Small Wonders

by Courtney Lux

  “Trip.” Devon speaks up from his place against the wall.

  Trip ignores him. He’s tired of Devon right now. Devon who hasn’t been contributing enough to bills and picks fights and has become a ghost in the apartment. Trip looks at Scarlett and the baby. “Can you give the kid a bottle or change her diaper or something? That crying is making me insane.”

  “She’s a baby, and she’s sick with something, you jackass. She gets to cry if she wants to.” Scarlett throws June’s abandoned pacifier at him. “If it bothers you so much, get the hell out of here for a while.”

  “I would if I could find my goddamn guitar!” Trip shouts back. He works his hands at his sides and turns in another circle as if maybe he’s just overlooked something.

  “Trip, I need to talk to you.” Devon speaks up, louder.

  “Unless you got a solution for the apartment thing or you know something about where the hell a guitar runs off to, it can wait.” Trip sits on the arm of the couch when a dizzy spell grays the corners of his vision.

  “It’s about your guitar.” Devon hasn’t moved from when he first entered the apartment. “I fucked up. I fucked up in a big way.”

  Trip turns a sharp look his way. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Devon drags a hand through his hair. His gaze stays on his shoes. “I’ve been short on cash lately, I, um…”

  “You’re using.” Trip folds his arms across his chest.

  Scarlett and Liam go quiet, though the baby keeps crying, and Devon looks up at Trip, surprised.

  Trip laughs, dark and angry. “You think I didn’t know? Hoped like hell I was wrong, but I know the look, Dev. You ought to know that.”

  Devon’s gaze is back on his shoes. “I guess I should have. I just, shit, I tried to get it back. As soon as I’d done it, I knew it was shitty and—I tried, Trip. I swear, I tried.”

  Trip pushes himself to his feet slowly, his hands fisted at his sides. “What the fuck did you do?”

  Devon swallows, looks from his shoes to Trip’s face. “I sold it.”

  Trip has his father’s temper. Everyone knows it; Trip knows it. He wishes it weren’t true. Wishes he didn’t see red the second someone looks at him wrong. He does not hit women, he does not lay a finger on children, and he’s been getting better—espe­cially the past year—he has tried to reign himself in. Still, he has his father’s temper.

  He doesn’t remember coming at Devon. Doesn’t remember getting him on the floor or landing the first punch or if Devon has landed any of his own. When he does come to his senses long enough to process what’s happening, Devon’s flipped him onto his back and has landed a hard punch to his jaw. Trip fights hard, gets ahold of Devon’s shoulder and throws him back to the ground.

  “I’ll break your fucking neck, you hear me?” Trip throws a hard punch. He’s angry, angrier than he’s been in a very long time and he can think of nothing else. “I swear to God, I’ll break your useless fucking neck.”

  Devon is angry, too. He throws every hit he can. “Worthless, stupid white trash piece of shit, Morgan. You ain’t no different from your goddamn brothers!”

  “Boys, you’re friends. Cut it out. We can talk this out.” Liam circles them, but he makes no attempt to break up the fight. “Trip, you’ll kill him. Please, I’m begging you to stop—you don’t want this.”

  Trip is suddenly being pulled up and off of Devon with a hard grip on his forearm. He fights his way free and wheels around, prepared to throw another punch if it’s Liam who has decided to intervene.

  Scarlett meets his glare with a dark look of her own. Her voice is flat and cold. “That’s enough.”

  When Trip turns back to Devon, Scarlett shoves her way in front of him, the baby still balanced on her hip. “I said enough!”

  Liam is kneeling on the floor beside Devon with a hand on his shoulder, but Devon is making no second attempt to come at Trip.

  Scarlett holds Trip’s gaze, but she speaks to Devon. “Get up and get out, or I will let him kill you.”

  Devon pushes himself upright. He stumbles on his feet, but he shoves off Liam’s attempts to help him. He takes a step backward and then one more, and then he’s gone out the door.

  Trip keeps watch on the door, but Devon makes no attempt to come back.

