Page 13 of Broken Bird (The Last Picks #4)

In the aftermath of Millie’s scream—which I was starting to suspect had triggered a bout of tinnitus—all I could do was stare at Bobby. Bobby stared back at me. To be fair, Bobby was clearly waiting for something, since Millie had thrown me under the bus with her declaration that I had something to tell him.

“I wanted to tell you,” I said, “that I’m thinking about taking up screaming as well. As a hobby.”

His face…relaxed. That was the best word for it—like he’d been expecting something else, and now he could let his guard down. A hint of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. He glanced at the presents and said, “You’ve been busy.”

“These are Millie’s. Somehow I got drafted.”

“I guess I’m getting protein powder?”

“Stop! Don’t look! You have to pretend to be surprised.”

That time, I almost got the real grin—the big, goofy smile that was all Bobby. But his expression grew serious. “Are you okay? I heard about Pippi’s performance at the bookstore.”

“Have I told you enough times that you were right? I never should have agreed to help her.”

“Of course you were going to help her,” he said, and he sounded confused.

“I was?”

“Well, yeah. Dash, that’s what you do.” When I didn’t say anything, he added, “You help people.” And then, with a note that almost sounded wry, he continued, “If you hadn’t helped her, I would have thought you were sick or something. I just didn’t want you to get…hurt.”

That sank in for a minute.

While I was still trying to decipher yet another cryptic comment from the most cryptic man in the world, Bobby said, “When I asked if you were okay, I meant—well, the group text has been busy today.”

“Oh my God.”

For some reason, that made him smile. “Fox had a plan about boxes.”

“Oh my actual God. It’s like living with a bunch of well-meaning, busybody aunts and uncles. Who also happen to be twelve-year-olds. And who get a lot of adulting mileage out of Looney Tunes . Although maybe there’s some weird astrology stuff going on, because Millie has been eerily, uh, insightful lately.”

Bobby let it all wash over him as usual. And then he said, “So, you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He nodded and hitched a thumb at the hall. “I’m going to wash up—”

“I changed my mind.”

He didn’t groan. Well, not very loud, anyway.

“I’m not fine,” I said.

“Okay.”

“I’m feeling really, um, things.”

“You’re feeling really things?”

“And I might be stalking you.”

That made him blink a few times.

“Can you sit down or something? This is making me feel like I’m in the principal’s office, plus I’m getting a crick in my neck.”

“You’re stalking me, so I should sit down in your room?”

“Millie pointed out that I’d probably be a very polite stalker.”

Another smile teased the corner of his mouth as he came across the room to sit on the floor, but it had faded by the time he crossed his legs. “All right,” he said. “What’s going on?”

It’s hard to put into words how scary it felt. I mean, this was Bobby. He was my friend—at least, he would be until the end of this conversation. But I’d never been good at relationships, and that included friendships. Had I read everything wrong? Had I made a mistake? Worse, what was he going to think once I started talking? Because now that I thought about what I wanted to tell him, it didn’t just sound stalkerish. It didn’t just sound obsessive. It sounded insane. Bobby wouldn’t just be weirded out; if he had any brains at all, he’d run for the hills. Or maybe he’d take pity on me and shoot me. I couldn’t seem to draw a deep breath, and a pit opened in my stomach. The room started to spin.

But I’d changed a lot since I’d come to Hastings Rock. And I was trying to be brave.

“Did I do something wrong?” And then I was swept up in the current of emotion. “Did I weird you out somehow? Or hurt your feelings? Or—I don’t know, Bobby. I honestly don’t know.” There was shock on his face, and then, a moment later, nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just like the night before, when he’d come to my room. And the words were still coming. “We used to spend so much time together. I saw you almost every day. And that was when you were dating West. And now you’re single, and—” My voice got scratchy in spite of my best efforts, my frustration (and other emotions) roughing up the words. “—I mean, my God, Bobby, you live here. And I never see you. We never spend any time together. You’re always…gone. And when you’re not gone, it’s like you’re avoiding me. You go straight to your room. When I finally corner you, you find an excuse to get away. And if we do make plans, you bail at the last minute, or you don’t even bother to cancel.” I had to wipe my eyes, and I took a breath that managed to be extremely shuddery and still somehow not feel like it brought any oxygen to my lungs. “And I realize this is a lot. And I’m definitely going full stalker. So, I promise I’ll leave you alone, and I won’t bother you, and you can stay here as long as you want, and I won’t make it awkward or anything. I mean, I won’t make it any more awkward because this is definitely awkward. I actually don’t know if it can get any more awkward. I guess we’ll find out.”

