BEAU (original version)| ✓

51

• CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE•
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The night is young and so am I.

After missing school this past week, Eliot's attempts at nagging me to go have stopped. We rarely see much of each other these days and the same goes for Marc. He's stopped sleeping in my room and on the occasion when I do return earlier in the evening, I notice him sneaking into Eliot's room instead. Kendra didn't call me back as she promised. I left a few text messages to which she gave me dismissive responses. What should I have expected? I cut her off first and she's repaying the favour.

As I tread quietly as I can to the front door, footsteps echo behind me, paralyzing my legs. I don't have to turn around to figure that it's Eliot. The hour is late, the house is so silent that my breathing sounds ten times amplified, and nobody should be awake. We're the exception.

"Where are you going?"

I pivot around, instantly regretting my decision when our eyes lock, identical reflections. "Out."

"Are you coming back tomorrow or in a few days?"

It's a bit painful listening to our diluted conversations. This is the man I once begged my mom and God to see. My wish was granted the day she died, but it has its repercussions. "Tomorrow morning," I answer him, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Normally, his presence wouldn't disturb me as much as it is tonight.

For reasons unbeknownst to me, I want him to stop me, to scream, to get angry, to fight for me to stay with him.

He doesn't utter a response, but when his fingers clutch the banister, there's something he is keeping hidden. "You be careful, Beau."

"Thanks."

I make the first move and turn back toward the door, walking away slowly, giving him time to change his mind and call out to me. When I hold the knob and open the door, he still doesn't speak. For a moment, I think maybe he's gone upstairs to care for Marc. The creaking steps confirm it. However, the farther I expect his warmth to be the closer it gets. Until I sense my father behind me.

"Beau, qu'est-ce que tu fais?"

Not the slightest bit sure of what he's asking, I push the pride aside and go to his arms. He doesn't know how to react at first. Just like me, he's trying to put the pieces together and understand if this is real, if I'm the one holding him the way a scared boy would. "I don't know what's wrong with me," I confess. "I don't know what's happening."

I feel Eliot's reluctance, but once his arms enclose me, he becomes more sure of himself. He embraces me as though I'm the five-year-old boy I used to be. I remember his hugs. I remember the excitement that coursed through my body whenever mom announced that he'd be visiting for the week. I never left his side as a child, and I wonder why I'm doing it now.

"I'm lost, papa. Nothing's making me happy and I have no idea what I want from anybody."

Not drugs, not staying away from this house, not my brother, not finding my father, not talking to Kendra, not...anything. Everything. It's all meaningless.

"You're keeping all these feelings inside, Beau. You should have spoken to me before doing anything else." Eliot keeps me close, and I inhale his familiar scent. "I'm your father, that's what I'm here for."

"I just...I just felt like I was supposed to hate you for leaving me all those years. I didn't want to be happy here with you. I have to hate you for leaving me."

The truth is I don't and I never have.

"You don't, do you?"

"No," I whisper into the front of his shoulder. "I love you, papa, and it's bothering me."

There's no reply needed. He's told me he loves me countless times, made it seem that way even for the short amount of time I knew him as a child. I should have never run from him for my sake. I need Eliot in some fucked up way and that hasn't changed. He used to be in the pages of my sketchbook, but now he's real. Pining after him is the same.

"What do you really want, Beau?" he asks, kissing the crown of my head softly in a way that reminds me of the kind of man he is; a father. "What do you think will make you happy?"

"Mom," I pull away and meet the teary eyes of my father, "but I know that's not possible."

"I'm sorry, Beau."

I look at the floor in disappointment. Then Eliot's hands clasp my shoulders and I redirect my gaze at him. "Maybe you could start by being home more often."

I ponder upon his suggestion, but staying in this place terrifies me. I don't belong here. I haven't belonged here for years. "Stay here with your brother," he speaks again, understanding edging into his voice. "Learn to survive without whatever is out there. That means no alcohol and no drugs."

My face morphs in discontent. "But that's impossible."

"It's not, Beau. Baby steps. You keep away for a day at a time."

Something in me fears disappointing him so I agree. "Fine, I'll stay home with Marc."

Eliot smiles, a sight that I haven't digested for far too long. "The better you get, the more help I'll give you. You could try something like an AA group."

That isn't an idea I'm open to. I could do without the constant reminder that I've fucked up more than once in my life. "No AA group. I'd rather stay at home."

My father nods once then leads me back inside the house. We stop at the bottom of the stairs where instead of leaving me here alone, he gestures for me to follow him to the living room. I do as follows, and he seats himself on the couch, patting the space next to him.

"You're going to talk to me about everything on your mind, Beau. And neither of us are going to sleep until you get it off your chest."

I sit down beside him and cross my arms, looking off to the window.  "Can we talk another time? I'm tired."

"You avoid problems like your mother." Eliot chuckles, ruffling my hair. "When she was pregnant with you, she avoided me for such a long time until she had no choice but to tell me we were expecting."

I soften at the mention of mom. "She tends to do that, but she has her reasons."

"And you're going to tell me all of yours."

Realizing there's no escaping the situation, my best bet is to start from the very beginning. Eliot smiles encouragingly. I've never had many people ask me what the problem is, they just assume. It's assuring that tonight I have the chance to speak without any judgment. It doesn't happen often, which perturbs me, but I might as well take advantage of it now.

I stare at my father, seeing all the ways we resemble each other. It almost feels like talking to myself. Something along those lines.

Eliot listens. That's more than I've ever asked for.