In the Echo of this Ghost Town

by CL Walters

  It’s been a month.

  I could barely make something work for a month.

  And I feel my dad seep into my bones and muscle. A family with my mom and us, the surprise of Mara. The sins of my father. I think I might throw up.

  I drop my head into my hands and scrunch my fingers up into my hair. Tears slice the back of my eyes, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to bleed from my eye sockets. I can’t breathe.

  I can’t breathe.

  I can’t breathe.

  Suddenly, I can’t sit anymore. I can’t be here. I can’t be in my skin. I can’t be me. I stand and rush from the house; I don’t even grab a coat. I get into my car and drive. I don’t know where I’m going. I just drive until I’m in Tanner’s driveway. And then I’m at his door. Knocking. And it opens, and Tanner’s on the other side.

  “Griff?” I hear him ask.

  I open my mouth to say something sarcastic, to hide behind the pain and fear that’s bubbling up, but I can’t. Nothing comes out of my mouth, but like an idiot, burst into tears.

  Men don’t cry, I hear tough Griff chastise my vulnerable self, except I can’t stop it.

  And Tanner—because he’s always been bigger and better than the way I’ve seen myself—wraps his arms around me and lets me.

  5

  Tanner dumps all the sandwich stuff on the giant island in the kitchen of his house.

  I watch him, wary, because I’ve just erupted my weakness everywhere, which my former best friend, who I insisted wasn’t my friend anymore, just witnessed. And yet, here I am, sitting at the counter at his house where I’ve sat a million times. Where he’s always made me a sandwich. Where we’ve never talked about real stuff, but I know that he’s tried, and I shut him down.

  I feel like a jerk.

  “While I’d like to think those tears were because you missed me,” he says with a smile, “I’m thinking there’s more to them than that.”

  I watch him draw bread slices out of the plastic bag and then look down at my hands crushed between my knees. “Yeah.” My eyes trace the dark grain of the light marble, and my shoulders slump forward like I’m carrying the weight of the world. I’m going to have a kid. I’m going to be a dad. I’m nineteen. I don’t want to say it out loud and make it real.

  Tanner picks up the packages of varied cheese. “Swiss or cheddar?”

  I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t think I can eat it. Historically, we’d be getting ready to play video games, and I wish that was the reality today. I can’t find a historical me, I just sit and look up at him occasionally, before returning to the veins of the marble.

  Tanner hasn’t said much since I got here besides offering me comfort as I cried. Now, he’s focused on the sandwich. “Both,” he says without waiting, nodding to himself.

  I’m embarrassed but look up from a particularly dark gray vein.

  He looks good. Altered somehow. I might think there was an alien wearing his skin. He’s filled out too, even though he didn’t have much more muscle to add. Girls always thought he was the hot one—all that construction work. I was the dark one, the mysterious bad boy with the father in prison. Skinny, wiry, and angry. I’m the same, but Tanner, even though he’s concentrating on adding cheese to the bread, is emanating joy as if he found a charging station and plugs in each night. He still looks like my former best friend, but I can sense he’s different.

  “My dad says he saw you.” He picks up the turkey and adds it to the cheese.

  “Yeah.”

  “At his AA meeting.”

  “I didn’t know you were talking to him again.”

  Tanner lays a clump of iceberg lettuce on top of thin sliced cold cuts. “Yeah.” The fact we haven’t talked in six months sits on that word. “Actually, we all started seeing therapists. We’ve gone together a bunch of times, as a family.”

  A shrink? The idea unnerves me, and I think about the times we both made fun of the idea. Maybe I made fun of the idea, and he just smiled.

  “No. I don’t feel like my balls are shrinking,” he says as though heading me off before I can say it. I realize when the words leave his mouth, they sound like something I would have said before. By the sudden strain around his mouth, it bothers him.

  He slathers the bread with mustard, never mayonnaise on his, because he hates it. When we were first friends, I made him a sandwich at my house, bread, bologna, and mayonnaise. He tried to eat it but kept gagging. The memory makes me smile, sort of.