His pupils were huge, darkening the bronze of his eyes. A hint of a flush climbed his throat. And yes, although Bobby was the one with the gun (literally) in this situation, the realization was making its way through my thick head that he might be feeling a little…overwhelmed by this flood of revelations. If not outright terrified.

“Also,” I said, “that was the scariest thing I’ve ever had to do. And that includes the time in seventh grade when we played spin the bottle and I had to kiss Whitney Davis.”

If anything, Bobby’s eyes got even wider. But he breathed something that might have been a laugh. And then, wrinkling his nose, he said, “A girl?”

“It was traumatizing. They made us go in a closet. And afterward she told everyone I tasted like Fritos.”

“Because you’d been eating Fritos.”

“God, so many. Out of pure nerves. And because they’re delicious.”

He made that little breath-laugh again. Outside, the waves crashed against the cliffs, and there was something rhythmic about the sound that seemed to slow everything else: my heartbeat, the sound of our mingled breaths, the whole world.

And then he said, “Dash, I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“What?” He stopped, and there was something funny about his face. Like he was trying to smile, I guess, only it was all wrong. “I’m glad you said something. I—” He stopped again. The silence felt longer this time. He was looking at me, and it was like he was asking some question I couldn’t quite hear. Like he needed me to answer. And then he rubbed his eyes and said, “Do you remember when West and I—do you remember I told you that sometimes I open my mouth, and I can’t say anything?”

I nodded, and then I realized that wasn’t super helpful, so I said, “Bobby, it’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I mean, yeah, some of this is because I’m such a mess. I already feel…God, insecure is the absolute worst word in the entire universe, but I feel really insecure and, uh, vulnerable about relationships in general right now. Because of Hugo, you know? So, I know a lot of this is my insecurity, and I promise I’ll work on it. I just—if I did something, though, I want you to tell me. And I want you to know that I miss spending time with you, and I’d like to spend more time with you. I know you’re busy, and I don’t want to make your life harder or more complicated than it already is. But our friendship means so much to me, and I enjoy spending time with you, and I miss you.” He wore that funny-not funny expression that was a smile-not smile again, and I heard myself add, “Also, I need you to know that getting adulting advice from Millie screwed with my fundamental beliefs about how the universe works.”

For only an instant, that big, generous, open, goofy smile flashed out at me.

“Want to help me wrap? You can do the protein powder because it’s such a wonky shape.”

I thought maybe he’d say no, and his voice was thick when he asked, “You’re making me wrap my own present?”

“I’m testing your acting abilities. Christmas morning, you’re going to play the role of a lifetime.”

He eyed the plastic tub of powder and said, “I’m going to need a lot of tape.”

We set to work. I finished Keme’s game, and then I picked up Fox’s Olivia Benson MetroCard, which Millie had left half-wrapped, and I finished that too. Bobby set to work wrapping the protein powder. I put on Kacey Musgraves’s Christmas album and got out the presents I’d bought for my parents: books on mental health (for my mom, of course), and a laser sight (for my dad). Oh, and I’d found this weird novelty egg timer at a flea market with Bobby, and I sent them that too—because of all the chickens. When the timer was done, a chick burst out of the egg, and it looked like it was screaming. It was the kind of thing nightmares were made of (especially chicken nightmares, presumably).

Bobby chuckled when he saw the timer and went back to taping a seam in his wrapping paper. When he spoke, some of that roughness still clung to his voice. “I haven’t been trying to avoid you,” he said softly. “And you didn’t do anything wrong. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here. I think you might be the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

He meant letting him stay at Hemlock House, of course. I knew that. Maybe he meant having a friend he could talk to.

Before I could think about it too much, he continued, “I feel so messed up. I know West and I—I know I made the right decision.” Struggle flickered on his face, and I could hear the strain as he forced himself to say, “But I feel bad. All the time. I feel so bad I want to—” His hands were unsteady as he applied the next piece of tape, and he left wrinkles in it. “I just want it not to feel like this anymore.”

“Bobby,” I said.

He shook his head.