  “I know you’re angry, but you need to settle the fuck down.” Scarlett steps back into his line of sight, her expression carefully calm. “You’re better than this, Trip.”

  Trip breathes hard, tries to find his way back to him­self. June is crying so hard she’s blotchy and sweating in Scar­lett’s arms, there’s blood on the floor, and the apartment smells like bug killer and laundry detergent. He needs out. He needs to run.

  He doesn’t hear Scarlett’s and Liam’s pleas to stay put. He shoul­ders his bag and charges out into the cold air of the street. He considers tracking down Devon and finishing what he’s started, but the thought of more violence and blood only fur­ther agi­tates him. He walks and doesn’t realize he knows exactly where he’s going until he’s knocking hard on Nate’s door.

  “Coming! Christ, settle down. I’m getting there!” Nate’s voice is muffled while the locks click open.

  Nate is still dressed in his suit, but he’s loosened his tie and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. He looks at Trip with wide eyes. “Jesus, what happened to you?”

  Trip pushes past him into the apartment. He drops his bag on the breakfast bar and tears open the zipper. He’s aware, as he struggles with the zipper on the inside pocket, that the knuckles of his right hand are bruised and hot, but he ignores them. He pulls the picture out and shoves it at Nate.

  Nate stares at Trip for a long moment before looking at the photograph in his hands. He studies it silently, turns it over to look over the back before flipping it again, one thumb rubbing absently at the bent corner. He stares for a long time before his gaze drifts back to Trip, his expression drawn, confused. “What do you want me to do with this?”

  “I’ve had it.” Trip fists his hands at his sides, unsure of this suddenly unhinged, shaky version of himself. He doesn’t like it. “For years.”

  Nate looks at the picture again and then back to Trip; his atten­tion clearly split between Trip’s bruised face and the photo­graph. “What do you want me to do with it?” He glances at it again as if he’s still trying to piece something together. “I don’t understand. Am I supposed to know who they are? Is this one of your games? I’ll play, but I think first we should do something about your face.”

  Trip’s hands go slack at his sides and he feels a wash of vertigo that makes the floor tilt and his ears ring too loudly with the suddenness of this realization. Nate doesn’t know what to make of the photograph because these children—that seven-year-old bruised-knee little boy, the children who had sparked this whole thing, whatever it is, between them—are strangers to him.

  Nate is watching him guardedly. He touches a hand to Trip’s shoulder. “Come here and sit down. I’ll clean you up.”

  Trip allows Nate to lead him to one of the barstools. He sits, too numb to think of how to do anything else. The boy is not Nate. The photo means nothing.

  Nate’s world is apparently not coming apart at the seams. He gives Trip an ice pack with instructions to keep it on his hand, and then he is touching a wet washcloth to Trip’s cheek.

  “This might need stitches. It looks pretty deep.” Nate lifts the cloth to inspect the mark. “I have some butterfly bandages and that sort of thing, but I really think you should get it checked.”

  “No health insurance.” Trip pulls the picture from the counter. He stares at a child version of Nate who is not Nate.

  “There are free clinics.” Nate’s placing two of the afore­men­tioned butterfly bandages on Trip’s cheek and then mov­ing on to inspect his lip.

  “Don’t want to go in.” Trip turns the
picture over in his hands.

  “It’s going to scar.” Nate inspects him for more injuries.

  “One more scar then.” Trip turns the picture back over. “You sure you don’t know anything about this?”

  Nate glances at the photo. He shakes his head. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Trip stares down at his feet and wonders idly if it’s driving Nate slightly insane that he hasn’t taken off his shoes.

  “Okay.” Nate nods, his gaze dancing over Trip’s face again. He reaches for his hair again, this time to tuck it behind his ear. “Okay.”

  Trip rubs a thumb over the bent corner of the picture. “It’s June’s birthday tomorrow.”

  Nate is distracted, inspecting Trip’s bruised hand. “Yeah?”

  Trip nods. “Mine, too.”

  Nate’s gaze jerks up from Trip’s fingers to his eyes. “Your birthday’s tomorrow?”