  I wonder if I should say “I’m sorry” now.

  He slides the plate stacked with the sandwich across the counter toward me. I think about the glass of water I’d offered Bella and then shake my head to refocus on the sandwich again. I’m supposed to be taking Max to dinner. I’m supposed to be getting Max right now.

  “I didn’t know you were going to AA.”

  “I went the once. With Phoenix.”

  “He’s back.”

  I nod.

  “Good?”

  I nod again. “Seems so.”

  It’s his turn to nod, but then his eyes study me with too much awareness. “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks.” I don’t smile. I’d like to correct him and say I am shit, but I don’t. It’s common knowledge around these parts. I glance around, suddenly wondering what I’m doing here.

  “You just going to sit there or are you going to tell me what that was all about?” He’s leaning against the counter, his hands on it framing his hips.

  I look at him and open my mouth to tell him I’m sorry, that I’ve missed him, but the words don’t come out. Right behind them are the facts of what Bella just told me and the awareness that in the face of crisis the first person I’d needed, the first person I’d come to is the one I’d told wasn’t my friend. Yet here I am. Here he is, accepting my weakness, making me a sandwich, and asking me what’s wrong. It makes me feel terrible all over again.

  He steps forward and leans on his side of the island. “I’ll go first. I’m sorry about that night, in the parking lot. I shouldn’t have punched you. And the night at the Quarry when I lost my cool.”

  He’s apologizing.

  I scoff.

  “What?”

  “Why do you always have to be so goddamn perfect?” I maybe say this harsher than I want.

  His eyebrows scrunch together. “What the fuck, Griff?”

  “No. Shit.” I shake my head and hold up a hand. “I don’t—you’re just a good guy. And I’m not. I’m the one who owes you the apology. I shouldn’t have said what I said about Rory. And all the things I said about you and Matthews. I was a dick. And you go and apologize first.”

  He sighs. “You aren’t a bad guy.”

  I look up at him, and I feel the tears fill my eyes again. I want to cut down the kindness he’s offered. I hear a lie even if he hasn’t offered it as one. That’s the thing about Tanner, he believes it. I swipe at a tear as it slips from my eye and dip my chin to my chest to hide it.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m just sorry,” I say. “I wasn’t thinking for a long time.” I can’t meet his eyes.

  “We aren’t together. Matthews and me.”

  I look at him.

  He’s frowning, clearly bothered by what he’s shared. “So, you were right.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be right.”

  “Yeah. Me too. I really like her. Check that. I love her.”

  My heart snags on his admission. It’s so big and bold. Brave. I have to look away from how shiny he is and stare at the sandwich. “It was obvious. In retrospect.”

  “We still talk.”

  “Is that good?”

  “Yeah.” His dark eyebrows shift over his dark brown eyes with a new thought. “Did you just say you’re sorry? Multiple times? And did you just admit you were wrong?” He pauses and looks around. “Where’s the real Griff? You are an imposter.”

  “Fuck off,” I tell him.

  He laughs. “Oh. It is you.”
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  I can’t help but smile even if it’s tight and doesn’t chase away the dark creatures settling into my bones.

  He pinches a crust on his sandwich and then looks at me. “We both messed up, but you’ve never stopped being my best friend, my brother, Griff. People do shitty things all the time, but I’m learning more about the idea that when I forgive them, and myself, I release the power it has over me and shit.”

  I want to say, “that’s deep,” but I bite my tongue. I recognize that comment for what it is, discomfort with his blatant vulnerability and the truth. I feel better being here right now, as frightening as it was to show up. Hadn’t Phoenix said something similar? I feel better talking to my best friend again, clearing the air. Even as terrified as I am at this moment for a million reasons, listening to him and telling him “I’m sorry” feels freeing.

  “You going to say something sarcastic?”

  I shake my head with recognition that Tanner does know me.

