I missed you, Poet.
I am packed in tightly beside Duncan on the couch. I don't want to move. Ten weeks was a long time, even though it was barely nine if you're being picky. And here now Gage has just begun to rumble about heading out for a few weeks and I just want to keep everyone inside and bar the door.
Duncan nods. I missed you. I missed everyone. You know? I got out there and the whole family dynamic was completely different and I decided I would just float through it and they called me on my shit so fast I don't think I had even settled in. But I'll give them credit, they did it. They supported me through the whole thing and here I was supposed to be support for them.
They're good people, Dunk. Good Humans.
Yes. They saw your pictures and thought I was missing you. Since they know about the setup here they made assumptions.
So you set them straight?
No, he laughs. Not really. I just left it because I can't explain it so why the hell not? (At this point Duncan would lift a beer bottle and take a drink but since he's not going to do that anymore he just sat back and looked at me.)
Duncan-
Hey, why don't you make some tea? That would be good. Planes are dry. Then I have to give the kids their souvenirs and I want to crash for a day or so. The stuff for the big people I shipped separately. It'll get here next week.
Okay.
I reluctantly get up and go to the kitchen. Over the years Duncan has become what Caleb always was when I was little. Cooler than everyone else in spades. If you had his attention or approval it was a warm flood of awesome inside and you became briefly invincible. People would hang on his words, look to him to wardrobe and opinion cues. People would feel rewarded if he spent time with them.
Basically he's the God of the Shallows over here. He writes poetry and cares little for things he can't change and he had his shit together when he left.
And suddenly he missed me too much to cope with it reasonably? Oh. Oh no. Not you too. You're supposed to be cooler than cool.
Now that he's back I see the light spilling through the cracks and he's not together, he's a mosaic of a beat poet/lizard king. He's shaken and weakened somehow and I find it more than a little sad that everyone suddenly deals with life with Bridget by keeping themselves topped up until they can't face me anymore and then they take off and get cleaned up and come back total strangers.
Fuck this. I want my lizard kings.
Dalton comes into the kitchen to help. I'm relieved that he's back. If I had known he was that bad off I wouldn't have let him go out. He looks vaguely worried. It's never fun to have the roles reversed, little brother looking after the big brother. It's unnatural and scary.
I shake my head and rub Dalton's hand. He had to go. Maybe he needed the long break to get sorted out. He'll be fine.
I know. He's tough. I just hate seeing him...what's the word?
Vulnerable.
Yeah.
He's always been that way. I lie. That's the only way the poetry has to get out. Through those tiny hairline cracks.
I love the way you spin things, Bridget.
Me too. I'm glad I'm home. Duncan's in the doorway, smiling. God. Amazing how much you miss someone when you think you were doing well pretending otherwise.
(I don't know if I'm saying that about myself or about Duncan. Not sure it matters.)