  “I’m going to be twenty.” Trip licks his lips. His tongue tastes coppery. “Twenty years old and I’ve never been so goddamn lost in my life.”

  This day has been ridiculous and Trip’s fairly certain it should be funny. He means to laugh, but instead he starts crying. He doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he’s pressed up close with his nose in Nate’s collar and Nate’s arms wrapped too tight around his shaking shoulders. “Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay. I promise. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Nathaniel.” Trip pushes at Nate, but all the strength’s gone out of him. He cries harder. “It ain’t polite.”

  “‘Ain’t’ isn’t a word.” Nate rubs Trip’s back and presses his chin to the top of his head.

  Trip tries to find his center, but now that he’s started, all he can do is cry. “Why’s it all coming apart now? Why does everything always have to come apart right when it’s getting to be okay?”

  “I don’t know,” Nate murmurs. “Not sure there’s ever a good time for everything to go to pieces. Just hush; breathe for a while, okay? Just breathe. You don’t have to do anything else right now.”

  Trip does as he’s told. He sniffles and hiccups and breathes until he has a hold on himself again. He inhales the smell of Nate’s clothes and wishes he didn’t have to start moving again.

  Nate lets go of Trip slowly and then moves to pull a glass down from the cabinet. He fills it with ice and water and comes back around the counter to offer it. “Drink that. You’ll feel better.”

  Trip means to only take a small drink, but as soon as the water hits his mouth, he’s swallowing down the entire glass.

  Nate refills it before speaking again. “You going to tell me what happened?”

  Trip sips at his water more conservatively this time. “Devon sold my guitar for drug money, the baby’s sick or something, and we’re losing the apartment.”

  “Bad day.” It might be meant as a joke, but neither of them smiles.

  “Really fucking bad day.” Trip passes the back of a wrist over his still-wet cheeks. The touch ignites an ache where Nate has bandaged his face.

  “Things fall apart.” Nate rests his hands on Trip’s knees, squeezes them gently. “It happens. It’ll be okay; you’ll figure it out and make things even better than they were before. You’re good at that. You’re good at putting the pieces back together.”

  It makes Trip irrationally angry. That he’s come to this place a bloody mess and fallen apart and Nathaniel—neurotic, nervous Nathaniel—is the picture of calm and comfort. Trip pushes his hands away. “We don’t have a severance package for when shit goes south. This isn’t just going to go away—this is my goddamn life.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right. I can’t imagine how hard this is.” Nate sits on the arm of the couch, his expression somber. “And I’m sorry that you’re hurting, but this could be your chance, Trip. Isn’t that what you told me back in September? These moments—when everything falls apart, they can be an opportunity. Make your life into the one you deserve.”

  Trip gapes at him. “Jesus, don’t be so goddamn arrogant. Don’t make it sound like I can have a goddamn white picket fence if I just try hard enough.”

  Nate lifts both hands in surrender; his gaze flits from Trip’s bruised cheek to his eyes. “I’m not saying it’s going to be perfect, but it doesn’t have to be this hard. Take the GED class, get a job, even if it’s just a couple days a week. You’ve got your roommates and you’ve got me. It’s going to be all right.”

  “Always moving on and up, right?” Trip sneers. “Sounds like a real dream. I almost forgot how happy you were doing that when we first met.”

  “You’re right. I don’t love what I do.” Nate shakes his head, talks down to his knees. “I hated Ashbury and it sucked the life out of me—but this new place, this new place is smaller and better and I’ll have time for a life. I still don’t love what I do, but it’s a good environment and it gives me the time and the cash for the life I want outside work.”

  Trip barks out a laugh. “Wow, you memorize that from the company website?”

  Neither of them speaks for a moment, and in the silence, Trip feels the full weight of this day again. Nate isn’t wrong—things fall apart. He knew this would happen eventually, but he didn’t expect it to feel like getting his heart broken.

  Nate breaks the silence, his voice soft. “What do you want, Trip?”

