Page 28 of Malaise
“That’s who I am, precious.”
“Not to me you’re not.”
“We’ve known each other a couple of days, spoken twice,” he snaps. “What the fuck do you really know about me?” He throws his door open with such force I cringe, waiting for the impact with the car next to us. But he steps out without issue, and slams the door hard enough to leave my ears ringing.
A minute passes where I don’t move a muscle. Last thing I want right now is to get out into the eye of his storm, but what other option do I have? Sit in the car and swelter in the afternoon sun? I’m not going anywhere as long as I stay in the seat—if I want to go home without him, that requires me to exit the vehicle and walk.
Fuck this shit. I don’t need to add a bipolar outcast to my list of hassles right now. We’ll have lunch, he’ll drop me home, and then that’s that—no more Brett Carver. Maybe the bastards at school really were right?
I open my door and step out, bracing for the burn when he lets rip with whatever else he needs to get off his chest. I’m not being that selfish by boycotting another failed heart-to-heart with my parents, am I? It’s not unreasonable to expect your mum and dad to step up when you’re feeling lost like this, is it? Surely he can’t really think I’m solely to blame for the tension currently coursing through my house?
Carver locks the car and stomps off toward the diner. I fall into step with him as we cross the forecourt, avoiding eye contact by watching my toes as we walk.
He huffs beside me, exhaling heavily through his nose, and throws a glance my way out the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry for blowing up at you, Meg. I’m not trying to marginalise this shit, but fuck, I wish I knew what to say to make things better. Reality is, this is going to suck for a while to come yet, and the sooner you come to terms with that and stop looking for somebody to blame for how you’re feeling other than the crap situation with your brother, the better.”
“I’m not blaming my parents for how I feel,” I clarify. “I’m blaming them for not doing a thing to try and make it better.” I stare down at the asphalt pockmarked with used chewing gum and oil stains.
“Maybe they don’t know how to? Did you think of that? Maybe they’re too scared of making you worse if they screw it up, that they feel safer not trying?”
“That’s whacked.”
“So is burying your child.” He places a hand to the side of his neck as we step up onto the path that runs around the building, and sighs. “When is the funeral?”
“End of the week. Mum wants to make it as easy as possible for people out of town to attend.”
“How do you think you’ll handle it?”
“With the same effortless finesse I have everything else,” I sass.
The automatic doors open and freezing air-conditioned air hits us as we enter the truck stop diner. He frowns down at me, clearly unimpressed with my coping mechanism of smart-arsery.
“Truth is, I haven’t given it much thought,” I admit. “Mainly because I know that I’m going to be a fucking mess. If I have to get shit-faced most days to cope with Den’s absence, then what the hell will it take to get through his funeral? Class A drugs?”
Carver grumbles something I don’t quite catch, and then gestures to an empty booth opposite the register. “Take a seat and I’ll order for us. Anything you don’t like?”
I shake my head and look over at the man occupying the table beside the booth. He’s rough and rotund in the middle, a sweat-stained cap resting on the table beside the paper he currently reads. The guy glances up at the two of us, his dark eyes flicking back and forth, and I can only imagine what he’s thinking: two young punks have gotten lost and stumbled in the wrong place.
The vinyl creaks under my weight as I slide along the booth seat to the window that overlooks the forecourt. If only I could melt into the cushions and lose the next week, re-emerge after the funeral when everything’s as normal as it can be. Therein lies the problem: what will the new normal be? Do I want to know?
Carver stands at the counter pointing out what he’s ordering to the middle-aged lady who looks as though she gave up her dreams of a Caribbean holiday years ago. Her dead eyes fix on him as he talks, the slightest quirk of her eyebrow giving away her curiosity at why she’s serving a guy like him in a place like this.
Makes me wonder if this is some test of his? Does he do this on purpose: go somewhere he knows he’ll stand out like a sore thumb just to garner a reaction from everyone?
My phone chimes in my pocket, and I retrieve it to check the screen. A message from Dad fades as I set the phone on the table, and I tap the button to bring it up again.
Dad: Who are you with?
Damn principal. It has to have been her. She must have looked up Dad’s number and contacted him after I left the school grounds.
Me: A friend.
Dad: He wouldn’t be the same one who dropped you home the other night?
Me: And if it was?
Dad: Get home now.
I switch my phone to silent and pocket it again as Carver approaches the table. Deal with it later.