Look at You

Chapter 46

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I sit in front of the closet door for two hours. When I first get there, I don't say a thing. I listen to him, on the other side of the door, breathing and crying. After a few minutes, I tell him it's me.

All he says is, "No one gets it. No one gets it."

"I get it," I tell him. "I get it."

There's nothing but silence on the other side of the door. Until I breach it. "Tell me what's going on, Finn. Please let me help." Because I know he's relapsed before, but this is a new level.

"It's too hard," he admits, and his voice is barely audible. "It's too hard to be here, to act like I'm normal like I'm going to be okay and be a normal husband and father one day. I'll never be that."

"What does normal even mean?" I ask. He doesn't respond.

It takes another thirty minutes, but at some point, I get him to open the door. He moves so he's sitting against the door's hinge, and I'm sitting on the wall just next to him. The gun—it's a handgun, a revolver—sits between his legs next to a now-empty bottle of whiskey.

"Was something a trigger today?" I keep my eyes on him, but I focus on a point where I can see him and the gun both. It's terrifying me. I know enough to know the safety's off. If I held it, I could tell if it was loaded. But that's as far as the knowledge my grandpa forced upon me goes.

He shrugs one shoulder like it's hard to lift both. "She's pregnant." He's slurring still.

I want to reach out to him, to squeeze his shoulder, but I avoid any sudden movements. "That's amazing." He shakes his head. "It is, Finn. It's amazing. You've always wanted to be a dad."

"I'm not ready. I can't—not now. I'm terrible now. I need—" his voice breaks. "I need fucking time, Cam. I can't do it when I'm like this."

I think about how easily I could knock him out if I need to. If he reaches for it. He's drunk as hell; the empty bottle tells me as much. Which means he isn't as strong as he would be, or as quick, but still he's got 80 pounds on me. He could snap me like a twig on a normal day. I scooch myself closer to him—to the gun—anyway.

"I was a scared kid. I ever tell you that?" Finn sniffs. "I was—excuse my language—a fucking pansy. I hated football when I first started. I thought I was going to die every time someone tackled me." He chokes on a laugh. "I thought death was easy. I thought it was easy as breaking a bone when I was little. Both my parents died, you know. I thought it was normal to die young. Like stepping on a bug."

Finn's been looking at the gun, but his eyes rise to find mine. "My grandpa just thought I hated sports. Or anything scary, really. I wouldn't get on a roller coaster. I wouldn't go to the big animal exhibits at the zoo. One day he sits me down and he says, Cameron, I won't have this. You're a big boy now, and you can do these things without putting up a fight. I was too proud, even at that age, so I told him. I know I'm a big boy. I just don't want to die. I think he got the picture then because I didn't have to explain it to him. He took a second and then he said, the world isn't as bad as you think, son. In fact, if you look around, you might even find more good than bad." I inch closer. "Finn, there's so much more good." I wrap my fingers around the weapon's cool handle. "So much more good in this world," I flick the safety on. "In your world," I place it behind my back. "Then you're giving credit. You just need to look for it."

He falls back against the door's inside hinges and closes his eyes. "I'm trying," he says. "But fuck. I'll try harder."

It's nearing 10 before I slip out of Finn and Emily's. I left him asleep, took the gun, and made sure Emily had some tea and a friend with her before I left.