“Oh boo-hoo,” I moan. “I’m so sorry that I’m preventing you from bursting into flames.”
“Listen to what he’s saying, Robert,” Indah says. “He’s telling you you’re hurting him. That’s what we’re all telling you. You’ve been influencing all of us, keeping us here, making us neglect other parts of our life in order to put more attention toward you—”
“I’m sorry I’ve been such a burden to you!” I shout, my throat clogged with emotion. “But I’m doing my best—”
“No you’re not!” Marley shouts back, something he almost never does. “We’ve told you time and time again to get your ability under control and you don’t think you’re doing anything wrong, you don’t ever apologize, it’s like you don’t even see that what you’re doing is wrong—”
“This is the way I am! I’m not going to apologize for being myself. If you don’t want that person, then fuck you guys. Figure out how to pay rent yourself, stop being carefree and happy—that’s all I was trying to do. I was just trying to make you happy.”
“Remember what you told me last night? That’s not real happiness, kid.”
I look at Neon pleadingly but her expression is stern. She thinks she’s right. They think they’re all right.
“Fine,” I say, my energy to fight gone. “Fine, I’ll just … I’ll leave you alone. I’ll leave you all alone.”
I stomp past the four of them, shove my shoes on, and grab my keys from the bowl. No one tries to stop me as I walk out the door, even though I want them to. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more in my entire life, and for once, it doesn’t matter.
* * *
The cabin is dark and cold. I don’t know what I was thinking, driving north in February. I’ve never been anywhere else in my life except Nebraska, didn’t think about how much colder things could get. But Montana is desolate and freezing, and a month into life out on my own, I just want to go home.
But I don’t have any home to go to. The skeleton of my childhood home still stands among the cornfields, but there’s nothing there for me. I think about going back every single day, wondering if maybe now that I’m done haunting it, They’ll return. Could I make things better if They did? Could I make Them forget about what happened, make Them love me, make me a son again?
The possibility that I’d return only to find an empty, crumbling house is enough to keep me away. All I can do is keep marching forward, leave Montana, maybe go south, try to find a warmer, more welcoming environment. But the idea of moving—of doing anything ever again—exhausts me.
I think of the lake on the edge of this lodge community, iced over and smooth. When I passed it the other day, it was pockmarked with fishing holes—black and bottomless and strangely enticing.
I wonder what would happen if I jumped into one of those crudely cut holes in the ice. I wonder if anyone would notice.
* * *
I’m going to march in there and I’m going to apologize. I’ve taken a couple of days to cool off—crashed at the Ace Hotel in the nicer part of downtown—and I’m ready to take them all back. I’ve been playing the last few months in my head over and over—the conversations I’ve had with Indah, the things that tight-lipped Neon and Marley have shared with me, Blaze’s lack of pyrokinesis around me—and yes, maybe I got a bit carried away.
But maybe I can pay closer attention now, can make sure that I stop influencing everyone. I’m pretty sure that I’m not going to stop wanting all of us to live together, but I can work on the other stuff. I’m definitely certain that I can give a convincing apology, even more convincing than the first time I left and came back. I’ll let Neon shock me a little bit before I do it, so that they all really believe me. I was too close—I was too close to having a family again and I won’t let myself mess it up. They haven’t left yet, I haven’t completely driven them away, and I won’t let it get to that point. I won’t.
By the time I trudge up the echoey metal stairs and come to the door of the loft, I feel more determined than ever before. So much of my life has been passively wanting things and then having them dropped in my lap. For the first time, I feel like I’m an active participant in my life.
I take out my keys—my most prized possession, the only thing I ever keep on me at all times—and breathe deeply, arming myself for what I’m expecting to be a fight.
They’ve changed the locks.
* * *
The stretch of road before me is endless and empty. There’s still a chill in my bones, settled in deep from standing at a lake’s edge for hours, but chasing the sun westward is starting to thaw me out. When I left home and started driving, it was cornfields for miles and then rambling prairies and then the tall pines and mountains of Montana, and now I’ve come to a part of America that feels like an unfinished painting. The lake in Montana is behind me, Nebraska even farther, my parents god knows where, and a plain of untold possibilities stretches before me.
I’ve lost track of exactly which state I’m in. They all blur together, indistinct and yet each completely unique. It would take me a while to see each of them. To explore the far reaches of this country. And that’s what I’m going to try to do. I’ll see as much as I can, drive as far as I can, and I’ll do it all alone. I don’t need anyone or anything. With what I can do, what I am, I can go anywhere I want.
PART FOUR
THE WEST SIDE
I go to Venice.
As I sit on the porch of my bungalow, looking out on the canals, I wonder if I went far enough. Maybe I should have gone to Italy after all—to the real Venice. Instead, I kept driving west.
