Hometown Heartless

by Carrie Aarons

  I tried to get over them, tried to move on. For a while, it was working, even if I had to lie to myself.

  And then I saw him, back from the dead.

  I haven’t glimpsed him except for his arrival in his driveway. Over the last four days, the curtains to his room have never moved, the light never flicked on in the nighttime hours. Everett hasn’t ventured outside, and no one aside from his parents have come or gone from the house.

  Watching the window, I will him to peek out, to do something. I have no idea what he might be feeling right now, but it’s been killing me not to go over there and just … look at him. Make sure it’s real, make sure that he’s actually alive and home.

  I’m about to drop my head and walk through the garage entrance at the side of my house, when I notice movement out of the corner of my eye. My body stills as I realize … it’s him.

  He’s sitting in a chair on the patio out back, and I can just make him out at my vantage point. That’s when I realize, he’s been watching me this entire time.

  Everett sits in a reclined, relaxed positioned, his hands folded in his lap over black jogger sweatpants, dog tags hanging out in the open against his gray long sleeve T-shirt. His biceps and pecs strain against the material, and I wonder what they look like underneath. How much has his physical body changed in the two years he’s been gone?

  When I make it up to his face, an errant lock of strawberry-blond hair dips onto his forehead. But it’s the eyes that capture me like a deer in headlights. Those intense emeralds don’t match his lazy posture at all; I’ve been caught looking for him, and he’s either amused or angry. I can’t decide which.

  Without thought, I walk past the garage entrance, and follow the dividing line of our properties. My feet carry me to his backyard, up the stone patio steps, and straight in front of him where I stop.

  The two of us stare at each for a beat, and I try to find any shred of the boy I once knew. He stands, towering over me, my eyes never leaving his even when I’m forced to crane my neck. It’s like he’s asserting his dominance, standing to his tallest height.

  “Oh, Everett. I can’t believe you’re home.”

  All the emotions I’ve been holding inside since he left all those many months ago flood me, and I fling my arms around his neck. He still smells like he used to, like a rainy day in the forest, but underneath his plain ensemble, there are muscles that he didn’t sport before. My body melts into his, that comfort I’ve sought for two years finally warming my skin like a favorite blanket. There is something more, too. A charged, electric current between us, and I’m surprised neither of us is shocked when we make contact. For two years, I’ve dreamed, fantasized, and mooned over how the boy next door would finally hold me. How he’d kiss me, just like he wrote in his last letter.

  And then a split-second later, I’m being shoved off of him. I’m so surprised, I nearly topple over myself. Wobbling to regain balance, I take three steps away from him, my mouth falling open.

  “Don’t fucking touch me without my permission.”

  His voice could cut steel, that’s how sharp and demanding it is. Those full plum lips smash into a furious straight line, his nostrils flaring like an agitated animal.

  Of course. Jesus Christ, how could I be so stupid? Everett has been tortured for the better part of a year, in ways I can’t even imagine. My mother thinks I didn’t hear her talking in hushed tones to Marcia Brock in our living room the night of his return. Of course, he doesn’t want someone to touch him unexpectedly.

  “You’re glad I’m home? Yeah, well, I’m fucking not. I wish I never had to step foot in Brentwick again. Why do you think I signed up for a job that has like a ninety percent chance of being shipped home in a body bag?”

  His morbid words, the venom in his tone … I had no idea who I was dealing with when I wished for a reunion with Everett.

  And the only thought I can latch onto is that he never wanted to come back. I’m just heartbroken enough from this revelation, and just pissed off enough from the way he’s speaking to me, that I let the words fall out of my mouth.

  “So then, you never planned on kissing me the day I turned eighteen?”

  The minute I say them, I want to shove them back in. I want to scoop them up in my arms, choke them down and get sick on those words. They’re the most selfish, horrible syllables I could have said. Everett is dealing with years of psychological and physical trauma, he has every right to lash out and hurt those around him if it helps him feel better, and all I’m worried about is being given a kiss like some fairy-tale princess.

