Fortitude Smashed

by Taylor Brooke

  “Daisy.”

  “What?”

  “Stop cleaning.”

  “Why?” She furrowed her brows, glancing at him while she straightened the remote in the center of the coffee table. Her sketchbook was stacked on top of her closed laptop with pens placed perfectly in a row beside it.

  “Because you’re going crazy.”

  “I’m not…” She huffed, narrowing her eyes. “I’m not going crazy, Aiden.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Do you?” she hissed accusingly.

  “Don’t bring my shit up, that’s not for two weeks. I’m talking about you. Do you want to talk about it?”

  Daisy spun in a circle and started fluffing the couch cushions. She folded each blanket, and refolded them. “You were there. You beat his ass. What is there left to talk about?”

  “There’s a lot we need to talk about. Like for one, are you okay?”

  Daisy stopped folding the blanket, the fourth one she’d picked up, and squeezed it against her chest. Her gaze fell to the floor, and she shifted from foot to foot. “I’m weak,” she said. It was a plain statement, something she’d obviously discussed with herself many times. “I shouldn’t be, but I am.”

  “What can I do to help you fix it?”

  “I’m not something that needs fixing, just like you aren’t something that needs fixing. We aren’t ruined, Aiden. I’ll be fine.”

  “Of course you will be. You aren’t a full-blown disaster like me. But in the meantime, while you continue to show signs and traits of being a lesser, more manageable disaster, we should probably figure out a way to handle it.”

  “I’m… pissed!” Daisy threw the blanket at the couch. “I hate feeling like this! I hate not being able to fight my own battles. Don’t you get tired of it?”

  “Of what?”

  “Not fighting back!”

  Aiden tilted his head. “Sometimes. What should we do about it?”

  “Fight!”

  “Okay, we’ll fight. Pick a class and I’ll go with you. We’ll learn how to fight.”

  “Our battles aren’t the same.” She threw her hands above her head and ran her fingers through her hair, merging strands of stark white and charcoal black. “I know what you’re doing, okay? I get it, and you’re good at it, but I know your game. You can’t break me down.”

  “MMA, jujitsu, karate, what’ll it be? Seriously, find a class and we’ll go. We’ll learn how to fight.”

  Daisy flopped on the couch. “Aiden… Stop, come on. That’s not the kind of fighting you need to learn, all right?”

  “It’s the kind of fighting you need to learn, though.”

  Aiden’s fight was with himself; Daisy’s was with a moment.

  Aiden leaned against the back of the couch. He looked at her, arms folded across his chest. Daisy gazed up at him. He watched her watching him, her eyes flicking from the almost-healed cut on his brow, to the faded bruise under his hairline. Aiden knew what she was doing, and Daisy knew what he was doing. They couldn’t fix each other. They couldn’t fight each other’s battles.

  “Fine, we’ll take an MMA class. What’re we going to do about you?” Daisy asked.

  “That’s not for two weeks.”

  “You don’t have to keep punishing yourself, you know? You could let it go one of these years.” Daisy covered her face with her arm; her chest rose and fell as she steadied her breathing. “Come here.” She extended her arms toward the ceiling.

  Aiden walked around the other side of the couch and dropped on top of her, bracing his elbows on the couch beside her shoulders. She wrapped her arms around him and made a small oof when he squished her under his dead-weight.

  “Your birthday’s coming up,” Daisy whispered. She touched the back of his head and twirled her finger through inch-long hair, reminding Aiden that he was in desperate need of a haircut.

  “Yeah, a lot of things are coming up.”

  The anniversary of his parents’ death was twelve days away, a yearly battle he never won. Not that he fought back; Aiden never really had. But that didn’t stop it from being a war he waged within himself, one version of him screaming at the other. He had two parts—a before and an after. When they collided, Aiden was the outcome. He didn’t know how to be anything other than his before and after.

  “Don’t disappear on me, all right? I’ll worry,” Daisy said.

  “Stop cleaning things excessively; I’m already worried.”

  “Twenty-three, huh? What should we do to celebrate?”