  “So... you going to tell me what’s wrong?” He offers a kind smile, and I can see he isn’t making fun of me. “You can talk to me, you know.”

  I just blurt it out. I don’t think it’s something that can be eased into. “Bella’s pregnant.”

  His face relaxes, then opens up with surprise in increments until he swipes it with his hand, the other arm crossing over his chest and grasping onto his underarm. “Shit.”

  I poke at the sandwich with my finger, leaving a depression in the bread.

  “Shit,” he repeats, watching me. Now his arms are crossed, both holding onto his underarms. He opens his mouth to say something, but then doesn’t.

  I know he doesn’t know what to say. I don’t either, but I just tell him what I know. “She wants to keep it, and she doesn’t want anything from me.”

  “So, you and Bella slept together? But you aren’t together?”

  “We hooked up once, on my birthday.” He doesn’t have to say it because I do: “I broke the rules.” I bury my hands in my hair, elbows on the countertop. “I got too fucked up, and then I didn’t use a rubber because she said she was on the pill.”

  “Think it matters now one way or the other how it happened? Kind of just is.”

  He’s right, so I share what’s really bothering me. “I just started seeing this other girl.” I glance at him without moving my head from my hands.

  Tanner leans back.

  “And she’s awesome.”

  He moves around the island and pulls his plate across the counter to where he sits down next to me. “Okay.”

  “And how the fuck am I supposed to drag her into this?”

  “You like her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Love her?”

  I shrug. “I don’t–”

  “If you like her and you think she’s worth having in your life, then it isn’t your choice to make for her. You have to come clean and let her decide for herself.”

  But how could she choose me? I’ve made it impossible. I wouldn’t choose me. The moment I tell her some other girl is pregnant with my kid, she’s going to tell me to go to hell, like she should. I warned her I’d find a way to ruin it.

  My phone pings. “I’m supposed to be picking her up for a date right now.” I pull the phone from my pocket.

  “Griffin Nichols is going on a date?” Tanner’s dark brows shift over his dark eyes, and he grins. “She must be special then.”

  I can’t keep from smiling, thinking about Max like that, but it’s subdued and difficult to hold onto; I glance at the spiderweb screen and groan.

  It’s Max: Where are you?

  “Dude. What the fuck is wrong with your screen? Get that fixed. Is it her?”

  I nod.

  Tanner swallows the bite. “First. Why did you let me make you a sandwich? Second, get the fuck out of here.”

  “I don’t know if I can go.”

  “Why? We just established you have to tell her.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to say I’m scared, but that’s not something I’ve admitted before. I don’t think I have ever said those words to anyone but Max. Her rules run through my mind. Trust is the first one. I glance at Tanner, and after the last thirty minutes, I know he won’t think differently of me, but my own insecurity keeps me from telling it so honestly. I skirt it. “I don’t want to lose her.”

  “Not your choice. It’s hers. But you shouldn’t decide for her, Griff.”

  “You’re right.”

  I text her back, on my way, and stand up.

  “Let me know how it goes.” Tanner follows me to the front door, grasping my shoulders and squeezing as if I’m on my way to the boxing ring.

  “Okay.” I start down the sidewalk.

  “Griff?” Tanner calls after me. “I’m glad you stopped by.”

  “Me too.”

  I mean it, and feel like, maybe knowing he’s got my back, I can face talking to Max. My heart is stuck under water and drowning, though I’m afraid I’ve just drowned this relationship, and it’s DOA even before I tell her the truth.

  6

  The farmhouse looks like a holiday card when I park the car and get out. The glowing Christmas lights that line the room, the tree still twinkling in the window to the right of the door. The snow glows in the moonlight. I walk to the front door, the peace of the picture doing nothing to relieve my apprehension at what I need to do. Instead, I feel worse. The beauty makes me feel like a dark stain mucking up the perfection of it all.