  “I want my guitar back and I don’t want to get evicted. What the fuck do you think I want?” Trip speaks through grit­ted teeth. He still doesn’t trust himself not to cry. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

  “What else do you want?” Nate’s voice is still quiet. “I’ve been trying for months to figure it out—I think you want bigger things than you’d ever admit. I just don’t know what those things are.”

  “What the hell do you want?” Trip sits up fast enough to jar the ache in his ribs, but he ignores it. “You never know what you fucking want other than to make people think you have your shit together. You’re a mess—goddamn neat freak with a temper and a grudge against a dead brother.”

  It’s not fair. It’s mean and Trip knows it, but he doesn’t take it back. He wants someone else to hurt, too. He doesn’t want to hurt alone.

  “I want to run that marathon next fall. I want to go home to Minnesota to meet my niece or nephew. I want to be happy enough to stop blaming my dead brother when I feel like I’m falling short.” Nate stands, takes a step toward the breakfast bar. “I want you, Trip—I want to actually know you, if you’ll let me.”

  “Jesus Christ, Nate, this was a deal.” Trip grits his teeth. “I’m not your boyfriend.”

  “This stopped being a game between us a long time ago, and you know it.” He steps in a closer. “And you call me Nathaniel.”

  Trip glares at him, defiant.

  “I wish you weren’t so scared,” Nate lifts a hand as though he might touch Trip, but then he must think better of it. “I wish I could help you with a lot of things, but more than anything, I wish I knew how to help you be less afraid.”

  “Fuck you,” Trip bites back. “I’m not scared of anything.”

  Nate stares at him for a long time; his gaze drifts from one eye to the other. “You know what I think?”

  “I think you’ve got a lot of fucking thoughts today,” Trip growls.

  “You see people, Trip. I’m kind of convinced one of your eyes maybe does let you see deeper than most people can.” Nate smiles, unfettered by Trip’s anger. “I’d bet it’s the green one, if I had to pick.”

  Trip stares at Nate, sullen and silent.

  “You see people and people don’t see you—they look at you, but they don’t see you.” Nate’s eyes flicker over his face. “I see you, Trip.”

  Trip shifts in his seat, but he can’t bring himself to drop Nate’s gaze. He wishes he wanted to leave more than he does
. “No, you don’t.”

  “You’re smart and funny and loyal to the people who are import­ant to you… and you’re lost. You’re even more lost than I am.” Nate shakes his head. “I think that’s why you take all those things from people’s pockets and make up those stories for them. It’s safe and it’s consistent, and I don’t think much of your life has offered you that.”

  “You don’t know anything about my life.” He wants to sound angrier than he does. Instead, his voice shakes.

  “So let me.” Nate reaches up, tucks Trip’s hair behind his ear. His hand lingers against Trip’s cheek. “Let me in, Trip.”

  Nate is steady and consistent and solid. Nate is good. Trip wants to melt into all that warmth and goodness and remain there. He pulls away. “I need to go.”

  “Your lip’s still bleeding.” Nate’s hand drops to his side.

  “It’s fine.” Trip pushes himself off of the stool, casts a look around the apartment. He knows this space well now. He knows the feel of the stairs under his bare feet and how far to turn the shower knob if you want the water to stay hot. He knows where to find the coffee mugs and tumblers and which book Nate hides his Social Security card in. It feels as familiar as the park and his place in the Village and Bekket. He shoulders his bag, goes to the door and doesn’t look back at any of it.

  Nate follows him, offers the dirtied washcloth. “Put it on your mouth.”

  Trip takes the cloth, touches it to his lip. He doesn’t have enough fight left in him to argue this one, small thing.

  They stand together in the doorway, neither one speaking.

  Nate steps closer, wraps Trip up in a hug. “See you around, Trip.”

  Trip stands in his embrace for a long time before he returns it, his hands clenched hard in Nate’s shirt. “See you around, Nathaniel.”

  Nate presses a kiss into Trip’s hair and steps back.

  Trip leaves and he makes a point of not looking back as he makes his way to the elevator and then out to the street. He stares at his shoes until something small and white flutters down onto the toe of his left shoe. He pauses to look as another flake and then another joins it before tipping his face up to the sky. It’s snowing. It’s winter.