  “Jump off a cliff.” Aiden laughed, but Daisy didn’t. “I’m kidding, relax.”

  “It’s not funny, Aiden.” Her voice was small and far away.

  Don’t take yourself from me, Aiden, don’t you dare.

  Aiden’s phone vibrated. He rolled off the couch, onto the floor, and felt along the top of the coffee table until it fell off and bounced against his leg. He held it above his head and swiped across the screen with his index finger.

  Shannon Wurther 3/27 2:05 p.m.

  how is daisy doing? still cleaning everything?

  Aiden Maar 3/27 2:07 p.m.

  Like a maid. we’re going to take mma classes

  Shannon Wurther 3/27 2:08 p.m.

  Thats a good idea

  “Shannon thinks it’s a good idea for us to take MMA classes.”

  “Til I kick his ass!” Daisy exclaimed, mock punching the air with two scrawny arms.

  Aiden Maar 3/27 2:09 pm

  she says shes gonna kick your ass

  Shannon Wurther 3/27 2:10 p.m.

  I dont doubt it

  Daisy’s teasing faded, and the interlude of playfulness ended.

  “We’ll be okay, right?” Daisy’s hand brushed Aiden’s forehead, dusting his week-old bruise. “You’re okay, right?”

  He sighed. “I’m alive. So are you. That means we’ll probably be okay at some point.”

  “Two weeks from now, will you be okay?”

  Aiden looked up, and she peered at him. Daisy had seen him at his worst. He hoped she stuck around to see him at his best, if he ever had one. He smiled, but it didn’t feel right, like the beginning of a lie.

  Aiden didn’t answer.

  Daisy didn’t ask again.

  “Shannon told me he loved me,” Aiden whispered.

  Her fingers tapped the bridge of his nose. “How does it feel?”

  “Heavy, like I’m not cut out for it.”

  “Do you love him?”

  His throat clenched. “Yeah, I love him.”

  “Then it won’t be that heavy for long,” she said gently.

  Aiden stared at the ceiling. Fire churned and simmered in his veins. He thought of Shannon and he thought of Daisy. He thought of his mother’s smile. He thought of his father’s laugh, and how much Marcus sounded like him. Wilderness grew inside of him.

  He thought of Shannon first, and he thought of Shannon last.

  Aiden Maar 3/27 2:21 p.m.

  do you still mean it?

  Shannon Wurther 3/27 2:22 p.m.

  Mean what?

  Aiden Maar 3/27 2:24 p.m.

  that you love me

  Shannon Wurther 3/27 2:27 p.m.

  Yes

  Aiden watched three dots bounce on his phone.

  Shannon Wurther 3/27 2:29 p.m.

  do you?

  Aiden Maar 3/27 2:31 p.m.

  yeah. when did you figure it out

  Shannon Wurther 3/27 2:35 p.m.

  New years

  Aiden Maar 3/27 2:36 p.m.

  I love you

  Shannon Wurther 3/27 2:36 p.m.

  I love you too

  Maybe Daisy was right, maybe it wouldn’t be that heavy for long.

  “I found a Groupon for
ten mixed martial arts classes, twenty bucks each!” Daisy shoved her phone in his face. “We’d start next week.”

  “Send it to me,” Aiden said.

  He wanted to type it out again and again. I love you after I love you after I love you. But he didn’t, instead he typed out: you were so incredible that night. you made me feel like I was worth it

  Shannon Wurther 3/27 2:37 p.m.

  thats because you are worth it. I remember how you tasted. you had champagne all over your mouth. I remember how you looked in chelseas bed.

  Aiden choked on a laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Daisy tried to snatch his phone, but Aiden tucked it in his pocket.

  How quickly things could change—from Halloween to New Year’s, from New Year’s to now.

  “Nothing. You hungry? I bet Kelly’s working.”

  Daisy lifted a brow. “Cheese fries?”

  “Cheese fries,” Aiden agreed.

  00:00

  Shannon looked at Chelsea over the edge of the glass tilted against his lips. The plate of stuffed mushrooms was growing cold between them, and Chelsea stared at him, open-mouthed and wide eyed.

