Page 67 of All That We Are Together
He snuffed out his cigarette and breathed a sigh. “You don’t get it, Axel.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“My father told you what you wanted to hear.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying…”
I walked back and forth on the porch feeling a strange tension, because of everything, that night, the past three stagnant years. I didn’t get it. I’d never talked to Oliver about what Douglas and I had shared that night, and for me, it had been significant, a before and after, but for Oliver…nothing. He’d never said anything. I tried to calm myself down as I stopped in front of him.
“I want to understand,” I said, almost begging.
“You didn’t want to paint, Axel. It was an effort you weren’t willing to make, because you’d have had to open up and you weren’t willing to. And I get that, okay? I didn’t know what it meant to make a real sacrifice either until my parents died.”
“That isn’t true.”
“It is. And you were suffering because you wanted something at the same time you yourself refused it. Like trying to run a marathon and putting obstacles in your own way. It’s ironic, right?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about…”
“Axel, look at me. You told my father the only thing coming between you and the canvas was you. I know that because I tried for months to get him to tell me; you want to know why? Because it fucked me up that you never talked to me about it, but you talked to him, even though it meant so much to you, and I was supposed to be like a brother to you, and I couldn’t hide a damn thing from you, not even what I’d had for lunch the day before.”
“Oliver…”
“Let me finish. You told him, and he answered that you didn’t have to do it, that no one was forcing you, that you were in a war against yourself, and you’d never win.”
I didn’t want to cry again. And I wanted to punch him in the face for reminding me of my own words. That’s how much sense my behavior made. Cry or hit someone. I needed to calm down.
“Your problem’s here.” He touched my head.
“I ought to kill you,” I answered quietly.
“Half the time, when I see you, I want to hit you. And the other half, I feel guilty. And with all that shit, you’re still one of the people I love the most in the world, and I hate loving you because the opposite would be easier. Much, much easier.”
Oliver took out another cigarette, lit it, and took a drag. His hand was shaking a bit as it rested on the railing.
“I want to strangle you every time I see you, and then I askmyself, ‘Why the hell do I want to see you then?’ Like tonight. I saw you there looking at her, and then I knew I was wrong.”
What the hell? I hadn’t expected that. “You were wrong?”
“You really were in love with her,” he said.
“You’re three years late on that.”
My heart was thudding, and he laughed mirthlessly. I didn’t understand why he’d shown up at my house at four in the morning, or how it was possible for us to be having this conversation after so long in silence.
“I’m not late, Axel. I did what I had to do. She’s my sister. My obligation is to protect her. I sacrificed everything so she could go to college, and I trusted you, and you failed me. You lied to me.”
“What the fuck do you want then? It’s over! It all went to shit. Are you happy now? What else is there for us to talk about? I thought everything was clear.”
“Listen up: I wasn’t late, but you were, or worse, you never really even showed up.” That truth was like a knife boring right into my chest.
“You asked me to let her go,” I said.
“And you did. Without fighting. Without even trying.”
“You asked me to,” I repeated, just barely.
“Goddammit, Axel, don’t you get it? If I didn’t know you as well as I do, I’d think you didn’t even give a shit about my sister. Same as painting. Same as everything.”