It’s been a few weeks since the intervention–slash–character assassination and I’ve done my best to put the Unusuals out of my mind. After throwing my useless keys against the door of the loft, hearing the metal clatter to the floor, I got into the Plymouth and pulled onto Venice Boulevard and just drove, trying my best to focus on the road through the tears clouding my eyes. Eventually, the road stopped and in front of me was Venice itself: a neighborhood of colorful bungalows on straight-edged canals connected by fairy-tale bridges. One of the bungalows had a “For Sale” sign out front, so I broke in. It took five days for anyone to come by, and when they did, I just told them I’d bought it, took the sign down, and that was that.
I think I’m only a few blocks from the beach, but I haven’t ventured outside much. There’s a pay phone at the end of the street that I’ve been using to call for food delivery, and the house was already furnished—for sale by the owner, I guess—so there are plenty of books for me to read.
This is the first time in three weeks that I’ve sat outside. The porch is only a few feet from the canal and the little sidewalk that separates me and the water is constantly trafficked by people—neighbors and tourists alike. Occasionally, someone paddles by in a boat. It’s tranquil and a little weird and I don’t know if I’ll ever be happy here, but I’m not sure I have a better understanding of what happiness is than when I arrived in LA.
I start to explore the neighborhood, little by little, avoiding the beach for reasons I can’t fully explain to myself. Maybe I’m worried the water will be too cold, the waves too tempting, but all I know is that I’m not ready to finally see the Pacific Ocean, the thing I feel like I’ve been driving toward for the past two years.
But there’s a busy main street, Abbot Kinney Boulevard, that keeps me occupied for a week or two. There are restaurants and local markets, and I keep up the tradition of cooking elaborate meals, even though the activity feels hollow without Indah by my side. One Friday, I stumble upon some kind of street fair, and instead of avoiding it like I did my first night in Los Angeles, I wander around, taking in the sights and the smells. There are hundreds of people, all smiling at me whenever I want them to, trying to make me feel welcome, but my heart isn’t in it.
In a sea of faces, there isn’t a single one I care to look at. I float along, an unmoored boat on the water, and think about sinking.
* * *<
br />
A banging wakes me up, which is odd for a couple of reasons.
The canals—for all their quirks—are actually extremely quiet. I’ve discovered that this is the kind of place where everyone who lives here knows each other and expects a certain kind of conduct from fellow residents. Fine by me. It’s not like I have anyone knocking down my door.
Which is another reason why the incessant banging is odd. A month plus and I haven’t made an effort to get to know anyone. I did finally get cable and a phone line, and the guy who installed them and I had a nice chat about the LA traffic, but other than that and the bartender at a local bar called the Brig—un-tattooed and without a crinkle in his brow—I can’t say I’ve made friends.
I pad quickly from the bedroom to the front door, wondering if I should arm myself with something. Whatever. I don’t really want to get in a fight right now—not that I ever do—so I won’t.
I pull open the door in one quick gesture and the banging immediately stops, doing wonders for my head. But nothing could have prepared me for what’s on the other side of it.
“You gotta help me, man.”
Blaze is bent over, one arm leaned against my door frame, the other—presumably the culprit of the noise—hanging limply at his side. He looks better than when I last saw him—even more weight on him, color in his cheeks—but right now he’s sweating profusely, his thin T-shirt clinging to his shoulders.
“What the hell,” I croak.
Blaze is the last person I would have expected to show up on my doorstep. As much as I wanted them to, I didn’t expect any of the Unusuals to show up. But if any of them had (not that I’ve dedicated a lot of time to thinking about it, of course I haven’t) I would have thought it’d be Indah. Definitely not the guy I barely knew and didn’t like very much, who didn’t like me very much.
“Can I come in?” he pants, looking nervously over his shoulder.
“Uh, sure.”
I take a step back to let him in, closing the door more softly than I opened it. He stumbles past me, collapsing on the couch, getting what looks like ash all over the seat cushions. I liked those seat cushions. And I hate shopping. Maybe I could try ordering them online, though I’d need to get a computer and Internet hooked up and that seems like a hassle—
“Damien?”
I focus on Blaze, who’s folded over his knees, his face looking up at me wearily.
“Sorry.” I shake my head a bit to clear it. “I was, uh … I was asleep and I’m…”
“Yeah, I figured,” he says, the ghost of a smirk on his face. “I wouldn’t have barged in like this if it wasn’t an emergency.”
“How did you find me?” I ask, slowly sitting down on the other couch, opposite him.
“Indah,” he says, throwing the second major surprise of the evening at me.
“What?”
“She’s been keeping tabs on you,” he explains. “Not in a creepy way, just … she worries, you know?”
“How did she…”
“Bartender’s network,” he answers before I can articulate the question. “After everything went down and we all had a moment to cool off, she felt bad—”
“You mean—”
“No, everyone’s still pissed,” he says flatly. I can’t tell if he’s answering my want to know what everyone’s thinking about me or if I’m just that easy to read. “But you know Indah—she’s never met a stray puppy she didn’t want to take home.”
“I think she’d probably resent that,” I point out. “I resent that.”
“Probably.” He shrugs. “But she would know that I’m right.”
“The Brig,” I breathe.
“Huh?”