  “Someone… Shannon, someone tried to…?”

  “Yeah, but Aiden was there. He beat the guy within an inch of his life.”

  “Well, sure he did! I would’ve done the same damn thing. Someone put their hands on a little thing like Daisy; I would’ve hit him over the head with a barstool!” Chelsea’s accent thickened when she was angry, her vowels elongated and merged, loud and unabashed. Her presence was a reminder of home, of summer trips to the lake and the smell of homemade barbeque sauce. Somewhere between when Chelsea had made her unexpected arrival and now, Shannon realized he’d missed her.

  Karman pulled out a chair and sat. “That was Barrow,” she said, tapping her phone. “All charges against Aiden were dropped; it was ruled self-defense. Cindy just filed all the paperwork. The guy he kicked the living shit out of has a broken nose, fractured rib, busted knee, and a bruised ego. He’ll do time after he gets out of the hospital.”

  “Does Daisy have to do anything else?” Shannon asked.

  Karman shook her head. “I’m e-mailing her the information right now, but no, as far as Daisy and Aiden are concerned, case closed. Anyway, we aren’t on the clock, so.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Are you and Aiden doing anything next week?”

  “Yeah, probably. Why?” Shannon’s brow furrowed. “What’s special about next week?”

  Karman stopped typing. She flicked her gaze from Shannon to Chelsea and back again, with her bottom lip pinched between her teeth. “He didn’t tell you, did he?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Yeah, tell him what?” Chelsea leaned forward, a grin plastered across her face.

  Karman swallowed. Shannon watched her lips part and her brown eyes soften under The Whitehouse’s dim lighting. She cleared her throat and tucked her phone in her purse. “I’m going to the cemetery with Marcus to put flowers down for their parents. The anniversary of their passing is next week, on the eighth.”

  Shannon sat back. That, he thought, was behind Aiden’s restlessness and distance. Not that he’d been distant physically, but sometimes Shannon would catch him gazing at nothing, trapped in daydreams. The reason behind his faraway thought was Aiden’s past creeping into his present, and now that Shannon was aware of it, it seemed so blatant, so transparent.

  Chelsea, realizing it wasn’t gossip they were talking about, busied herself with her phone and the goat-cheese stuffed mushrooms.

  It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Aiden wouldn’t tell him about it. Shannon was aware that Aiden’s twenty-third birthday was at the end of April—on the twenty-ninth—and he knew that Aiden wasn’t one for celebrating it, but he’d never put the two together. Spring, as Aiden explained to him weeks ago, was supposed to be a time for rebirth. Shannon should’ve realized that when he said supposed to, he didn’t mean would be.

  Karman grabbed a mushroom and shoved it in her mouth. “Marcus told me Aiden doesn’t do very well. I don’t think either of them handles it in a healthy way, but, if I had to guess, I’d say Aiden is the more dramatic of the two.”

  “He talked about it, though,” Chelsea chimed in. Her voice was a little unsteady as she tried to lighten the tone at the table. “We all… I mean, he told us about his parents and... Well, he didn’t seem all right, that’s for certain. But he did talk about it, which has to mean he’s handling it on some level.”

  “You finally put them in a room together?” Karman mumbled, pointing at Chelsea.

  “He was drunk.” Shannon ignored Karman’s question. He leaned on the back legs of his chair and stared at the ceiling. “He’d never talked to me about it in detail like that, not until you and Daisy were there, after the whole night fell apart.”

  “What happened?” Karman asked.

  “I hit him,” Chelsea said, shrugging.

  Karman’s head jerked back. “She hit Aiden?”

  “He wanted her to,” Shannon said, unfazed by the secondary conversation going on between Karman and Chelsea.

  “We’re friends now,” Chelsea added matter-of-factly. “That’s all that matters.”

  “My boyfriend, who has chronic depression, didn’t tell me about the anniversary of his parent’s death, the reason behind his chronic depression, and you two being friends is all that matters?” Shannon dropped back on all four legs of the chair.