“Give me that.” I took the tape from him and set it aside. And then I hugged him. His body was stiff, but even so, tremors worked their way through him. “Of course you’re sad,” I said. “Of course you feel bad. You went through something awful, and even though it was your choice, it’s still a loss, and you’re still allowed to hurt and to grieve and to take your time to heal. God, I’m so sorry. I should have figured—it’s just you were always gone, and I’m so in my head about, well, everything, that I figured it had to be about me, and I didn’t even think—”

I cut off because that really was the bottom line: I hadn’t thought. Or rather, I hadn’t thought about him. I’d done plenty of thinking (and overthinking) about myself. Plenty of feeling sorry for myself. Bobby’s body relaxed. He adjusted his arms around me. I felt the weight of his chin on my shoulder. The hot brush of his breath on my neck.

“I’m sorry it hurts right now,” I whispered. “But it’s going to get better.”

He nodded into me.

I rubbed his back. “Also, I decided I’m mad at you.”

He let out a tiny groan.

“I am,” I said. “Because you can’t keep working yourself into the ground, Bobby. And you can’t keep taking risks. The surfing, I mean. And no more gym. At all. Zero. You have way too many muscles as it is.”

His laugh vibrated through me, and suddenly I realized how dangerous this was. How incredibly stupid I was being. I loosened my arms, but Bobby held on to me, and he kept holding on until I was afraid—

What?

But then his embrace slackened, and he let his arms drop, and when I sat back on my heels, I pretended to fix my glasses so I wouldn’t have to see whatever was on his face.

“I know I haven’t been handling this well,” Bobby said. “I wish I were like you. I wish I knew how to—how not to feel so overwhelmed all the time. It’s so much sometimes that I feel like I’m drowning. So, it’s easier to do something else, something I have to focus on. And it’s easier, if I’m being honest, when I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open.”

“No more gym. I’m serious. Doctors say you shouldn’t get more than twenty minutes of exercise per week.” I blew out a breath and said, “Bobby, I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s going to get better. Every day, a little bit. But I do think you need to find a way to—to be with your feelings. Not all the time, if that’s too much. But it’s not healthy to pretend they’re not there.”

He nodded.

“It’s scary,” I said quietly. “I know it’s scary.”

“My whole life, I’ve been fine. I mean, growing up, I got angry, or I got sad. It was hard with my parents when I came out. It was harder when I told them I wasn’t going to med school. But it wasn’t like this. This is so much, and it never lets up, and I just feel so…so out of control. Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind.” He shook his head, looked up at the ceiling, tried for a smile. “You must think I’m insane.”

“I think I’m insane,” I said. “I’m currently tag-teaming an investigation with Pippi, remember?”

He laughed quietly.

“Full disclosure,” I said. “I might have, uh, projected some emotions. The other night. After that person broke into Hemlock House. I was so sure you were, you know, avoiding me, and I thought you were annoyed with me, with having to deal with me. So, in the spirit of apologies, I’m sorry I didn’t react well. And I never want you to sleep on the floor again. Next time, just let me borrow one of your guns.”

“Not a chance,” Bobby said. And then in that same matter-of-fact tone he said, “I wasn’t annoyed at you. I was angry.”

“Hey!”

“Not with you. I mean, not specifically with you. Not only with you.”

“This is getting worse every time you open your mouth. You realize that, right?”

“Someone attacked you, Dash. Someone tried to hurt you. That made me—it made me freaking furious.”

(You can probably guess what he really said.)

“What if they’d hurt you? What if you’d been killed? I mean—God, Dash, do you have any idea—” He shook his head and took a deep breath. Words tight, he said, “This is what I’m talking about. It’s so much, it’s like I can’t even take a breath.”

“But you can,” I said. “Here, lie down.”

He resisted, but only a little. After a moment, we were both lying on the floor, presents forgotten. Our heads were next to each other. Our feet pointed in opposite directions. The floor wasn’t exactly comfortable (that’s why some genius invented beds), and I was painfully aware of Bobby’s mouth inches from mine.

“Instead of trying not to feel things,” I said, “instead of trying to explain the feelings away, or rationalize them, or analyze them, try this: take a deep breath down into your tummy—”

“My tummy.”

“Fine, your belly, Mr. Macho. Take a deep breath. Slowly. And then you exhale slowly. And you just…notice.”

With a distinctly un-Bobby-like grumpiness, he asked, “Notice what?”

“Everything. You can start with your body if you like. How does it feel? Move from your toes to your head, or your head to your toes, or pay attention to the parts of you that don’t feel good right now.”

“That’d be pretty much everywhere.”