“Neighborhood bar,” I explain. “I’ve gotten fairly chatty with the bartender—that must be how Indah found out.” I don’t know what to do with this information that’s been laid at my feet—my heart starting to fill with stupid, useless hope—but Blaze distracts me before I can examine it too closely.
“Guess so. Listen,” he says quickly, “we can’t stay here. I think there’s a good chance that he’s followed me.”
“Who?”
“Isaiah.”
Blaze’s face is crumpled in fear, his hands trembling.
“Okay, catch me up here,” I demand, my skin prickling. There aren’t many people I’m afraid of, but Isaiah … it was one thing to go hunting for him with Marley, knowing that we’d probably never catch him, but having him know where I live, maybe even show up on my doorstep—
“He found me again,” Blaze pants. “I was out with some friends in Santa Monica—”
“Why?” I ask, distracted by the fact that I’ve never known any of the Unusuals to come west of the 405, which is partly why I moved out here.
“To follow a cute boy, what else.” Blaze grimaces. “And everything was going totally fine—good even. I actually think this guy likes me, though it’s always hard to tell, you know? I mean, I met him through another gay friend, so I think the chances of him being—”
“Blaze.”
“Right, right, sorry,” he chatters, his excess of nervous energy feeling like it’s sinking into me. “Not the point. The point is: Isaiah was there.”
“He tracked you down?”
“No, I don’t think so. I think he was doing his whole routine—going to bars, looking for users or burnouts and offering them something new.”
“So, what, this is all about drugs?”
“Yes and no,” he says, starting to calm a bit but still twisting his hands in his lap. “I’ve been letting Marley look—really get the details of what happened to me—and they were definitely, you know, experimenting on me.”
He swallows, looking pale, before he continues.
“But I don’t think that they were giving me drugs to calm my ability down, like Isaiah promised. I think they were trying to make it stronger.”
“‘They’?”
“Marley’s seen a couple of other people in my past,” he explains. “It looks like it’s a whole, like, operation. And I think Isaiah is looking for more test subjects—that’s why he was at the bar tonight, to try and lure people in like me, or at least find some, and then he spotted me and I ran out of there like a bat out of hell.”
“Did he try to come after you?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t think so, but if he did, I figured I’d be safer here than anywhere else.”
“My ability doesn’t really work on him,” I tell Blaze. “It’s not like I hit a wall or anything, it’s just that … it doesn’t seem to have any kind of effect.”
“Maybe you just haven’t tried hard enough,” he says hopefully.
“Maybe you just haven’t tried hard enough to stop blowing up,” I snap back.
“Okay, yeah, I see your point,” he concedes, flopping back onto the couch cushions, his body finally relaxing.
“Want a beer?” I offer, for lack of anything else to say.
He shrugs and sighs and I take that as a maybe at worst, so I get up and grab two beers from the fridge, handing him one. He flinches at the cold bottle as he takes it, but then sighs again and presses it to his red and sweaty face. I crack mine open, leaning back on the opposite couch, feeling muddled and useless. There’s never been anything I want from Blaze—other than for him not to explode, and given how he’s holding the icy glass to his chest like it’s anchoring him to the world I think I’m probably doing that now. Good. I like these couches.
“Oh damn,” he says, peering at the bottle. “This is that fancy craft shit.”
“Only the best.” I give him a mock cheers from across the living room.
“How much did you pay for it?” he teases.
“I’m very beloved at the local grocery store.” I smile, surprised at how pleased I am to be playing along with Blaze like we have an inside joke.
“It’s so fucking cool.”
“What is?”
“What you can do,” he says, and I reel back a little bit i
n surprise. “Like, yeah, it’s a double-edged sword, and I think everyone was right to be pissed, but that’s why I came here. I know that you might not be able to protect me from Isaiah, but I really didn’t want to burn the West Side down and you … you keep me calm.”
“I like this house,” I say dumbly.
“Yeah, exactly.” He smiles. “So I’m not gonna freak out and burn it down. And yeah, it’ll hurt like hell later, but, lesser of two evils and all that. You know, if you just lived down the block from all of us, I think we’d be fine.”
“And, what, just let everyone decide when they want to actually be friends with me?”
“Um, yeah,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me. “That’s sort of how friendship works.”
“One-sided?” I snap.
“Mutual. You can’t be the only one dictating the relationship. Friends don’t actually usually live together and spend all their time together.” He takes a swig of the beer, smacking his lips and then cocking his head at me. “You didn’t know that, did you?”
“Well, excuse me for never having friends before,” I snap.
“That explains a lot.” He nods.
“If I always left it up to everyone else, no one would make the choice to hang out with me,” I mumble, picking at the label on my bottle. I don’t know why I’m talking to Blaze about this, but the fact that I don’t really care about being his friend is making it easier to be vulnerable.
“Are you sure?” he asks. “Have you ever tried?”
I shrug.
“Listen,” he sighs, “if someone doesn’t want to be with you without you influencing them, you probably don’t want to be friends with them either.”
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