  Chelsea’s cheeks reddened under the weight of his stare.

  Karman cleared her throat again. “He’ll be fine, Shannon.”

  Shannon shook his head. No, Aiden wouldn’t be.

  Aiden didn’t hide from things. He didn’t dodge a challenge or go around obstacles. The things Aiden feared were the things that wilted him, and they were few and far between.

  Shannon was one of them. His parents were another.

  “I can talk to him,” Chelsea offered.

  “No,” Karman and Shannon said in unison.

  “Well, fine!” Chelsea fumed haughtily, picking at a mushroom.

  The detectives ignored her outburst.

  “I can, though.” Karman sipped at an almost-empty gin martini.

  If anyone knew loss, it was Karman.

  Shannon finished his beer. “You can, yeah.”

  38

  On April fifth, Aiden sent a text to Shannon. It said: I love you, don’t come looking

  Shannon responded four times. He called twice.

  Shannon Wurther 4/5 10:04 a.m.

  i love you too. i get it but im here ok? let me come get you

  Shannon Wurther 4/5 3:54 p.m.

  Aiden please

  Shannon Wurther 4/6 10:07 p.m.

  Youre not home

  Shannon Wurther 4/7 12:15 p.m.

  you don’t have to do this alone

  It was April eighth. The world was a spinning top stuck in place, wobbling back and forth but refusing to fall. No, Aiden decided, he did have to do this alone. There was no other way to do it. Alone, he thought, was the only thing that paralleled what happened when before was gone and after loomed on the horizon.

  There had always been a before and after, but the loneliest part was the during.

  In the space between, when Aiden remembered everything that’d gone wrong, he was immersed in the during. A state of unrest and silence, forged of complexities he didn’t have the strength to identify. Memories crept by. The sound of Sasha’s irritated voice. Aiden Maar, you better listen. No son of mine acts up like that, you hear? Followed by Christopher, a man who lived on in Marcus—his stature, his nose, his voice, everything. Aiden, listen to your mother. We’re leaving the cabin now. No, don’t argue.

  Drowned voices. Aiden struggled to remember their faces.

  He hadn’t been there to hear the
wreck, but every time he watched a similar collision happen in a movie, or heard someone slam on their breaks when they almost sped through a stop sign, he imagined what it would’ve been like. How do sound technicians gather the tools to construct such realistic noises? What does metal sound like it when it slams into another, heavier, denser block of metal? Teeth in aluminum, claws raking dusty glass, a symphony of quiet things made loud in one sudden blow? What do people say right before they die?

  Did his mother whisper something, did she think of Marcus, did she think of Aiden, did she think of anything?

  Did his father try to swerve, did the tires squeal when he hit the brakes, did he think this is it, this is it, this is it, did he assume they would live?

  Metal against metal, tires seizing against the concrete, someone gasping, and then he imagined it was over. Aiden didn’t have the heart to wonder if they’d died on impact, or if it’d taken a few minutes; if his mother had the chance to look at his father, if his father had the chance to look at his mother; if they had the chance to regret leaving the cabin, regret taking the vacation, regret a lot of things. Aiden wondered if his breathlessness was their ghosts, if the weight on his chest was their presence reminding him that he would never know. He would only ever be able to assume.

  Aiden remembered the smell of acrylic paint on Sasha’s hands and he walked into the ocean.

  Slithering out to sea, climbing high, crashing down—the ocean was a constant loop. Waves tossed him around. His arms reached toward the darkness below while sunlight shot through the water above. Fingers stretched, toes curled in, Aiden held his breath until the breathlessness was overcome by the need to inhale. The cold Pacific numbed him to the bone.

  Fate, come out. Fate, where are you. Fate, tell me why.

  But fate didn’t swim from its hiding place far out where Aiden couldn’t see. The heart of the world didn’t beat. All those mysteries, all those majesties, they cowered in Aiden’s shadow, a cluster of worn, rusted, sharp things, under a shark swimming backward, confused by its inability to breathe.

  Aiden was a blatant reminder that fate wasn’t gentle. No wonder fate refused an audience. No wonder.