The Edge of Being by James Brandon

Author:James Brandon [Brandon, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2022-10-11T00:00:00+00:00

26

I lead Max to the bed and let her cry on my chest until she falls asleep.

I trace the etched words on her arms, whisper the affirmations in her ear.

Maybe she’ll hear them in her dreams.

27

An hour later, Christopher fumbles in.

“I knew it!” he yells, tripping over a bag.

“Oh God.” Max pushes off the bed.

“Knew what? Where were you?” I ask, jumping up, trying to grab hold of him as he flails around the room.

“Get off!” He shoves me; I stumble back onto the bed.

“Max, close the door,” I say. She does, her eyes glued to Christopher.

“Pretty clever, you two. For a second you had me thinking I was the crazy one.”

“What are you talking about? Why are you so drunk right now? What happened?” I try holding him again. He swats at the air.

“I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

“Christopher. Stop it. Now.”

He flounders toward me, wobbles inches in front of my face. “Well, I went to some gay bars and kissed a boy tonight. How’s that?”

“Okay . . . why?”

“For one, you said you always feel like you’re alone when you’re with me.”

“That’s not what I—”

“And three, her tit-tay was in your hand. What am I missin’ here?”

“It wasn’t. You’re drunk.”

He turns to her. “Well, that’s what it looked like,” he sneers.

I glance over to Max. She’s shaking, her face buried in her hands. She slides down the wall. I turn back to Christopher, who leans to one side, then jerks back upright. I grab his shoulders to steady him. “Am I still high? What is happening right now?”

“You’re high?” he asks. “Since when do you get high? Who even are you, Fig? You keep talking about your dad this and poor me that. Meanwhile, you’re missing out on our”—he waves his hands around me—“life.”

“Why are you acting like this?”

He rubs his face, hard, like he’s trying to peel off his skin, and says, “My head . . . I think I drank too much.”

“I know. Why?”

“To forget.”

“Forget what? I tried calling you. A lot,” I say. “I thought you wanted to be alone. I’ve been worried about where you were and—”

“That’s the million-dollar question, ain’t it.” He whips his arms up, pushing me away. “And where were you, mister?” He whistles and lands a finger somewhere on my forehead, burrowing his nail in. “We left each other long ago, didn’t we?”

“Let’s get you in the shower.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen, Fig.” Still burrowing. So hard, it stings.

“It’s okay. Let me help you.”

“You can’t help me! Don’t you get it?” He staggers back, catches himself against the wall. “You can’t help—” And like that, he bursts into tears. A volcano of sobs. Like the sadness and anger have been dormant for years. “Shit.”

“Christopher—”

“No, you can’t.” He crouches, his head buried in his hands.

I bend down. “Tell me what’s going on. Where’s this coming from?”

He bangs his head against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. His breathing heavy and thick. “Gracie . . . everything she said .

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