“If that’s not helpful, you can pay attention to what’s around you. The sound of the wind against the house. Do you hear how that one shutter rattles like crazy right before the wind dies? Or the waves. The feeling of the floor underneath you. What gravity feels like, the weight of your body.”

I stopped talking, and for a few seconds, we lay there.

Bobby broke the silence when he murmured, “I can hear you breathing.”

Answering that didn’t feel safe. Nothing right then felt safe. Not when I could hear his breathing too, hear it slowly evening out.

After a few more minutes, I said, “How’s that?”

Bobby’s answer was a guarded “It’s okay.” But he must have sensed the eye roll-inducing quality of that statement because he muttered, “Thank you.”

“It gets easier with practice,” I said. “Take it from someone who used to have regular panic attacks when it was time to turn in a story. And if you ever want someone to be with you because it’s—” I tried to choose the right word; he’d been so careful not to say that he was afraid, so I said, “—overwhelming, I’m literally right next door. Plus it’s like the next best thing to a nap.”

He breathed out an amused sound, and then we were both still. The old house creaked and settled. The wind picked up again. The afternoon sun was warm on my face, and the room smelled faintly of leather and gun oil. My body felt loose, and it was so unbelievably easy to have Bobby here, to be with him again, as though that awful chasm between us from the last couple of months had vanished.

Maybe he was thinking the same thing because he said, “Are we okay?”

“We’re great.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

I wasn’t prepared for it when his hand settled against my cheek. His palm was callused, his fingers rough. His thumb swept along the side of my face, and I shivered in spite of myself.

“You’re a good friend,” he said and took his hand back.

And where he’d touched me, the feeling lingered, and I couldn’t think of anything to say.

He sat up. I sat up. I messed with my glasses some more because it’s the perfect excuse not to look at someone who has crawled inside your head and taken up every inch of available brain space. “So,” I mumbled because I had to know. “Are you, um, going to see Hayes again?”

Bobby paused. And then he said, “Why would I see him again?”

And that’s Bobby Mai, everyone. The man who can make an earnestly sincere question into something so mind-bending that you want to spank somebody. (That’s not what I meant! I thought it was an expression.)

Bobby must have noticed I was at sea and taken pity on me because he picked up one of the mental health books and said, “Are these for your mom?”

I nodded.

“Look at you,” he said. “I still have to figure out what to get my parents.”

“What do you normally get them?”

“Something disappointing.” He laughed, and it was his real laugh—easy, quiet. “Last year, I took them to this place—it was outrageously expensive. The whole time, my mom told us what was wrong with it: the service was slow, the napkins were folded sloppily, the salmon was overdone. When we left, my dad gave West twenty dollars.” He held up his hands in bewilderment. “I guess because he thought that’s how much the meal cost? Or he was paying for the valet? Or he felt sorry for West? No idea. This year, I’m going to get her Little Caesars and a gift certificate to the mall.”

I burst out laughing. “Do they even have gift certificates to the mall anymore?”

Bobby shrugged and grinned.

“Well, I’m a standout in the parental disappointment department. My mom probably owns all those books already. My dad will say thank you for the sight, but in a few months, when he forgets I gave it to him, he’ll tell me about a better one he bought for himself. Oh, and my presents will definitely be late at this point, so on Christmas, I’ll get to have the joyous experience of coming up with an explanation for that, too.”

“Thank God you’re a writer.”

“To be fair, my parents are equally terrible at giving gifts. They have no awareness of time, I think—one year when I was in college, a package arrived from them on my birthday, and I was so excited that they’d remembered. Turned out it was their edits on one of my manuscripts. You know, an extra special birthday surprise, what every little boy wants to get.”

“I thought you said you were in college.”

“Excuse me—right now, I don’t need editorial input. I just need you to be supportive.”

I thought there was a smile hiding under Bobby’s serious nod.

“Would you believe me if I told you that the only thing they really want for Christmas is a manuscript? Maybe I should team up with Pippi and hammer out a draft of our true crime adventures in lunacy. I could print it off, get it framed, overnight it to them—”

It was such a stupid, offhand thing to say. It had been a joke, that’s all. But I heard the words coming out of my mouth, and I thought about what Elodie and Ophelia and Hayes had told me. And about how my parents were old school that way. How they always did revisions by hand. And suddenly, I knew. Not all of it, but enough.

“Dash?” Bobby said.

I said a few things Jolly Old Saint Nick never said (at least, not out loud). And then I said, “I am going to kill them.”