then, it had been all about sex.
But Mackey was standing here, his suitcases at his side, which meant he’d probably taken a cab right out of rehab and packed his own shit, and Trav had the most absurd urge to hug him like he’d hugged Terry sometimes, and just hold him until it was better.
He was so raw from the talk with Terry that he almost didn’t trust his own voice, his own hands, his own body, to even give this kid a hug.
“Mackey?” he asked helplessly. “How bad do you want a pill right now? Or a shot of vodka? Or a snort? Tell me straight up, what would you give for something to make your hands stop shaking or to blur whatever is buzzing around in your pointy fucking head as we speak .”
Mackey closed his eyes and dropped his bags. “Shut up,” he begged. “Man, I just want to crawl in next to your bed and—”
“Sleeping in a corner isn’t going to solve it!” Trav snapped, mostly because he envied Mackey’s corner at this very moment. He wanted it— craved it. “Whatever’s in your head, it’s not going to get better until you tell someone. You need to get it out of your head, make it stop hurting—”
“Well maybe I don’t wanna do that!” Mackey snarled, pacing in the entryway.
Trav heard some restless movements on the stairs behind him and wondered if the brothers were visible or just listening. Probably just listening, because God, who wanted to be there for this ?
“Maybe I just want to stay here and fall off the fucking wagon and— ”
Trav’s blood ran cold. “Mackey, could you not fucking say that shit? You know the statistics and the names and the histories—probably better than I do. Do you want to be another face on the memorial wall?”
Mackey nodded, his fuck-off-and-love-me smile firmly in place, his slightly crooked teeth showing, a full-fledged panic sweat seeping through the underarms of the new jersey he was wearing. “Yeah! Yeah—why the hell not? I could be like fucking Jim Morrison or Shannon Hoon—Jesus, I could go out proud like fucking Kurt Cobain, ’cause that motherfucker didn’t just go , he went with a blast— ”
Crack!
Trav stared as Mackey, all 110 pounds of him, flew back against the coffee table, thrown there by Trav’s right hook.
“Oh God.”
Mackey stared at him, rubbing the rapidly reddening spot on his jaw. “Holy crap, Trav—you just hit me.”
“Jesus.” Trav couldn’t stop staring. “I don’t hit people. I don’t hit people—I don’t. Jesus Christ, Mackey—I don’t fucking hit people . Man, just—”
Mackey grinned at him, working his jaw gingerly. “That was fucking awesome. I haven’t been hit that hard in ages! And I had it coming—I mean, you gotta admit I had it coming.”
“I don’t hit people,” Trav said numbly. “I don’t—”
Mackey laughed. “Man, Trav, I had no idea I could make you freak out like that. Which part was it?”
“Mackey, you’ve got to go back to rehab, you fucking hear me?”
Mackey’s smile dimmed. “Trav, really? Do I have to? Doc Cambridge is nice and everything, but I mean, you were in the room with me for five minutes and you decked me—”
“That wasn’t your fault.” Trav couldn’t seem to blink. The coffee table Shelia had just picked out had collapsed like cardboard, and Trav could hardly see it. “It wasn’t your fault—”
Mackey shook his head. “Yeah, yeah, it was. I’m an asshole—I mean, a complete waste of skin. Why the hell would you want me to talk to a shrink and dump all my shit out there in the world—I mean, I’ve hurt people, you know? Blake? I’ve been hurting him all year. How do I make that up? How do I tell my mom….” He closed his eyes. “Everything,” he said, his voice cracking like glass. “I know it’s coming, you know? How do I tell people—”
“You have to tell people,” Trav said, numbly echoing what he just said, feeling stupid. “You have to tell people I hit you—I’ll have to quit— ”
“ No!
But Mackey was standing here, his suitcases at his side, which meant he’d probably taken a cab right out of rehab and packed his own shit, and Trav had the most absurd urge to hug him like he’d hugged Terry sometimes, and just hold him until it was better.
He was so raw from the talk with Terry that he almost didn’t trust his own voice, his own hands, his own body, to even give this kid a hug.
“Mackey?” he asked helplessly. “How bad do you want a pill right now? Or a shot of vodka? Or a snort? Tell me straight up, what would you give for something to make your hands stop shaking or to blur whatever is buzzing around in your pointy fucking head as we speak .”
Mackey closed his eyes and dropped his bags. “Shut up,” he begged. “Man, I just want to crawl in next to your bed and—”
“Sleeping in a corner isn’t going to solve it!” Trav snapped, mostly because he envied Mackey’s corner at this very moment. He wanted it— craved it. “Whatever’s in your head, it’s not going to get better until you tell someone. You need to get it out of your head, make it stop hurting—”
“Well maybe I don’t wanna do that!” Mackey snarled, pacing in the entryway.
Trav heard some restless movements on the stairs behind him and wondered if the brothers were visible or just listening. Probably just listening, because God, who wanted to be there for this ?
“Maybe I just want to stay here and fall off the fucking wagon and— ”
Trav’s blood ran cold. “Mackey, could you not fucking say that shit? You know the statistics and the names and the histories—probably better than I do. Do you want to be another face on the memorial wall?”
Mackey nodded, his fuck-off-and-love-me smile firmly in place, his slightly crooked teeth showing, a full-fledged panic sweat seeping through the underarms of the new jersey he was wearing. “Yeah! Yeah—why the hell not? I could be like fucking Jim Morrison or Shannon Hoon—Jesus, I could go out proud like fucking Kurt Cobain, ’cause that motherfucker didn’t just go , he went with a blast— ”
Crack!
Trav stared as Mackey, all 110 pounds of him, flew back against the coffee table, thrown there by Trav’s right hook.
“Oh God.”
Mackey stared at him, rubbing the rapidly reddening spot on his jaw. “Holy crap, Trav—you just hit me.”
“Jesus.” Trav couldn’t stop staring. “I don’t hit people. I don’t hit people—I don’t. Jesus Christ, Mackey—I don’t fucking hit people . Man, just—”
Mackey grinned at him, working his jaw gingerly. “That was fucking awesome. I haven’t been hit that hard in ages! And I had it coming—I mean, you gotta admit I had it coming.”
“I don’t hit people,” Trav said numbly. “I don’t—”
Mackey laughed. “Man, Trav, I had no idea I could make you freak out like that. Which part was it?”
“Mackey, you’ve got to go back to rehab, you fucking hear me?”
Mackey’s smile dimmed. “Trav, really? Do I have to? Doc Cambridge is nice and everything, but I mean, you were in the room with me for five minutes and you decked me—”
“That wasn’t your fault.” Trav couldn’t seem to blink. The coffee table Shelia had just picked out had collapsed like cardboard, and Trav could hardly see it. “It wasn’t your fault—”
Mackey shook his head. “Yeah, yeah, it was. I’m an asshole—I mean, a complete waste of skin. Why the hell would you want me to talk to a shrink and dump all my shit out there in the world—I mean, I’ve hurt people, you know? Blake? I’ve been hurting him all year. How do I make that up? How do I tell my mom….” He closed his eyes. “Everything,” he said, his voice cracking like glass. “I know it’s coming, you know? How do I tell people—”
“You have to tell people,” Trav said, numbly echoing what he just said, feeling stupid. “You have to tell people I hit you—I’ll have to quit— ”
“ No!
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