and grazes over it gently, and I inadvertently arch into it, unable to stop myself. I can tell he notices this as his breath catches in his throat and his hand grips harder. Electricity flows underneath his fingertips, and I can’t help but groan, and he hears it, and suddenly his hands are all over me, and I feel his lips press against mine, and his mouth is hot and harsh as his tongue pierces my lips. I bring up my hands to wrap them around his neck and pull him down on top of me when I hear her warning once again, when I hear her damnable voice in my head, and it’s like she’s right next to me, and I want to scream, but I know that it won’t block her out, and it won’t keep her away and—
who’s more important to you
—it’s loud, and it rings throughout my being, and I stop myself from grabbing onto his head. I stop myself from shoving him so deep inside of me that he’ll never get out because—
i can promise you that you will never see him again
—if I don’t, I won’t be able to end this, I won’t be able to be the one that Tyson needs me to be, and so it’s there, the question that rapes my head, and it whispers so loudly—
who needs you more
—over and over and over again, and I find my hands on his chest, and I push him away. Oh, how I push him away.
“No,” I say. “No, Otter.”
He falls back on his ass, and I scramble to get away from him. My body hurts now as I move, and I know I’m going to feel like shit tomorrow. I have to keep from crying out as I step down hard on my right ankle and pain flares up, glassy and bright. I don’t think it’s broken, but it’s definitely twisted something fierce, and I kind of hop and skip away from him, realizing how ridiculous I must look, how ridiculous this whole thing must be. I need to get out of here. I need to leave before something else happens that I’ll regret. Nothing can stop me from leaving now.
“Why, Bear?” he says, his voice broken and sad.
Nothing, I guess, except that. I stop. And turn.
“Why?” he says again when I can’t bring myself to look at him.
“Otter,” I sigh heavily. “I… I’ve told you.” A tear fights its way out of my eye, and I wipe it quickly away before it’s joined by more.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then I don’t know what else to say.”
“Say the truth.”
“This is the truth, Otter.” My voice is wavering, and I fight to keep control.
“No, it’s not. Two hours ago you loved me. Two hours ago, I believed you would do anything for me because you knew I would do anything for you.”
“I do love you, Otter. Just not in the way you want.” For that, I will never forgive myself.
“I don’t believe that, either. As a matter of fact, I haven’t believed a word you’ve said since you got here tonight.”
“What more do you want me to say?” I ask. Who needs you more?
“I want the truth, Bear. I think I deserve that, at least. I think that after all we’ve been through, after everything I’ve done to get back to you, I’ve earned that right.”
“Go back home, Otter,” I say, wanting to stop but unable to do so as I picture Ty being led away from me, being taken away from me.
“What?”
“Go back to San Diego. Go back and find your life.” I shudder at my words, knowing they are going to haunt me for the rest of my life, knowing this moment will forever be burned into my memory.
“You’re a coward.”
“I know,” I whisper, almost involuntarily.
“Then why?” he says, and I hear him climb to his feet. I look up at him and see him take a hesitant step toward me and then another and another. His eyes are wet and hard, and he’s never looked at me like this before, not even when he’s been at his angriest. He’s wounded and he’s hurt and I caused it. I made it happen, but I know there’s nothing I can do to take it away, to take it back. I’ve cut him tonight, and he’s bleeding right before me, and I am as he’s said: a coward.
“Otter, just let me go,” I mumble. “Just let me go away from here. I can’t take this anymore. I can’t do this—”
“I’ve fought for you,” he says, his voice matching his eyes, and he takes another step. “All my life, I’ve fought for you.”
“I know.” I grimace, my stomach knotting up again, my head beginning to ache.
“The fight for you is all I’ve ever—”
“Don’t say it,” I interrupt. “Don’t say that to me.”
Another step.
“I’ll say whatever the fuck I want to say to you,” he growls at me. “I love you, and I always have, and I will fight for you. You can say what you want, but I will fight for you again.”
Another step.
“No,” I say, reaching down to find the last shred of resolve I have.
Another step.
“Yes,” he says, and the ocean begins to recede, and the thunder is growing distant, and I’m losing it, and I almost don’t care. I want him to save me. I want him to keep me from drowning, and I have time to think that maybe this will be okay, that maybe it’s better if we’re together because together we can fight her, together we can make sure everything she threatened will never happen. A ray of sunlight pierces the clouds, and I feel myself start to grow warm as Otter takes another step, and I can see his eyes soften ever so slightly, and at this moment, I know I need him more than I have ever needed anybody. He takes the final step, and he’s standing in front of me, and I look up into the gold-green, and I think that everything could be okay, that we could do this, that we can make our life in this little corner of the world, and nobody will ever disturb us again, and I’ll grow old with him, and I know that it’s possible. I know that it’s perfectly logical. I know it’s inevitable, and who am I to deny that, just who the fuck am I to fight that? But that’s what mak
es it hurt so much more.
And that’s because I know I can’t take that risk.
I take a step back, and I dig down deep into the depths, feeling myself choke on the bitter saltwater as it burns its way down the back of my throat. I feel the murky bottom, and my hands slide into the silt there, and I find buried my last bit of resolve, the last part of me that can look into that gold-green like it means nothing, like it hasn’t changed me forever, like it hasn’t shaken me to my core time and time again. But that’s the thing about the ocean: it will always be there, no matter what you do.
“This thing,” I say quietly, “this obsession you have with me needs to end.”
His eyes flinch as if I raised my fist to his face, and I know I’ve struck a chord this time, and it hits me, making what I’ve but no choice to do that much harder. Whether he’s wanted to admit it to himself or not, he has obsessed over me, so much so that it blinded him to almost everything else. Part of me has ingrained myself in him, making it near impossible to focus on his own life. I know this, only because he’s done the same to me.
The buzzing in my ears grows louder, and I can’t help but notice how it sounds so very much like listening to waves in a shell.
“I don’t believe you,” he says, breaking through the roar, if only for a moment. “You won’t walk away from this. You can’t.”
I know he’s right and that’s when I turn and walk out the door, feeling saltwater bile rising at the back of my throat and over my head.
Otter doesn’t follow.
12.
Where Bear Drifts
Out To Sea
I DON’T remember the car ride home.
I’ve always heard people say that, and I always thought how stupid it sounded. How can you not remember driving home? You have to start, stop, move one way or another. Cars drive past you, in front of you, and you still can’t remember the ride itself until you suddenly find yourself sitting in the parking lot of your shitty apartment, gripping the steering wheel so tight you feel that your fingers might just snap, ignoring the black hole that has suddenly formed in the pit of your stomach, wondering why you just made the biggest mistake of your life but knowing it was all because you are a father now, and fathers have to make the tough decisions, those decisions that no one else can make, if only to protect the ones that have been entrusted to them. How can you not remember?