  I stare at the evergreen wreath hanging on the front door, but I don’t knock. I don’t have my coat, and I know it’s cold, but I also don’t really feel it. I’m numb inside and out. As I stand there, I recall all the moments I’ve spent with Max since she’s been home. The dates, the time spent with her dad, the drives. We’ve joked, laughed, touched, kissed. There’s been the hazy reminder that I didn’t deserve it with her, but new Griffin accepted it as a gift. Old Griff always knew the score. I take a step away from the door.

  I pull my phone from my pocket and text Max: Something’s come up. Can’t make it.

  Then I retreat for the car.

  I’m to the gate when Max’s voice stops me. “What’s come up?”

  I turn to look at her.

  She’s backlit by the lights they put up for Christmas, looking so pretty it hurts. She’s shrugging into a coat over a black dress. Her hair is down, shining in the light. “Griffin? What is it? You’ve been standing out here for almost five minutes.”

  I swallow and take a few steps toward her.

  “Where’s your coat?”

  I glance down at myself and picture it draped over the chair by the front door at my house where I’d set it, the moment I’d found Bella on the doorstep. I shiver. “I forgot it.”

  She meets me on the sidewalk, takes my hand, and leads me back to the car. “Get in. Heat on.”

  I follow her directions.

  She gets into the passenger’s side seat and turns to face me. “What’s going on?”

  It’s not your choice. It’s hers.

  But I don’t know how to get the truth beyond my throat. I know her rules, but I don’t know how to share this. I don’t even know what to think of it myself. I feel like I’m going to be sick, lean back in the seat with a groan, and close my eyes.

  With a worried sound, Max leans forward and touches me, a light pressure on my arm. “Griffin? What is it? Are you okay? Your family?”

  I shake my head. “No. No. I’m not okay.” It comes out harsher than she deserves and not as I intended, but it doesn’t change the fact that it does. “I didn’t want to do this now.”

  “You can talk to me.”

  “Not about this.”

  She sighs. “What is it? You got some girl pregnant.” She snorts at the impossibility of it.

  I wince, shudder, and turn to face her.

  When she sees my face, her laughter stops, and that beautiful smile—the one I love so much—fades. She retracts her touch. “That was a joke.”
>
  I feel myself crumble and collapse into a tight box. “Except that it fucking isn’t. I slept with Bella, on my birthday, and didn’t fucking follow my own rules. We were both drunk as fuck. I didn’t use protection because she said she was on the pill. She showed up tonight and told me she’s pregnant and she’s keeping it. That I’m going to have a kid. I’m fucking nineteen. Is that a joke to you?”

  Her eyes narrow. “The same Bella that was a bitch to you?”

  “One and the same.”

  “No. I don’t think it’s a joke. You can keep your self-righteous asshole routine to yourself.” Her hand comes up to cover her mouth, and I see she’s trembling. Her voice quivers when she says, “You slept with the girl who said those awful things about you?”

  I shrug. “She was willing.”

  “Right. Your rules.” She turns away from me and faces forward in her seat. “Do you love her?”

  I scoff. “No, I don’t love her. I just fucked her.” It’s cold, and the perfect example of old Griff putting up armor. “I fucking told you. I told you.”

  “Told me what?”

  “I ruin shit. See?” I pause, then say, “You should just go.”

  She turns to look at me, and her look terrifies me. It isn’t one of anger, which I’d get. It isn’t a look of disgust because that’s what I feel already. It isn’t a look that communicates contempt. That would be fitting. All of those would help me feel justified. Instead, it’s an awful look of sadness. Her eyes have filled with tears and her chin quivers even as she tries to fight it. A few tears escape the confines of her eyes as they spill down her cheeks. She swipes them away with her fingertips, and all I want to do is gather her into my arms and hold her, tell her I’m sorry. I want to bury my face in the space between her neck and shoulder and cry too. But I don’t. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve her.

  “I told you that you couldn’t ruin this.” She pauses to gather her words again because they crack apart with her tears. When she finds a way to finish, she says, “I was wrong. Know this, Griffin, it isn’t because of you got some girl pregnant. It’s because you didn’t trust me to be on your side.”