  My cheeks are so red, I can feel the blush flame in them, that I begin to sweat. If I’m so embarrassed about this, then thank my lucky stars he never received one of the last letters I wrote. The worn envelope still sits in my desk, two stories above us, the words I never should have written thankfully, never seeing the light of day.

  Everett’s green eyes flash, and I watch a muscle in his jaw twitch. And then … he grins.

  It’s not nice. It’s not friendly or even teasing. No, this expression is full of piss and vinegar, a mean, rude upturn of his lips.

  “God, you’re so obsessed with yourself, aren’t you, Kennedy? Desperate and stuck in your little high school bubble. The biggest dilemma on your mind is whether to sleep with the high school quarterback on prom night. You have no idea what the real world is like. It’ll be like a bullet to your brain by the time you discover just how fucking cruel it is.”

  I don’t even equate what he just said to me to a verbal smackdown. No, it’s much worse. This kind of malevolence, of hate … it comes from deep within the soul. Everett may not hate me specifically, but he loathes everything I stand for. According to him, he never wanted to see my face again.

  My heart is so dejected as I turn to walk away, I’m convinced I’ll have to glue it back together later. There is nothing like the devastating blow of a first crush gone wrong. Not to mention what Everett is to me. He made promises, wrote me things in letters that could rival the romance of Shakespeare. All of it just came crashing down on my head, splintering into so many pieces that I know I’ll never be able to collect them all in hopes of repair.

  Lead riddles my legs and feet as I turn, trying to hold the tears back until I’m safely on the other side of my garage door.

  I’m almost safe, back across the distance of the lawn, when that deep voice rumbles.

  “Hey, just for shits and giggles, did you wait for me?”

  I have to turn; I know I have to. I’m the one who posed the question first, and the truth would have come out at some point. Guilt drowns my gut, even in the midst of the horrible things he just said to me. Facing him, I know he can read it all over my face.

  Everett looks skyward, chuckling bitterly. “So, some other guy gave you that goddamn kiss? Way to hold out hope.”

  It’s as if he’s slapped me. My face burns with shame and the sting of his words.

  I waited, I did. The entire year he was overseas, I waited. When they told us he was gone, it took almost six months for me to even agree to hang out with my friends on a weekend. And when another boy sat beside me, whispering sweet nothings at a party, I let him kiss me. I let that insignificant, meaningless boy take the thing Everett promised to give me. I’d been so upset afterward, that it took me weeks to stop feeling nauseous every time I thought about my first kiss.

  And now I’m furious. He’d never planned to give me that kiss in the first place. He just insulted everything I hold dear about myself. How does he get the nerve to slut shame me? To accuse me of being in the wrong?

  “What was I supposed to do? I waited for as long as I could. I thought you were dead!”

  “I am dead!” he roars.

  I take a few steps back, as if the sheer impact of his voice has the ability to knock me over.

  A few of the tears I swore I wouldn’t let fall end up trickling down my cheek, and I slap my hand to them.

  The damage is done though. He’s said
the words and seen me breakdown because of them. What I thought would be a reunion for the ages, turned sour before I could even grasp it in my hands.

  The only thing left to do is turn and flee before my heart shatters any further.

  5

  Everett

  “Come on, buddy, you have to get dressed. You have therapy.”

  Mom’s voice comes from somewhere above, the groggy cloud of drug-induced sleep lingering in my bones and mind.

  It’s the only way I can sleep these days, by swallowing enough pills that I eventually pass out. The military doctors gave them to me, and I stashed them in a box at the top of my closet where only I can find them. Better to take drugs like candy than talk about your problems … or at least that’s one of the lessons I learned about PTSD among military members.

  Not only do the individual sufferers not want to address it, but it’s easier for our superiors if all the mental strife is kept under wraps. Of course, the general public knows that currently serving soldiers and veterans are going to be fucked up by the things they experience. Even those in positions of non-direct combat, like doctors or photographers, come back with their brains jumbled. But the higher ups don’t want that advertised. Silencing us with pills and the sense of manly solidarity is easier.

