Page 101 of Undertow

“You there, son?”

My chest is so tight. I can’t get the words out.

I force a stream of frigid air into my lungs.

“It’s… me. Hi, Gramps. How, um…”

I clench my eyes shut.

Stop it! You can’t cry. He can’t know the truth.

Fucking function or hang up!

“Son? You still there?”

I grip the phone in my hand, but it doesn’t ease the avalanche crushing my chest.

Breathe, Shaw. Fucking breathe.

“Yeah. Sorry. How are you, Gramps?”

“Honestly, kid? Not great. They didn’t have pudding again at dinner, can you believe that? Second day in a row. What kind of establishment is this, anyway? Bernie and I submitted a complaint. Signed it and put it in an envelope and everything.”

More tears slam against my eyelids.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.

“Everything alright with you? You sound off.”

The concern in Gramps’ voice makes the tears pound harder.

I press the heel of my palm against my eye, fighting for air.

“Son? What is it? What’s going on?”

I shake my head. Traitorous liquid spills down my cheeks, burning my skin.

Stop it!

I suck in a ragged breath. “I-I’m fine. Everything’s great.”

My stab wound pulses with fresh agony at the lie. Other mystery pains throb in reply, screaming truths I don’t want to hear.

A deep ache shudders through my entire body with every fractured breath.

“You don’t sound fine. What happened? Those professors giving you a hard time? Do I need to call to remind them you’re the smartest, strongest, sweetest kid they’ll ever have the privilege of teaching?”

A weak smile pokes through the crushing pain, and I manage to shove the ache back behind my ribs.

“No, school is great. Just aced my term paper for Nineteenth Century Lit.”

“Yeah? No shit! That’s wonderful. Can I read it? You haven’t let me read your work in years. Not since you went off to that fancy university. I tell everyone at the community center, you know. How my boy got a full ride to some hoity toity college and one day we’ll have your books in our library. When that happens, I’ll be looking Spence Watkins in the eye and telling him to eat dirt because his grandson isn’t half the artist you are.”

I rub away more tears as I try to catch my breath.

Get it together.

He can’t know I’m shattering.