Only Saints

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"You need to breathe."

It's raining. It's the dead of night and it's raining. It's the dead of night and it's raining and black water is brimming to the edges of the creek that runs past Old Mère's trailer, licking at my feet and the bottoms of my jeans, and I'm fairly certain my mother doesn't even know I'm out here. I'm very certain that even if she knew, she wouldn't care.

"I can't—" I wipe my hair back from my face. The rain falling in my eyes stings like sweat and tears and tastes like salt where it rolls down to my lips. Every breath is ragged and my eyes are sore with the effort it's taking me not to cry right now. "I'm fine. I just wanted to talk and I can't talk to anyone else and I feel like I'm so fucking isolated out here, I just... I'm sorry," I mumble, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called, I shouldn't have called, I—"

"It's fine." Drew sighs. Hard. Fuck. He's so pissed at me. "It's fine, Paul. Where are you at?"

I shouldn't have called. He was probably relaxing. He was probably asleep. He was fine and then I interrupted his night.

I should hang up.

I'm too self-centered for that.

"I'm outside." I have my phone tilted up just under my chin, raindrops falling from the tip of my nose to splatter over the screen. No matter how careful I am, it's not going to keep my phone safe tonight. I suppose I should be thankful for waterproof cases and screen protectors now.

"Why are you—" Drew sighs again. Water runs on his end. I can imagine him standing in front of the mirror in his bathroom, running the sink, splashing water over his face so maybe he can wake up. "Don't worry about it."

I shouldn't have called.

"Talk to me," he says.

So I talk: about my family and how I feel like I should love them, like I should belong, but even when I lean into the person I used to be, I'm not really him; about Florie and how I feel guilty that we're not as close as we used to be, that she's not my best friend any more, that no matter how hard we try we'll never be glued at the hip again; about my mother and what she told me; about my mother and how she looks at me; about my mother and the bitterness in her voice when she talks to me.

"She hates me."

"Did she say she hates you?" Drew sounds like that therapist I saw at Dresdenwood.

"No, but—"

"So you're just assuming she does."

"I ruined her life." That's one of those thoughts that feels better and worse to say. Better, because it's out in the air, living in the world instead of inside my chest, and it can stop cannibalizing me; worse, because I have to confront it and I have to acknowledge it now that it's been said. "She had a future, Drew. She had a whole fucking life, and then..."

"Because you asked to be born. You, personally, went back in time and made your parents get it on."

I laugh, but it still feels awful. "No. You know. If I was a better kid, then maybe..."

"You can't keep blaming yourself for their mistakes." Drew yawns on the other end. "Sorry. It's...Jesus, is it really one? You need to get some sleep."

Is it one? I tap my phone screen to turn it on and stare at the time. I hadn't even looked at the clock when I slipped out of the trailer; I'd only been thinking about the ache in my chest, only dwelling on the memory of my mother's voice and the way she disappeared after I took my drive. I spent the last few hours staring at the ceiling in the dark, curled up, tossing and turning with only a light sheet pulled over me, and even then it was too much pressure and not enough at the same time.