  I don’t mean to criticize the shit out of the organization I voluntarily decided to work for. Mind you, there are a ton of people I interacted with that had good morals, wanted to serve their country out of honor and duty, and who I consider brothers and sisters in arms. But it’s the few douchebags that sour the bunch. The ones who want to sweep just how mentally fucked soldiers are under the rug, so that they can keep signing up eighteen-year-old kids to run into militant provinces. The ones who would have rather me died in that hole than bring me back and deal with the PR nightmare that my lack of being murdered causes. The ones who abuse the civilians we’re supposed to be protecting from the terrorists in their country.

  “Not going.” I turn over, trying to will myself back into the cave of narcotics that threatens to pull me under.

  “You have to. It’s part of your discharge requirements. So, even if I can’t force you, the military can.” She clanks a belt and shoes down on my desk, having probably picked out an outfit for me.

  I know me being home is wearing thin. It’s been two weeks, and she’s probably stunned to realize that her golden boy son is gone forever. In the first few days of my homecoming, it was all happy tears, hugs, my favorite food, and thanking God and the universe that they brought me home to them. As the shine wears off, and my parents are left with the fallout of the son that returned to them, I see my mom growing more and more frustrated.

  I barely talk, barely eat, don’t come out of my room, and refuse to do much of anything. Trying to get me to go to doctor’s appointments is like pulling teeth, I know she wrinkles her nose at the smell every time she walks into my room, and generally, I’m just in a foul mood every second I’m awake. For Mom and Dad, it probably seems like life should go back to the way it was before I shipped out. Their miracle was granted, but it’s nothing like they planned.

  My parents weren’t thrilled about my decision to sign up for the Marines. I was a mostly A and B student in high school, quarterback of the football team, bright, social, and could have had my pick of top-notch colleges in the area. I’d never really discussed my plans with them until I was halfway through the physical and mental examination process to enroll in basic training.

  I remember the day I told them I was going to fight overseas. Mom burst into hysterics, clinging to my shirt like I’d just signed my death sentence. Dad had eyed me cautiously, like I might poof into thin air if he took his eye off of me for one second. In the end, he convinced my mother that they couldn’t stop me, that what I was doing was noble, and hadn’t they wanted to raise a noble man?

  And then I’d betrayed my country. I’d done the one thing I wasn’t supposed to do. Soldiers fell in line. I disobeyed that, and ended up in the wrong place, at the wrong time. What happened to me was my own fault, but I’d do it all over again.

  “No one can force me to do anything. Not anymore,” I tell her, throwing my trauma in her face.

  These days, it’s what I’m best at; obnoxiously pointing out all the shit I’ve endured so that I don’t have to do whatever someone is trying to make me do.

  Mom makes a sputtering noise. “Everett, that’s not what I meant—”

  I cut her off. “Of course, it wasn’t. You’d never want to imply that someone who was tortured and forced to do things would be put through something like that again.”

  I’m a fucking dick, but I can’t stop.

  “Please, Everett, just let me take you to therapy. It can help you.” Now there are tears in Mom’s voice, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the way I’m talking to her, or if she just wants her boy back.

  Clearly, she’s not going to leave me alone, and the smallest pang of guilt, the only amount I’ve felt in a year, flicks me in the gut. Grumbling, I push up off the mattress and grab the jeans she’s laid out. Without saying anything, I start dressing, and she leaves.

  Twenty minutes later, Mom pulls her car into a spot in front of your typical looking doctor’s office. I’m not sure if my parents sold my truck, if they’re hiding it so I can’t leave the house on my own, or what, but I haven’t been granted permission to drive anywhere yet. Nothing that makes you feel trapped more than having your parents drive your twenty-year-old ass around your hometown.

  The building is a white-shingled rectangle spanning about half a football field, with red steel doors and a window cutout in the middle of each. The handle is a steel knob, and above each office suite is a number, with a gold plate located on the right side of the door, telling you which doctor is located inside.

