Page 12 of Goldilocks
“I don’t know, Sam.” Eric tore his gaze away with a jerk. “I don’t think I ‘decided’ anything. I just acted. No thoughts, no contemplation. I looked at you curled up in bed and knew if I woke you up and you gave me a sleepy hug or a sleepy smile, I wouldn’t be able to leave.”
Sam’s throat tightened. It took effort to swallow. Conscious thought to keep it quiet. How could he not remember Eric? How could he not rememberthis?
Movements still jerky, Eric turned the key to start the engine. “Feels like a kick to the gut to see you had to put up with the same crap I did. Even here at college.”
“I don’t put up with crap,” Sam jumped in. He had. Grew up with jeers and snide comments, but he had also grown up with family. With people who stuck up for him. “You’re like Mary. She always focuses on the negative, on the guy who talks shit. And she gets so wound up about it that she never notices theotherguy.”
“You mean the one waiting on the sidelines to sucker punch you?”
“I mean the one who steps in to have my back.”
Eric, after a long stretch of silence, stopped gripping the wheel like he wanted to crush it beneath his fingers. “I guess.”
“Should I drive?” Sam offered. “You seem more worked up than I am.”
“No. I’ve calmed down now,” Eric said. “I’m sorry. Of all the things I expected when I came out here, having to watch you get punched wasn’t something I prepared for. Is your face okay?” He put the car into gear and reversed out of the parking space.
“Feeling better already,” Sam lied. He relaxed into his seat and lifted the ice pack to his face.
Sam pretended not to notice the looks he was getting every other second as Eric drove. Sam didn’t even have to tell Eric the knack for getting the car into gear, didn’t have to tell him he needed to hold the stick in place as he released the clutch or else it would pop back out. Eric just did it automatically. Muscle memory. He must have learned to drive the car before he left. Their mom’s car was one of the few belongings she’d left behind when she died. Sam had been four years old, so he had only vague memories of her. Scattered memories told him she was a soft, loving figure. Always gentle. Warm. He’d loved her, and he didn’t need any relatives to tell him that she’d loved him too.
He considered the fact that he could ask Eric about her; he would have been nine or ten when she died. Surely, he had more memories of her than Sam. But what if he had something negative to say? He clearly didn’t have a positive opinion of their dad. Did Sam want the little he recalled of his mom marred by cutting words? Aunt Mal already confused him with the way she described her, said she had an attitude like Mary. A fiery woman with big opinions she made sure everyone heard.
Sam didn’t bother to correct her; even from a young age, he knew she was wrong. As he got older, he realised that his mom very well might have had those aspects to her as well, but Sam only recalled the soft and the gentle parts.
“What do you do?” Sam asked, drawing himself from his memories. He let go of the warming ice pack in favour of the panini.
“I work at Ivan’s tattoo shop,” Eric said. “I’ve been there for years now, ever since he first opened it. I handled the admin side of things until he taught me how to do what he did.” His lips quirked up, as if he were recalling a pleasant memory. “It was a mess at the start. But his art was always brilliant, and he never compromised on that ever, so we turned it into something good. He has two other artists working for him now too, and they’re almost as good as he is.” Eric glanced at Sam. “What about you? You’re in college full time, but Mary said you still take the boat out with Dad?”
“Not with Dad,” Sam said. “Just by myself.”
“Dad doesn’t help at all?” Eric pressed.
Sam unwrapped his panini. There it was. That tone from the other night. Bitter amusement. Criticism and censure. All of it packed into one little question. Eric had clearly left on bad terms with their dad. Sam didn’t know why Oisín never talked about Eric, never wondered to Sam where he’d ended up, but he didn’t think his dad was fuelled by the same bitter anger that clearly stewed inside Eric. Most likely, Oisín had tried to protect Sam. Tried to spare him from bad memories or spare him from feeling the loss of his older brother. Oisín had stopped talking about Sam’s mom years ago. Though, perhaps the dementia had set in before Sam had noticed it. Perhaps those memories had been eaten up and devoured years ago, and there was no reason behind the silence about Eric’s existence beyond the cruel, unstoppable deterioration of Oisín’s mind.
“I’m sure we’ve had this conversation already,” Sam said, flat. His voice, he hoped, was enough warning to drop it.
Eric’s jaw tensed. “It’s just a question.”
“It’s poorly disguised criticism.”
Eric scoffed. “I’m not allowed to talk about him at all, am I?”
“I don’t even remember you. If you’re just looking for someone to talk shit about Dad with, you’ve picked the wrong person.”
Eric drew upright, hurt flashing in his eyes. Sam didn’t apologise or correct himself. He let silence fall between them. He’d heard enough people talking crap about his dad growing up that he wasn’t going to put up with it from anyone now, no matter who it was. Contrary to what Mary fussed about, Sam was more than able to put a stop to what he never knew how to handle when he was a teenager: he’d learned that long ago. Difference was where she was ready to go to war over every single paper cut, Sam picked his battles.
The silence between them was sticky. Heavy.
Eric shook his head. “That first part was necessary, was it?” he asked, voice brittle with hurt.
Regret pricked Sam’s conscience. He loosed a long breath, calming himself. “No. It wasn’t.” It was needlessly hurtful. Cruel. A pointed stab that, even after only two conversations with Eric, he knew would find tender flesh.
The drive passed in uncomfortable silence after that. Eric, Sam reckoned, was too chastised to risk another loaded question, and Sam was too irritated by his remark to give him an easy out. Sam wished the road home was shorter.
“Do you have any plans for dinner tomorrow?” Eric finally broke the silence as they neared their town.
“Nothing in particular.”