  Silence envelops us we get out of my mother’s BMW and walk into the office marked “Dr. Janice Liu, Psychiatrist, M.D., D.O.” After we check in with the receptionist, we sit, my mother filling out my paperwork. She doesn’t even hand it to me, probably because she knows I won’t complete it.

  The lobby of Dr. Janice Liu’s office is everything I envision a therapist’s office to look like. Neutral, muted tones of decor, no loud TV in the corner but soothing nature sounds set to music playing over the speakers, and comfortable but professional couches and chairs arranged around a wooden coffee table.

  The sound of a door being opened has my head snapping toward it, and a slim, decently attractive, Asian woman walks out of it. She’s younger than my mom, but has that professional air about her that is supposed to convince her patients she’s been doing this for a long time. This has to be Dr. Liu, who else would this be? Her long, midnight-black hair runs straight down her back, almost brushing her ass, which is unfortunately encased in wide, flowing khaki pants, so I can’t make out the shape. Therapy wouldn’t be so bad if I had something to ogle.

  “Hello, Everett, Marcia.” She smiles warmly, crossing the small lobby and extending a hand for my mother and I to shake, respectively.

  “Thank you for seeing my son.” My mom replies.

  “Shall we get started? Everett, why don’t you come into my office?” Dr. Liu’s voice has this soothing but direct quality to it, and I find myself following her.

  Her office is decorated in the same style as the lobby, though there are three large paintings of herbs hanging over the back of her desk. She takes a seat in the chair behind it, and motions for me to sit in a plush armchair kitty-corner to the glass desk separating us.

  “I’m glad you came to see me today. Just walking in here is a good first step.” She starts the conversation, and I can’t read her, which only makes me more weary.

  I don’t like therapists. I don’t like doctors who keep their cards close to the vest. Honestly, I don’t like anyone who keeps their cards close. Before I flew into a war zone, I was one of the most honest guys I knew. There should be no tolerance for bullshit, omissions, and lying, in my opinion. But then my worl
d was flipped on its head, and I began to really see the true colors people were hiding.

  My silence is answer enough for Dr. Liu, because she gives me a slight smile, and tries again.

  “In here, everything you say is confidential. We can talk about your time overseas, your torture, the thoughts you’re experiencing now. Anything you want to disclose, stays between us.”

  Quiet chirps back at her, as I sit in the armchair like a sullen teenager. My defiance is pathetic, like I’m a thirteen-year-old stomping her foot over going to the mall.

  “If you don’t want to talk, we can just sit here. I’m okay with the silence if you are.” She tries again after a beat.

  “You have to say that so you can bill my parents, or the army, or whoever the fuck is paying for this for a full rated hour,” I bite back.

  Dr. Liu chuckles. “Hey, nothing wrong with knowing my value and charging for it.”

  Hmm, not what I thought she’d say.

  “Aren’t you supposed to say that you’re here to help me, no matter the cost? That financial gains mean nothing compared to my mental health, or some flowery shit like that?”

  She tips her head, digesting my question. “That wouldn’t be honest of me, would it? And I think you’re a man who values honesty, Everett. Yes, my job puts me in a very well-off position financially. But I do care about the mental health of my patients. I wouldn’t come here to sit in silence with the ones who have been through something very difficult if I didn’t care.”

  How the hell did she know I value honesty? Is she a therapist, or a fucking mind reader?

  We sit through most of the rest of the session in silence. Though after her comment about caring, I don’t sulk quite as hard.

  And when Dr. Liu says she’s looking forward to seeing me next week, I don’t protest or tell her I won’t be there.

  If it weren’t for my best friend dragging me out of the house, I wouldn’t leave it at all.

  But Graden showed up shortly after my therapy session, ransacked my room, promised to pay for burritos, and basically did everything but give me a wedgie to get me up and out of bed. So here I am, dousing hot sauce on my free steak burrito and begrudgingly tolerating his conversation.